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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Blue Duchess - -Author: Paul Bourget - -Translator: Ernest Tristan - -Release Date: October 10, 2017 [EBook #55726] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE DUCHESS *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Barry Abrahamsen and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE BLUE DUCHESS - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE LOTUS LIBRARY - - FULL LIST OF VOLUMES IN THE LIBRARY - - THE TRAGEDY OF A GENIUS =Honoré de Balzac= - - VATHEK =William Beckford= - - THE MATAPAN JEWELS =Fortuné du Boisgobey= - - THE BLUE DUCHESS =Paul Bourget= - - ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS =Paul Bourget= - - A WOMAN’S HEART =Paul Bourget= - - OUR LADY OF LIES =Paul Bourget= - - THE CHILDREN OF ALSACE =René Bazin= - - THE WOMAN OF THE HILL =“Une Circassienne”= - - THE ROMANCE OF A HAREM =“Une Circassienne”= - - SAPHO =Alphonse Daudet= - - THE POPINJAY =Alphonse Daudet= - - SIDONIE’S REVENGE =Alphonse Daudet= - - THE NABOB =Alphonse Daudet= - - A PASSION OF THE SOUTH =Alphonse Daudet= - - THE BLACK TULIP =Alexandre Dumas= - - THE LADY WITH THE =Alexandre Dumas= - CAMELIAS - - MADAME BOVARY =Gustave Flaubert= - - SALAMMBÔ =Gustave Flaubert= - - THE TEMPTATION OF ST. =Gustave Flaubert= - ANTHONY - - THAÏS =Anatole France= - - THE SHE-WOLF =Maxime Formont= - - THE DIAMOND NECKLACE =Franz Funck-Brentano= - - CAGLIOSTRO & CO. =Franz Funck-Brentano= - - THE BLACKMAILERS (“Le =Emile Gaboriau= - Dossier No. 113”) - - THE RED SHIRTS =Paul Gaulot= - - MDLLE. DE MAUPIN =Théophile Gautier= - - THE MUMMY’S ROMANCE =Théophile Gautier= - - CAPTAIN FRACASSE =Théophile Gautier= - - LA FAUSTIN =Edmond de Goncourt= - - THE OUTLAW OF ICELAND =Victor Hugo= - (“Hans D’Islande”) - - A GOOD-NATURED FELLOW =Paul de Kock= - - COUNT BRÜHL =Joseph Kraszewski= - - THEIR MAJESTIES THE KINGS =Jules Lemaître= - - MADAME SANS-GÉNE =E. Lepelletier= - - THE ROMANCE OF A SPAHI =Pierre Loti= - - WOMAN AND PUPPET =Pierre Louys= - - THE DISASTER =Paul and Victor - Margueritte= - - THE WHITE ROSE =Auguste Maquet= - - A WOMAN’S SOUL =Guy de Maupassant= - - THE LATIN QUARTER =Henri Murger= - (“Scénes de la Vie de - Bohéme”) - - A MODERN MAN’S CONFESSION =Alfred and Paul de - Musset= - - HE AND SHE =Alfred and Paul de - Musset= - - THE RIVAL ACTRESSES =Georges Ohnet= - - THE POISON DEALER =Georges Ohnet= - - IN DEEP ABYSS =Georges Ohnet= - - THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY =Georges Ohnet= - - LIFE’S LAST GIFT =Louis de Robert= - - THE DESIRE OF LIFE =Matilde Serao= - - WHEN IT WAS DARK =Guy Thorne= - - THE KREUTZER SONATA =Leo Tolstoy= - - SEBASTOPOL =Leo Tolstoy= - - DRINK =Emile Zola= - - THE ADVENTURES OF BARON =Anonymous= - MUNCHAUSEN - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration: PAUL BOURGET] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE - - Blue Duchess - - By - - PAUL BOURGET - - Translated by - - ERNEST TRISTAN - - LONDON: GREENING & CO. - - NEW YORK: BRENTANO’S - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - PREFACE - - -Paul Bourget was born in the cathedral city of Amiens about fifty years -ago, but there are a number of other interesting things to say about -him. Like so many famous authors, he began, in 1873, with verse. -Probably the verse did not bring him the instant fame that we all desire -with our first book, for he soon turned to prose, which of course as -Saltus has hinted, is more difficult. Again, it is probable that verse -and prose are not really so very far apart, but are related, as an angel -is related to a saint, or a lovely sister to her handsome but very -masculine brother. Essays followed Bourget’s lyrics, then a triumphal -procession of novels and travels, till, in 1904, he became a poet again -by wearing the blue and gold costume of the French Academy. - -For about ten years now the writings of Paul Bourget have had great -success in London’s capitol, Mayfair, among a certain set or circle of -ladies whose minds are as carefully tended as are their beautiful -bodies. They have read him, even as they have read Anatole France and -Marcel Prévost, because of notes of distinction in the writings, the -lack of discord, the evidences of balanced, graceful, well-valeted life. -Bourget belongs to the group of writers who are sometimes termed -Salon-writers. I imagine it is a German classification; it brings before -the vision one writing with a gold pen using a silver standish upon a -table of sycamore. Perhaps if we say in English “the kid-glove school” -the phrase will describe, if it does not please. This note of refinement -in style, distinction in utterance, is certainly represented best in -France by Bourget, in Italy by D’Annunzio, in Holland by Couperus, in -America by Saltus. Of course other countries have claims too. There has -been very little written about Bourget in English, not because he writes -French, but because he writes. In a _conte_ charmingly named _A Bouquet -of Illusions_ Bourget himself is one of the characters, the protagonist -part in fact. The _conte_ is written by Saltus and is worthy of both -novelists. - - G. F. MONKSHOOD. - - LONDON, - 1908. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - AUTHOR’S NOTE - - -Not long ago I assisted at the unexpected end of an adventure, which, -after it had just missed being a tragedy, concluded in an almost comic -fashion. Although I was only cast for a very small part, as a simple -spectator, my heart was too much mixed up in it for me to-day not to -feel in similar circumstances the bitter sensation of the irony of -things, which may be either cruel or beneficial. It is the chill of the -steel which cuts you, though it cures you too. It has occurred to me to -make the adventure into a story. Obviously it would be more reasonable -to go on with one of my unfinished pictures, “The Pardon of Psyche,” for -instance, which has been standing on the easel for years, or one of -those inanimate objects: old furniture, silver, and books, which will -comprise the series called “Humble Friends.” - -“A painter,” my master, Miraut, used to say, “should only think brush in -hand.” It is my opinion, from numerous illustrious examples including -Miraut himself, that he should not think at all. But I know only too -well, I am but half a painter, an artist in intention rather than in -temperament, the outline of a Fromentin of the twelfth rank. That is a -singular feeling of sadness too: the feeling that one is but an inferior -double of another, a small and poor proof of a block already printed, a -sample of humanity in the likeness of a model who has already lived, and -in whose destiny it is possible to read beforehand one’s own destiny! -But not all one’s own destiny! For I am only too well aware that I -suffer from the same failings as Fromentin without possessing his -brilliance. But the brush was not sufficient for this complex and -elaborate master. He wanted, with the nervous hand which transmitted -colours to canvas, to put ink upon paper, and what was the result? We -other painters said his painting was too literary, and literary men said -his literature was too technical, too pictorial, and not intellectual -enough. - -In my own case at each exhibition of my work for years past my -fellow-painters’ reserve, and their praise particularly, have signified -to me that I lack a real artist’s original and visionary nature. But I -do not require my fellow artists’ judgment; what does my own conscience -say? If I really expressed myself with my brush alone, should I have -brought back from Spain, Morocco, Italy and Egypt as many pages of notes -as sketches? I have for fifteen years, wandered between numberless -contradictory forms of art and mind. I have wandered from country to -country seeking the sun and health; from museum to museum seeking -æsthetic revelations, and later from art school to art school seeking an -artist’s creed, and from dream to dream in search of a love. My affairs -of the heart have all been incipient and abortive for the same reason as -my affairs of the mind: my irremediable incapacity to make up my mind -and stand firm, in which to-day I recognize the strange originality of -my character. - -When we see with what infrangible conditions nature surrounds us, is it -not best to accept them? At least, I have made up my mind upon an -essential point, my work. That is something. I have promised myself to -fret no more over vain ambitions. I will be a mediocre painter; that is -all. In that case why should I deny myself the pleasure of writing, a -thing which formerly discipline forbade? As it is certain that the name -of M. Vincent la Croix will never shine in the sky of glory with the -names of Gustave Moreau, of Puvis de Chavannes, and of Burne-Jones, why -should M. Vincent la Croix deprive himself of this compensation: wasting -his time after his own fashion, like the rich amateur, the dilettante -and the critic he is? That is the reason why, when about to live over -again in thought the episodes of a real little romance, into which -chance introduced me, I have prepared paper, a pen, and ink. Here is a -fresh proof that I shall always lack spontaneous and gushing geniality; -I have gone out of my way to explain my motives at the beginning of this -story, instead of starting it simply and boldly. I can see its most -minute details before me, so what need have I of excusing in my own eyes -a work which tempts me? I shall be at liberty to destroy it if I am too -ashamed of it when it is finished. Many a time have I painted out a -canvas which I considered bad! This time two logs in the fireplace and a -match will suffice. That is one of the unspeakable superiorities of -literature over painting. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -The reason I can clearly recollect the exact date of the beginning of -the adventure I am about to relate, is that it was my thirty-sixth -birthday. That is twenty-nine months ago. That anniversary found me more -melancholy than usual. The reason of it was still the same: the feeling -that my faculties were at the same time unemployed and limited, and that -the boundary of my talent was continually being reached. The pretext? I -smile at the pretext. But what imaginative man has not had in his youth -childish and heroic determinations? What artist has not fixed beforehand -the stages in his glorious career, comparing himself to some illustrious -person? Caesar, who was as good as most people, said: “At my age -Alexander had conquered the world.” That is an heroic cry when the pride -of a still unknown power palpitates in it, but it is harrowing when the -conviction of definitive impuissance utters this useless sigh towards -triumph. I am not Caesar, but all my diaries—and I have many—abound in -dates which were rendezvous given by me to Fame, but which she failed to -keep. - -On my thirty-seventh birthday I had, as my custom was, been looking -through my papers and reflecting that I was still as little known to -fame as I had been in my youth, still as lacking in glorious works, -great actions, and grand passions, and my hope was gradually departing. -That morning, too, an agency to which I was foolish enough to subscribe, -had sent me two newspaper cuttings mentioning my name and making -unfriendly comments upon my work. A fresh wave of discouragement swept -over me, paralyzing the creative energy of the soul, and clearly -demonstrating to me my own shortcomings. My communion with my thoughts -on that darkening autumn afternoon frightened me, and I took refuge in a -means of distraction which was usually successful, a visit to the School -of Arms in the Rue Boissy d’Anglais. There I overcame my nerves by a -series of exercises performed with all the vigour of which I was -capable. A cold bath and a rub down followed by dinner in congenial -company and a rubber used to pass the evening. Towards eleven o’clock I -could return home without much risk of insomnia. I had carried out the -first part of this programme on the first evening of my thirty-seventh -year and should have completed it if I had not, on entering the -dining-room of my club, met perhaps the oldest of my Parisian comrades, -an old school-fellow too, the celebrated novelist and dramatic author, -Jacques Molan. - -“Will you come and dine?” he asked me. “I have a table, do dine with -me.” - -Under any other circumstances, in spite of our long friendship, I should -have excused myself. Few personalities weary me so quickly as Jacques. -He has combined with faults I detest the quality most lacking in me: the -power to impose himself, the audacity of mind, the productive virility, -and the self-confidence without which a man is not a great artist. Do -the great virtues of genius of necessity bring with them an abuse of the -“I,” of which this writer was an extraordinary example? - -The two other men of letters I knew best, Julien Dorsenne and Claude -Larcher, were most certainly not tainted with egotism. They were modest -violets, holy and timid violets, small and humble in the grass by the -side of Jacques. “His” books, “his” plays, “his” enemies, “his” plans, -“his” profits, “his” mistresses, “his” health, existed for himself -alone, and he talked of no one but himself. That was the reason Claude -said: “How can you ever expect Molan to be sad? Every morning he gazes -at himself in the looking-glass and thinks: 'How happy I am to dress as -the first author of the day!’” But Claude was slightly envious of -Jacques, and that was one of the latter’s superiorities; through his -self-conceit he was ignorant of any feeling like envy. He did not prefer -himself to others, he ignored them. The explanation of this mystery was: -with his almost unhealthy vanity only equalled by his insensibility, -this fellow had only to sit down with paper in front of him, and beneath -his pen came and went, spoke and acted, enjoyed and suffered passionate -and eloquent beings, creatures of flesh and blood full of love and -hate—in a word, real men and women. A whole world was produced, so real, -so intense, so amusing, or so moving in turn, that even I am filled with -admiration every time I read his books. But I know it is only illusion, -only magic, only a sleight-of-hand trick; I know that the spiritual -father of these heroes and heroines is a perfect literary monster, with -a flask of ink in the place of a heart. I am wrong. He still has there -the passionate love of success. What marvellous tact, what fingering in -the playing upon that surprising organ, public taste! - -Jacques is the accomplished type of what we call in studio slang a -“profiteur,” the artist who excels in appropriating another’s work, and -displaying it to the best advantage! For example, at the period of his -rise, Naturalism was in the ascendant. Zola’s admirable _Assommoir_ had -just appeared, and almost immediately came the extraordinary studies of -peasants and girls which revealed to the world of letters the name of -the unhappy Maupassant. Jacques realized that no great success was -possible in any other form of novel, and at the same time he divined -that after these two masters he must not touch trivial and popular -environment. The reader was satiated with that. Molan then conceived the -idea, which amounted to genius, of applying to high life the results of -the bitter observation and brutal realism so popular then. His four -first volumes of novels and short stories were thus, the description -being bestowed upon them on their first appearance, pomaded with Zola -and perfumed with Maupassant. Epigrams are epigrams, and success is -success. Molan’s success was very rapid, it may be remembered. - -Soon after, certain indications made him realize that the reader’s taste -was changing again, that it was turning in the direction of analysis and -psychological study. Then he abruptly changed his methods and we had the -three books which have done most for his reputation: _Martyre Intime_, -_Cœur Brisé_ and _Anciennes Amours_. In them he preserved the faults -usual in imitators: long dissertations, the philosophic treatment of -little love adventures, and particularly, the abuse of worldly -adornment. He had originated naturalism in high life. He introduced -analysis of the poor, humble and middle classes. Afterwards, when virtue -suddenly appeared to be the order of the day, we had from his pen the -only novel of the period which rivalled in honest success, L’abbé -Constantin. It was _Blanche Comme Un Lys_. - -When social problems became the critic’s copy, Molan once more changed -his methods and wrote the novel on a working-class family called _Une -Épopée de ce temps_, a work of imagination in two volumes, of which -65,000 copies were sold. See the vanity of æsthetic theories! All these -books were conceived with different principles of art. Through them we -could follow the history of the variations of fashion. Not one of them -is sincere in the real sense of the word, and all of them have in an -equal degree that colour of human truth which seems in this wayward -writer an unconscious gift. The same gift he displayed, when fearing to -weary his readers by an abuse of the novel, he began to write plays. He -wrote _Adéle_, a great success at the Français; _La Vaincue_, at the -Odéon was another, and the newspapers had informed me of his fresh -success at the Vaudeville, with an enigmatically entitled comedy, _La -Duchesse Blue_. - -Now the fact that we were at school together proves that this enormous -output: ten volumes of fiction, two of short stories, a collection of -verses, and three plays was produced in sixteen years. Jacques, too, -lived while he worked like this. He had mistresses, made necessary -journeys which allowed him to truthfully write in his prefaces sentences -like this: “When I picked anemones in the gardens of the Villa -Pamphili!” or like this: “I, too, offered up my prayer on the -Acropolis”; or again: “Like the bull I saw kneel down to die in the bull -ring at Seville.” I have quoted these phrases from memory. Besides all -this, the animal looked after his relatives and his investments, and -preserved his gaiety and youthful appetite. I had proof of that the -evening I mechanically dined with him; in spite of my secret antipathy -dominated by the suggestion of vitality emanating from every one of his -gestures. We were no sooner seated than he asked me— - -“What wine do you prefer, champagne or Burgundy? They are both very good -here.” - -“I think that Eau de Vals will do for me,” I replied. - -“Have you not a good digestion?” he asked with a laugh; “I don’t know -that I have a stomach. Then I will have extra dry champagne.” His egoism -was of a convenient kind, as he never discussed other people’s caprices, -nor allowed them to discuss his. He ordered the dinner and asked me if I -had seen his play at the Vaudeville, what I thought of it, and whether -it was not the best thing he had done. - -“You know,” I replied in some embarrassment, “I hardly ever go to the -theatre.” - -“What luck!” he went on good-humouredly. “I will take you this evening. -I shall find out your first impression of it. Will you be frank with me? -You will see that it is not so bitter as _Adéle_, nor quite so eloquent -as _La Vaincue_. But the way to succeed is to baffle expectations; -never, never repeat oneself! Those who reproached me with lack of brain -and ignorance of my business, have had to acknowledge their mistake. You -know me. I say out loud what I think. When I published _Tendres -Nuances_, last year, you remember what I said to you: 'It is not worth -the trouble of reading’; but _La Duchesse Blue_ is different. The public -is of the same opinion as myself.” - -“But where do you find your titles?” I asked. - -“What!” he cried; “you, a painter, ask me that question? Don’t you know -Gainsborough’s 'Blue Boy’ in the gallery of Grosvenor House in London? -My play has for its heroine a woman whom one of your colleagues, better -informed than yourself in English manners, has painted in a harmony of -blue tints as the Gainsborough boy. This woman, being a Duchess, has -been nicknamed in her set the Little Blue Duchess, because of the -portrait. With my dialogue and little Favier!” - -“Who is little Favier?” I asked. - -“What!” he cried, “don’t you know little Favier? You pretend to live in -Paris! Not that I blame you for not frequenting the theatres. Seeing the -kind of plays usually put on, I think it was high time they gave us -young ones a chance.” - -“That does not tell me about little Favier,” I insisted. - -“Well! Camille Favier is the Blue Duchess. She acts with talent, fantasy -and grace! I discovered her. A year ago she was at the Conservatoire. I -saw her there and recognized her talent, and when I sent my play to the -Vaudeville, I told them I wanted her to take the part. They engaged her, -and now she is famous. My luck is contagious. But you must do her -portrait for me as she is in the play, a symphony in blue major! It will -be a fine subject for you for the next Salon. I repeat I am very lucky. -Then what a head she has for you: twenty-two years old, a complexion -like a tea-rose, a mouth sad in repose and tender when smiling, blue -eyes to complete the symphony, pale, pale, pale blue with a black point -in the middle, which sometimes increases in size; her hair is the colour -of oriental tobacco, and she is slender, supple and young. She lives -with her mother in a third floor in the Rue de la Barcuellére, in your -neighbourhood. That detail is good as a human document. People talk of -the theatre’s corruption: nine hundred francs rent, one servant, and an -outlook on a convent garden! She believes in her art, and in authors! -She believes too much in them.” - -He said these words with a smile, the meaning of which was unmistakable. -His remarks had been accompanied by an insolent and sensual look, -gleaming and self-satisfied. I had no doubt as to the feeling the pretty -actress inspired in him. He told me about these private matters in a -very loud voice, with that apparent indiscretion which implies -thoughtlessness and so well conceals design. But this sort of gossip -always has a prudent limit. Besides, the diners at the next table were -three retired generals, to interrupt whose conversation then gun-shot -would have been required. The noises made by the thirty or forty persons -dining were sufficient to drown even Jacques’ most distinct phrases. So -there was really no reason for my companion to speak in low tones, as I -did in questioning him. But what a symbol of our two destinies! I -instinctively experienced, before even knowing Mademoiselle Favier, the -shameful timidity of the sentiment of which Jacques experienced the joy. - -“You are paying court to her, that is what you mean?” I asked him. - -“No, she is courting me,” he said with a laugh, “or rather has been -doing so. But why should I not tell you, for if I introduce you to her, -she will tell you everything in five minutes? In fact, she is my -mistress. With my reputation, my investments, my books, I can marry whom -I please; and there is plenty of time. The pear is ripe. But if we were -always reasonable, we should be only common people, should not we? She -began it. If you had seen, at rehearsal, how she stealthily devoured me -with her eyes! I took good care not to notice her. She is a coquette and -a half. An author who has a mistress at the theatre when he does not act -himself, is responsible for a serious orthographical error. You know the -proverb: the architect does not hobnob with the mason. But after the -first performance, after the battle was won, I let myself go. Here is -another human document: little Favier had gone through the -Conservatoire, had been on the stage, and my dear fellow she was still -virtuous, perfectly virtuous. Do you understand me?” - -“Poor girl!” I cried involuntarily. - -“No, no!” Jacques replied shrugging his shoulders. “Some lover must be -first, and it is better to have a Jacques Molan than a pupil of the -Conservatoire, or, as is usually the case, one of the professors there, -is it not? But I am her poesy, her real romance to tell her friends. I -have been kind to her. She desired our love concealed from her mother -and we did so. She desired meetings in cemeteries at the graves of great -men and I have gone there. Can you imagine me, at my age, with a bunch -of violets in my hand, waiting for a friend with my elbows sentimentally -resting upon the tomb of Alfred de Musset, a poet whom I detest? Quite a -student’s idyll, is it not? I repeat it is very foolish, but I found her -so amiable and so fresh the first time. She 'rested me’ from this Paris -in which everything is vanity.” - -“And now?” I asked. - -“Now?” he repeated, and the insolent and sensual expression came into -his eyes once more. “You want me to confess? That is two months ago, and -a two months’ idyll is a little less fresh, amiable and restful.” Then -in a lower and more confidential tone he asked: “Do you know pretty -Madam Pierre de Bonnivet?” - -“You still seem to forget that I am not a fashionable painter,” I -replied, “that I have not a little house on the Monceau Plain, that I do -not ride in the Bois, and frequent the noble Faubourg though I live -there.” - -“Don’t let us mix up our localities,” he replied with his usual -assurance. “The Monceau Plain and the Bois have nothing in common with -the Faubourg and the nobility, nor has the charming person to whom I am -referring, anything in common, except her name, with the real Bonnivet -descended from the constable or admiral, the friend of Francis I.” - -“There is one less imbecile among her ancestors then,” I interrupted. -“That is one of the advantages the false nobility sometimes has over the -true nobility.” - -“Good,” Jacques said, shrugging his shoulders at the sally with which I -had satisfied my ill-humour against her pretensions. “You remind me of -Giboyer. You are a pedant, sir. But I shall not defend what you call the -noble Faubourg against your attacks. I have seen enough of it to never -wish to set foot in it again. There is too much fashion about it for me. -Grand drawing-rooms are not in my line. I have nothing to do with -aristocratic ladies. One-twentieth of the women in Paris, some young, -some not, some titled, some not, have pretensions to be literary, -political, or æsthetic, but they are all brainy and intellectual, and -they are not courtesans. My pleasure is to turn them into courtesans -when it is worth the trouble. If I ever show you Bonnivet, you will -agree that she is worth the trouble. Besides there is at her house -lively conversation and good food. Don’t look so disgusted. After ten -years in Paris even with my stomach, dinner in town becomes a terrible -bore. At her house dinner is a feast, the table exquisite and the cellar -marvellous. Father Bonnivet has made ten or twelve million francs out of -flour. It is not sufficient for his wife for the celebrated men about -whom she is curious to honour her drawing-room with their presence. They -have to fall in love with her as well, and I believe they have all done -so, till now.” - -I urged him to continue his story, though his cynicism made me shudder, -his loquacity exasperated me, and I was horrified at his sentiments, -which were so brutally plebeian in their dilettante disguise, for I was -greatly interested in his confidences. He gladly opened his heart to me -as I listened to him, though he actually liked me no more than I did -him. He instinctively felt the fascination he exercised over me and it -pleased him. We were at college together, and that strange bond would -unite us till death in spite of everything. He went on— - -“There is nothing to tell you except that for some time Queen Anne, as -her intimate friends call her, absolutely refused to be introduced to -me. In parenthesis, I wonder if this name Anne has been selected as -coquettishly heraldic? I sometimes dine at the house of Madam Éthorel, -her cousin, whom she detests. I met her there, and I also pretended to -avoid her. She told any one who would listen to her that I had no -talent, and that my books either bored or repelled her, that being the -classic method of a fashionable woman who wishes to pique a famous man -by not appearing to join the throng of his admirers. Kind friends always -let one know of this amiability. _La Duchesse Blue_ was produced with -some success, as I have told you, and then, I don’t know how or why, -there came an entire change of front. One of her beaters—she has -beaters, just like a sportsman, whom she recruits from her most ardent -admirers—Senneterre, whom you know well; the old blond who sometimes -takes the bank here, and is a great admirer of mine. Generally we merely -exchanged greetings, but instead of that he showered compliments upon me -and finished up by inviting me to dine at the Club in the room reserved -for fashionable ladies. That is five weeks ago. 'How are they going to -make use of me?’ I thought as I went up the stairs. The first person I -met in the anteroom, one of the prettiest, most elegant corners in -Paris, was Madam Pierre de Bonnivet.” - -“She was just like little Favier,” I interposed, “a coquette and a half. -Ever since I have known you your stories have always been the same: they -consist of playing with the women who have the least heart, and you -always win.” - -“It is not quite as simple as all that,” he replied without getting -angry; “I amused myself with Queen Anne, but not in the way you think. -The beater placed us side by side at the table. I should like you to -have been there in hiding listening to us. The conversation was sweet, -simple, friendly and melting, the meeting of two beautiful souls. She -spoke well of all the women we knew, and I spoke well of all my -colleagues. We declared in agreement that the great awkward Madam de -Sauve has never had a lover, and that Dorsenne’s novels are his -masterpieces, that the demon Madam Moraines is an angel of -disinterestedness, and that the noodle, René Vincy is a great poet. -Judge of our sincerity. It was as if neither she nor I had ever -suspected that one writer could slander another, that a woman of the -world could commit adultery. We have taken our revenge since, and we are -at this moment in that state of bitter warfare which is disguised by the -pretty name of flirtation. I spare you the details. It is sufficient to -know that she is aware that little Favier is my mistress; she thinks I -am madly in love with her, and her sole aim is to steal me from her. -Accustomed as she is to masculine ruses, she has laid the snare which -has always been successful since the earth has revolved around the sun: -there is no virtue like the sensation of stealing a love from another -woman. The most curious thing is that Queen Anne might easily have been -virtuous. Oh, she is very fast. But I should not be surprised to hear -that she has never had a real lover. Besides, if she had had twenty-five -lovers her scheme would still have succeeded. I would wager that in the -earthly paradise the serpent only told our mother Eve that he was about -to pluck the apple for the female of his own species.” - -“But what of Camille Favier?” I asked. - -“Naturally she guessed or else I told her—I don’t know how to lie—so she -is no less jealous of Bonnivet than Bonnivet is of her. I have not been -bored for the last week or two I can assure you. Things have moved -quickly, and the rapid are just as successful in gallantry as in -everything else.” - -We were having dessert, and he was balancing a piece of pear on the end -of his dessert fork as he concluded his confidence with this brutal -cruelty which made me say— - -“You are between two women again? You are playing a dangerous game.” - -“Dangerous?” he interrupted with his confident joviality. “To whom? To -me? Happily or unhappily, I am insured against these fires. To Madam de -Bonnivet? If she does not love me, what risk does she run? If she loves -me, she will be grateful. Suffering requires feeling, and to women of -this kind that is everything. But I think she is as hard as I am. As for -Camille, it will develop her talent.” - -“Suppose one of the lady admirers of the novels of your second period, -_Anciennes Amours_ or _Martyre Intime_, were to hear you now?” I said to -him. “For this is quite the reverse of what you put in those two books.” - -“Ah!” he said. “If one lived one’s books, there would be no trouble in -writing them. Come. Let us go down quickly and have coffee. I want you -to see the beginning of the first act. I have only one quality, but that -is a strong one. I can compose. A play or novel of mine is compact, -there is nothing useless in it. The first and third acts are the best in -the play. Madam de Bonnivet prefers the second and Camille the fourth. -All tastes are suited. Waiter, bring two cups of coffee and two fine -cigars at once. Give me just time to cast my eye down the closing prices -on the Stock Exchange and I am at your service. Good. My gold mine -shares are going up. I am about three thousand francs to the good. How -is your money invested?” - -“I have not invested it,” I said sadly, “it stays where it is and brings -in from two and a half to three per cent.” - -“That is absurd!” Jacques said as he lit a cigar. “I will advise you. I -have good friends, one of the Mosé among others, who keep me well -informed. I know as much as they do, and if I were not a literary man, I -should like to be a financier. But we must hurry. Queen Anne may be at -the theatre this evening, though she has already seen the play four -times. If she is there, you will see two comedies instead of one. But I -am very glad to have met you this evening.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -This author who could when he liked depict with the greatest subtlety -was no fit person to preside over a temperance society. When we reached -the little theatre where _La Duchesse Blue_ was being performed he was a -little more jolly than the beautiful women who drove up in their -carriages from all corners of fashionable Paris, suspected. I still felt -the inexplicable attraction, a mixture of antipathy and admiration, of -which I have spoken. I listened to Jacques as he told me his plans for -new works, and I forgot his horrible failings of heart and character in -my admiration for the imagination from which ideas spurted, as I had -seen the lava in the crater of Vesuvius do, while fiery stones of the -size of a man shot into the air with a report like a cannon. There the -atmosphere is suffocating and full of stench. The sulphur smokes beneath -your feet and burns them. Tears trickle from your eyes. Your breath -fails. It is unbearable. But this brutal outburst of the forces of -nature keeps you there, hypnotizes you. - -Jacques, too, in his way is a force of nature. His artistic vitality -will always overwhelm me, and it did so this evening in proportion -with such a hypnotism. For between the formidable exterminating -monster which waves its column of smoke above the devastated Pompeii, -and the inoffensive cerebral volcano whose smoky eruptions overflow -into yellow volumes, or crystallize into three, four or five act -plays, the difference is really very great. Without ironical -extenuation such a comparison would be rather comic. Whether justified -or not, I gave myself up to this sensation without discussion. Wearied -as I was by my day of moral lassitude, was not this way of spending my -evening an unexpected pleasure? The comedy might interest me, for this -foppish egoist had great talent. The actress might be pretty, although -doubtless Jacques’ fatuity had transformed for my astonishment a -Conservatoire fool into a bird of paradise. I had too often -accompanied Claude Larcher into Colette Rigaud’s dressing-room not to -know these footlight-mistresses and their vulgarity. But there are -always exceptions, and Madam Pierre de Bonnivet might be an exception -to her class, although a rich woman who collects celebrities was -hardly likely to please me. In any case, it was worth the trouble of -accompanying Molan to the Vaudeville simply to have the pleasure of -seeing him enter the theatre. - -“We will go in by the stage door,” he said “in the Rue de la Chaussée -d’Antin. It is very charming here in the two little stage boxes, and -upon the stage behind the curtain. We can get to the boxes through the -wings, if either of them is vacant.” - -He got out of the carriage before me as he said this; he greeted the -door-keeper and went through a doorway and up a staircase with the gait -which is unique in the world: that of the fashionable author visiting -his paper, his editor, or his theatre. Every gesture seemed to say, “The -house belongs to me”; his foot was lighter, his cane waved in his hand, -and his shoulders involuntarily swaggered. These things are in -themselves of no importance, but we painters who have studied -portraiture make it our business to seize upon these trifles. The -theatre staff, when they saw “their author” pass, displayed -inexpressible and unconscious respect. How I should like to inspire some -picture dealer with like respect! When shall I have in displaying my -pictures to a friend, the peaceful and innocently puerile pride which -Jacques displayed in opening for me the door of one of the stage boxes, -fortunately unoccupied, where we sat down while he whispered to me— - -“The first act has been in progress for five minutes. You will follow it -directly. A former mistress of the Duke’s is trying to make the Duchess -jealous. Was I lying to you when I said that little Favier is pretty? -She has caught sight of me. Fortunately she has nothing to say for a -minute or two, or she would have forgotten her lines. She is looking at -you. You interest her. She knows the three or four friends I usually -bring. Now hear her speak. Is not the timbre, the music of her voice, -exquisite? Listen to what she is saying.” - -I have heard _La Duchesse Blue_ many times since till I know by heart -every phrase. It is a fine delicate play in spite of the affectation of -the title. It contains an extremely good study of a rare but very human -jealousy. It is the story of a friend who is amorous of his friend’s -wife, and who remains faithful to his friendship in his love. He never -mentioned his feelings to the woman. He has never admitted it to -himself, and he cannot bear any one else to pay court to this young -woman. He ends by saving her from a irreparable mistake, without her -knowing the reason or who he is. The first scene in which the childish -Duchess confides in her husband’s former mistress, without suspecting -the recollections she is awakening by the avowal of her own joys, is a -marvel of moving, vibrating analysis, which might be called tenderly -cruel. This play is a little masterpiece of to-day by Marivaux—a -Marivaux whose airy gaiety would be like lace upon a wound. But I did -not perceive the real value of the comedy on this first evening; -although Molan was present to comment upon its smallest details. The -painter in me was too keenly attracted by the extraordinary appearance -of this Camille Favier, whom my friend had so carelessly called his -mistress. The box being almost on the stage allowed me to follow the -smallest movements of her face, her most furtive winks, and the most -rapid knitting of her brows. I could see the layers of cream and rouge -unequally distributed on her face, and the lengthening of her lashes -with black crayon. Even made up in this way she realized in an -extraordinary way the ideal type created by the most refined English -artists: Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and Morris. Her fine features were -almost too slight for the perspective of the stage. Her large, slightly -convex forehead seemed clouded with dreams. The elongated oval of her -face made her smile float into her cheeks. Her straight nose, rather -short, ennobled her profile. Her full lips drooped at the corners and -were at the same time sad and sensual, voluptuous, and bitter. This make -up even gave to her beauty a particular charm, which touched me -strangely in its mixture of the real and the artificial. Her rosy cheeks -were visible through her rouge, the fringe of her long lashes beneath -the crayon, the fresh purple of her lips through the carmine, just as in -her playing of the part she represented; a true, sincere and tender -woman, was visible or seemed to be visible. - -“It is the thunder-clap,” he said, “you have just felt! You can listen, -too. Your sublimes will amalgate, as Saint Simon said of some one. But -now turn and look with your glasses in the fourth box of the first tier -on the left. You see a woman in white, fanning herself with a fan, with -silk muslin flounces, white too, and an invention of her own? That is -Madam Pierre de Bonnivet. What do you think of her? It is amusing, is it -not, to play the game of love and hazard with these two pretty creatures -as partners?” - -I looked in the direction Jacques indicated, and I soon had my glasses -fixed on the fashionable rival of the Bohemian Camille Favier. - -The fatuous insolence which my comrade affected then appeared to me -justified, and more than justified, by the beauty of this elegant female -who coquetted with him, as he told me. I knew he was too daring a fellow -not to go on quickly from liberty to liberty. If Camille recalled, even -with her rouge and patches, the Psyches and Galateas of the most suave -of the Pre-raphaelite Brothers, Madam Pierre de Bonnivet, with her -arched nose, her wilful chin, the fine line of the cheek, her elegant -haughty mouth, had beauty enough to justify the most aristocratic -pretensions. How, coming of a poor family—I have found out since that -she was a Taraval—she inevitably recalled one of those princesses so -dear to Van Dyck, that incomplete master, whom no other has equalled, in -the art of portraying breeding, and the indomitable pride and heroic -energy concealed beneath the fragility of feminine grace. The habits of -wealth for two or three generations produce these mirages. - -It is certain that the painter of the divine Marquise Paola Brignole, of -the Red Palace at Genoa, never found a model more suited to his genius. -His brush alone could have properly reproduced the glory of that tint -whose dead white was not anæmic—the red lips told that—with the cloud of -blonde hair which paled in the light. The simple sight of the thick -rolls of golden hair lying upon her neck, when she turned her head, -betokened that physiological vitality of one of those slender persons -who conceal beneath the tenderness of a siren the courage of a captain -of dragoons. Her neck, though a little long, was well developed, and the -fingers of her nervous hands were a little long also; her bust, which -was outlined at each movement by her supple white corsage, was so young, -so elegant, and so full. But the most significant thing to me about this -creature of luxury was her blue eyes, as blue as those of the other -woman, with this difference, that the blue of Camille Favier’s eyes -recalled the blue of the petals of a flower; while Madam de Bonnivet’s -eyes were the azure of metal or precious stone. They gave one the idea -of something implacable, in spite of their charm, something hard and -frigidly dangerous in their magnetism. To complete this singular -sensation of graceful cruelty, when the young woman laughed her lips -were raised a little too much at the corners displaying sharp white -teeth close together, almost too small, like those of a precious animal -of the chase. - -In to-day trying to exactly reproduce the impressions, which I felt in -the presence of Jacques Molan’s two partners in his favourite game of -heartless love, I am taking into account that my actual knowledge of -their characters influences my recollection of this first meeting. I do -not think I am giving too powerful a touch to this souvenir. I can still -hear myself say, while applause was being showered upon little Favier, -to Jacques— - -“You make a good choice, when you like.” - -“I do what I can,” he said as he nodded his head. - -“I am asking myself,” I continued, “with mistresses of such beauty——” - -“One mistress,” he corrected me. “Madam de Bonnivet is not my mistress.” - -“It comes to the same thing, as far as it concerns what I am going to -say. I am asking myself, how you manage to escape scandal.” - -“I am like Proudhon,” he replied with a laugh, “whom Hugo pretended had -the skin of a toad in his pocket. It appears that this charm protects -one from every danger.” - -“Do you think your luck will hold? Then what of the women themselves?” - -“Larcher has an axiom: 'a woman is the best antidote against another -woman.’” - -“But the result of that is spiteful vengeance, vitriol, and the -revolver. One of these two women, I should not trust.” - -As I said that, I pointed with my cane to Madam Bonnivet. - -“Really! beautiful Queen Anne gives you the impression, also, of a -coquettish bird of prey, of a little spitfire of a falcon, whom it is -not wise to tease. Ah, well! If you like,” he went on as he got up, “the -act is over, I will present you to one or the other of them. It is very -funny. Would you believe that in my stories I have always more or less -need of a looker-on; when we think that there are people foolish enough -to criticize the classic tragedies on this account? In my opinion there -is no more natural person.” - -He took my arm as he said this, assigning me the part of witness, of -satellite borne along in the orbit of its sun. It is a strange thing -that I am really made for those secondary parts, Pylades to an Orestes, -Horatio to Hamlet; and his coolness did not wound me. Alas! it has been -decreed that I should be, like Horatio, always and everywhere an -unsuccessful man. What irony to have as my Hamlet the implacable egotist -who was showing me the way to little Favier’s dressing-room! I followed -him behind the scenes, up a staircase crowded with dressers and -supernumeraries, and along corridors full of doors from behind which -came the sounds of laughter, singing, argument, and of expressions used -at a card-party. - -Previously, I had only been behind the scenes at the Comédie Française -of the famous theatres; where I often accompanied the unfortunate -Claude. At that theatre, was to be found the correct and conventional -respectability, which too often spoils the acting of members of the -company of that famous house. My horror of pretentiousness has always -made me dislike the Comédie, with its elegant appearance, its secular -portraits, its venerable busts, and its elegant green room. There, more -than elsewhere I have experienced the disenchantment of the contrast -between the play and the back of the stage, between theatrical prestige -and its kitchen. On the contrary, behind the scenes of the smaller -theatres, where my friends have taken me, the Varieties, the Gymnase and -the Vaudeville on that evening, I have felt the picturesque antitheses, -the supple improvization, the animal energy which constitute an actor’s -business. Chance willed that in the company of Jacques Molan, after -being a prey to impuissance for the entire day, I should find a complete -cure for my vitality. Did we not hear, as we knocked at the door of -Mademoiselle Favier’s dressing-room, the following dialogue exchanged by -two actors playing the piece, the famous Bressoré, and a gentleman in a -frock coat and tall hat, whose clean-shaven face and bluish cheeks -showed he was an actor of this or some other company. - -“I was not up to much in my new part,” the latter asked, “was I? Tell me -the truth.” - -“You were very good,” Bressoré replied, “but you have one failing.” - -“What is that?” - -“You don’t stand firm and look the audience straight in the face.” - -“That fellow has just mentioned the secret of success in the arts,” -Jacques Molan said to me with a laugh; “between ourselves as friends, -you are a little lacking in assurance yourself. If I met you more often -I would give you——” - -In saying this he did not suspect how gaily and hardly he was touching a -sore in my artistic conscience; and I did not give him the answer which -rose to my lips. “That simply proves the baseness and brutality of -success, and that the artist who succeeds is often a charlatan in -disguise.” - -He had just knocked at the dressing-room door. A voice had answered, -“Who is there?” then without waiting for a reply the door opened and -Camille Favier appeared with a smile of happiness upon her pretty face -which changed into a constrained expression when she saw that her lover -was not alone. - -“Ah!” she said, slightly confused, “I did not think you would bring any -one, and my dressing-room is untidy.” - -“That does not matter,” said Jacques as he gently pushed her back into -the room with one hand and introduced me with the other. “My friend is -no one of importance as you think he is, little Blue Duchess. He is a -very old friend of mine and a painter, a very great painter, you -understand. All our friends are great men. He is used to disorder in his -own studio, so make your mind easy. He asked to be introduced to you -because he has long wished to paint your portrait.” He nudged me with -his elbow to warn me not to contradict his delicate handling of the -truth. “I forgot to mention his name, M. Vincent la Croix. Do not say -you have seen his work, for he shows very little. He belongs to the -timid school. You are warned. Now the ice is broken let us sit down.” - -“You can do so,” the young woman said with a laugh. My companion’s -banter, though not very flattering to me, had already transformed her. -“You will allow me to tidy up a little?” she went on as with almost -incredible rapidity she spread a clean towel over a basin of soapy water -in which she had just washed her hands. She rolled up and threw under -the dressing-table several other dirty towels. She put the lids on three -or four boxes of pomade, and hung a red wrapper over a chair, on which I -had noticed a well worn pair of common corsets, which she generally wore -for economy’s sake. She did all this with a smile, and then noticed a -pair of pale green stockings which she wore upon the stage. These she -picked up with wonderful quickness, and I thought I could detect a -tremor of shame in her as she did so. Those silk stockings which still -displayed the shape of her fine leg and tiny foot were a small part of -her nudity. She concealed them in the first object which came to hand, -and it turned out to be a hat-box. “That is all,” she said as she turned -to Jacques. “Do you think I anticipated your visit and changed my -costume in ten minutes, watch in hand? You will not have to endure the -presence of my dresser, who, poor woman, displeases you.” She went on in -a caressing and frightened tone: “Were you satisfied with me this -evening? Did I play my great scene well?” - -If she had seduced me the moment I saw her on the stage by her charming -finesse and ingenuous grace, how the charm worked with more powerful -magic in these common surroundings still more unworthy of her! This -simple dressing-room, so untidy, so lacking in embroidery and ornaments, -where everything seemed a makeshift for the sake of economy, recalled to -me by its contrast the sumptuousness and luxury of the dressing-room -where Colette Regaud reigned at the Français. Ah, if Colette had only -had for Claude, when I accompanied that unfortunate fellow to her -dressing-room, the evident love which the Blue Duchess showed for -Jacques Molan even in the tones of her most ordinary conversation, the -ardour of her most fleeting glances, and the fever of her smallest -gestures! She was a delightful child, who loved as she gave herself, -with her whole being, naturally and spontaneously. What divine -tenderness my companion enjoyed simply out of vanity! I felt how -delighted he was while talking to his mistress, at directing this little -performance! His eyes became shining instead of tender. I could see that -he was studying me in a mirror in front of us, instead of looking at the -love-sick girl as he answered her— - -“You were exquisite as you always are. Ask Vincent if I did not say so?” - -“Is that true?” she asked. - -“Quite true,” I replied. - -“He echoed my remarks too, I assure you,” Jacques continued. - -“Then I really acted my scene well,” she said, with a naïve gleam of -contentment in her eyes; then she knitted her brows and nodding her -pretty head said: “ah, well, I am surprised at it.” - -“Why?” I asked her in my turn. - -“You ought not to ask her that,” Jacques said, with a laugh. “I know -beforehand what her answer will be.” - -“No,” she said quickly, and her mobile mouth assumed the bitter curve it -had in repose. “Do not listen to him, sir. His is going to tease me, and -it is very unkind of him, about one of the nervous impressions which we -all have—you two as well. Do you not sometimes experience a shudder of -antipathy in the company of certain people, whose presence alone freezes -you and takes away all at once your memory, your power, and your mind? -Their presence alone produces a feeling that one cannot breathe the same -air as them without being stifled.” - -“Yes, I do know those antipathies!” I cried. “I feel them for people I -meet by chance, whom I have never seen before, who are nothing to me, -but their approach is quite intolerable to me, just as if they were my -avowed enemies. Once I used to try and resist this instinctive feeling -of repulsion. I found from experience that I was always wrong not to -yield to it, and I am sure to-day that an antipathy of this kind, either -strong or slight, is nature’s second sight, and an infallible warning -that a danger threatens us through the being whose existence annoys us -thus.” - -“You see,” Camille said turning to Molan, “I am not so ridiculous after -all.” - -I had at once guessed the name of the person whose presence in the -theatre so disconcerted this frail Burne-Jones nymph, transformed by the -bad fairy presiding over her destiny into a poor devil of an actress in -love with the writer in Paris the most incapable of love. If I had not -guessed the name Jacques would not have left me in ignorance of it for -long. He is no worse than any one else. I have heard of his good actions -and seen his generosity. To my knowledge he has put his purse at the -disposal of colleagues whom he had more or less slandered. It is -difficult to reconcile that, for example, with the indelicate unkindness -which made him name his mistress’ rival at a time when he saw the pretty -child was so troubled. The explanation, however, is quite simple. Such a -thing as good or evil, unkindness or generosity, never entered into his -calculations. He always played to the gallery, and a single spectator -sufficed to compose this gallery, which in turn made him perform the -best or worst actions, and made him magnanimous or mean. While playing -the part of looker-on for him I realized how correct are the casuists -who pretend that our actions are nothing, but our motives everything. -His motives I could see as distinctly as the movement of a watch in a -glass case. - -“She talks to you in enigmas,” he said to me with a gleam in his eyes -which meant: “You shall see if my diagnosis is correct and if she loves -me.” How could this Tussolin Don Juan resist the chance of satisfying -two vanities at the same time, that of the observer and that of the -seducer? He went on: “I am going to amuse you with the name of the -member of the audience who so troubles her this evening. She is not so -complex as you are, and it is simply a woman who gives her this feeling -of annoyance.” - -“Jacques!” the actress cried in a supplicating voice, without noticing -that the use of his Christian name betrayed their secret even more than -her lover’s odious teasing. - -“I warn you that Vincent is one of her admirers,” the latter insisted in -spite of this appeal. - -“Ah!” Camille said, looking at me with a sudden feeling of distrust; -“does he know her?” - -“He is teasing you, mademoiselle; I have seen in the theatre no face to -which I could give a name.” - -“Then I am a liar,” Molan went on, “and you did not say just now that -Madam Pierre de Bonnivet was a Van Dyck who had stepped out of a picture -just as, according to you, the Blue Duchess has stepped from a picture -by Burne-Jones. There is no need to be surprised, Camille. Comparison -with pictures is a mania with painters. To them a woman or a landscape -is only a bit of canvas without a frame. This little infirmity is to -their mind what an ink stain is to us authors, and he displayed, in -spite of his elegant attire as a man about town, a slight black stain -upon the middle finger of his right hand where he held his pen. That is -just like the rouge upon the actress’ face, the little professional -mark. Yes or no, did you say that about Madam de Bonnivet?” - -“It is quite right I said that,” I quickly replied, “but mention the -fact that it was you who pointed this woman out to me, and that I have -not been introduced to her. I told you, too, that I could see in her -eyes a frightfully hard and bitter look. In spite of her beauty, -elegance, and slenderness to me she seems almost ugly, and more than -that—repulsive; I can quite understand Mademoiselle Favier’s -impression.” - -The look of gratitude which the actress threw me was a fresh admission -of her liaison with my friend. Besides she no more thought of concealing -it than he did, though for a different reason. She could not conceal it -because she was so much in love, while he paraded the intrigue because -he was not in love at all. He caught her look and resumed in his -bantering tone— - -“Ah, well, Camille, see how good I am. I have brought you some one to -talk to you. He understands you already. Think what it will be when he -has painted your portrait! For he is going to do so for me! Are you -agreeable?” - -“Perhaps your friend has not the time just now!” - -“Did not I tell you that was the reason of our visit?” he replied. I -myself was rather afraid that this project would fall through. “But time -is up, you must be on the stage when the curtain rises,” I said. -“Good-bye, mademoiselle.” - -“No,” he continued, “good-bye till presently. Is it not so, Camille?” - -“Certainly,” she said with a laugh. I saw by her eyes that she was -experiencing a little emotion. “Allow me to say a word to your friend?” -she added turning to me. - -“Good!” I thought. “She is going to reproach him, and she will be -right.” I fell into a melancholy reverie which contrasted with the place -where I was, at least as much as did the delicate sensibility revealed -by each of the young actress’ gestures and words. We had only been with -her a quarter of an hour, and in that time the appearance of the -corridor had changed. Feverish haste now betokened the approaching rise -of the curtain and the fear of being too late. The call-boy went along -knocking at a door here and there. Visitors hurriedly departed. The game -of bezique went on in a neighbouring dressing-room, that of an actress -who only appeared in the last act. - -“Here I am,” Jacques said, interrupting my meditation by touching me on -the shoulder, “let us get back to our box at once. If Camille does not -see me when she appears on the stage, she will look for me in Madam de -Bonnivet’s box and lose her power.” - -“Why do you amuse yourself by exciting her jealousy?” I replied. “How -can you be so hardhearted? You pained her just now. She was angry.” - -“Angry?” he cried, “angry? Why she has just asked me to see her home -to-night. Her mother is not coming for her. Angry? Why women love -teasing. It troubles them at first, but then they are like all vicious -animals, they can only be subdued by hurting them. I want you now to see -her rival. About the middle of the act Favier goes off the stage, and I -will go to Madam de Bonnivet’s box and ask permission to present you. -You shall see what a different woman she is.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -To-day as I pass in detail these recollections, just as one inks over a -half-effaced pencil route upon a map, I clearly understand a truth which -escaped me at the time. I had fallen in love with Camille Favier the -moment I saw her on the stage with her fine beautiful face so like the -art type of a master whom I have studied much. This little actress, of -whom I knew nothing, except that she spoke well and was the mistress of -a fashionable author, had at once touched one of the most vibrating -fibres in my heart. In spite of Molan’s boasting, in spite of the -childish grace of her reception, she might be a profligate or a schemer. -Certainly she was a very cunning innocent, since by my companion’s -confession the siege of her virtue had nothing in common, either in -length or in difficulty, with the siege of Troy or even the siege of -Paris. A person does not reflect much when his heart is captivated as -mine was. - -This child already occupied such a prominent place in my feelings, that -the idea of her leaving the theatre with Molan that evening gave me a -strange feeling of sadness. Now that the time is past I can explain -these impressions; then, I contented myself with feeling them. Seated in -the box, opera glass in hand, I thought in good faith that this sadness -proceeded to establish that commonplace and discouraging statement, that -the most beloved of men are those who love the least. Then neither use -nor age have hardened me concerning disloyalty in love. I never could -lie to a mistress, even one engaged like an extra cook for a week. -Actually I have not known many of that sort. My caprices have lasted for -eight years, and I have experienced deception which ought to make me -indulgent where the ruses of men against women are concerned. People -like Jacques Molan revenge us others who have never made ourselves -loved, simply because we love. Perhaps I ought to have experienced in -this box at the Vaudeville on this strange evening that not very -delicate but very natural feeling, the joy of the avenged company, if -the victim of that vengeance had not been the little Blue Duchess. When -she appeared on the stage, I was seized with pity at noticing the -happier look in her eyes, the more joyful fire of her acting, and the -visible tremors in her supple and nervous person, of a lover who -believes herself loved. When she disappeared into the wings, my pity -grew and changed into indignation. My friend got up with a malicious -look upon his face. As I watched him in the distance enter Madam de -Bonnivet’s box I said to myself not without bitterness— - -“Why can one only please a woman by being as womanish as herself in the -worst sense of the word? The charming Camille is happy now. She is -undressing and dressing with the gaiety of a brave creature who has been -under fire and won a battle for the man she loves. She has acted so well -in this scene. Hardly is her back turned when he deceives her. This -treachery doubles the pleasure he experiences in manœuvring with the -other woman. No coquette ever had her eyes so lit with desire to please -as the famous author then. He is cordially shaking hands with the two -men who are with the lady! One of them probably is her husband and the -other a rival. Good, he is talking of me, for her wicked blue eyes had -fixed me with the aid of glasses. Let me follow the play. It will be -more worthy and more agreeable.” - -Was I talking to myself quite frankly? No, alas, I vaguely felt I was -not. Molan’s perfidy, and it alone, would not have disgusted me like -this. Had it been applied to any other person than the little -Burne-Jones girl of the Vaudeville, I should have found it amusing -enough. Particularly I should have been diverted by his somewhat -sheepish look when he got back to our box. - -“You have not quite the air of triumph I expected, but everything seemed -to go on well from the distance.” - -“Very well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Madam de Bonnivet has -invited me to supper with her after the performance.” - -“But what of little Favier?” I asked. - -“You have put your finger on the sore,” he replied. “I have promised to -see her home. I cannot desert her at the last moment.” - -“Ah, well!” I said, “desert Madam de Bonnivet. She does not play in the -piece, and as you admitted just now, is a coquette and a half. She will -invite you again.” - -“In the meantime, I have accepted,” he interrupted, “that was the -coquettish thing to do. Playing with women would be very simple if it -only consisted of feigning coldness. There are times when one has to -take a high hand with them, while at others one must obey their lightest -caprice. So I repeat I have accepted. I must find a way of getting rid -of Camille. Good,” he said after a moment’s silence; “I think I have it, -if you will help me. I will present you to Madam de Bonnivet. She will -invite you to supper; she is a woman of that sort. You will refuse.” - -“I should refuse in any case,” I replied. “But I do not understand your -scheme.” - -“You will see later,” he said, his eyes again expressing the joy he felt -in performing before a sympathetic audience of one; “give me the -pleasure of scheming and promise to do something else for me. Oh, it is -nothing wrong, noble person. This is the interval. Before going to see -Queen Anne, we will go and see Camille again. It is all in the scheme. -What a good house there is to-night!” - -The curtain had fallen amid enthusiastic applause and frequent calls, -while Jacques associated me, almost without my consent, with his -trickery. I had a good mind to refuse, for it was scarcely in accordance -with my recent indignation. My scruples gave way to my curiosity to know -how this M. Célemére of literature would escape from the snare in which -he had entangled himself. At least that was the excuse I found for -myself. To-day I think I yielded simply on account of the attraction the -pretty actress had for me. A person should never be too severe about -another’s deceit. The most scrupulous are ready to accept and aid their -schemes, when they are in accordance with their own secret desires. The -real cynical truth was that we went into the wings to reach the retreat -where the pseudo-Burne-Jones was waiting for us, as an actress waits. -Though the actress’ affection for her lover was sincere, she was none -the less the fashionable _comédienne_ who had to humour her admirers, -and she could not even keep the seclusion of her modest dressing-room -intact. Voices were audible as we approached it. Jacques listened to -them for a moment with a nervous expression of face which made me -forgive him for much. If he was teasing it was because he was jealous. -Consequently his unconcerned mockery was a pretence. I learned once more -from his example that there is not necessarily any connexion between -jealousy and love. - -“Camille is not alone,” he said. - -“Then we will return later,” I replied. “She will prefer to talk to you -more privately, and it is better, too, seeing what you say to her.” - -“On the contrary,” he replied with a sudden gay smile in a low tones, “I -can recognize the two voices, they belong to Tournade and Figon. You -don’t know them, do you? Figon is wonderful; you shall see him. He is a -very fine specimen of a snob, a disgusting helot of vanity. Tournade is -the son of the great candle maker; everybody burns Tournade candles. Of -course he is worth millions of francs, and I am inclined to think he is -willing to lay a few at Camille’s feet. Ah,” he went on still more -maliciously, “you are going to lose the flower of your first impression. -The little woman has a heart and more delicacy than her profession -allows, but a person is not at the theatre for nothing, and she does not -always take the same tone she did with us just now. Come along, be -brave!” - -He knocked at the door with his cane in a way which somewhat -contradicted his words. There was a certain amount of authority combined -with nervousness in his knock. “Decidedly there is more in it than he is -willing to admit,” I said to myself while the door was opening. Two -lamps and several candles all lighted had made the atmosphere of the -narrow room stifling, and there were in it besides the actress and her -dresser, the persons Jacques had mentioned. - -I recognized at once the two types of fast men so wonderfully drawn by -Forain. One, whom I guessed by his looks to be Tournade, had a fat red -face, like that of an overfed coachman, with a heavy and ignoble mouth, -brutal, sly and satiated eyes, an incipient baldness, short red -whiskers, and the shoulders of a professional boxer. He had a hand, with -long fat fingers covered with big rings with large stones in them. Some -greedy peasant lives over again in people of this kind, and they bring -to a life of elegant debauchery the ignobly positive soul of a usurer’s -son with a porter’s temperament. The other one, Figon, was thin and -weak, with a never-ending nose, and every tooth in his head was a -masterpiece of gold stopping. His eyes were green and twinkling. His -sparse hair, narrow shoulders, and worn-out spine were a fine example of -the exhaustion found in every race which would justify the anger of the -workers against the middle classes if they themselves, who are nourished -and corroded by the same vices, were not still less worthy. Both the -obese Tournade and the skinny Figon had that way of wearing evening -dress, the large gilt buttons on the front, the button-hole, and the hat -on the back of the head, all of which constitute the uniform of -foolishness or infamy, which the genial caricaturist of the Doux -Pays—that jeering Goya of the dismal revels of Paris—has illustrated in -his legends, in which its correctness makes its baseness more apparent. - -Lighted by the rough lights of the little dressing-room, these two -visitors were standing leaning against the wall, handling their canes in -a brutish way, and watching the little actress who was at her toilette -with a wrapper round her shoulders. She was making up her face for the -next act in which she had to appear in disguise, in the costume of the -picture after which the play was called, all in blue from the satin of -her shoes to the ribbon in her hair. The only long chair and couch had a -dress and cloak spread out on them. Evidently the persons had intruded -upon her, had not been asked to sit down, and she was about to dismiss -them. This sign of her independence caused me keen pleasure. I conceived -for these young fellows a violent antipathy—after that how could I doubt -presentiments?—especially for the candle maker’s heir, who exchanged a -brief greeting with Jacques. Figon made use, to the fashionable author, -of all the usual “dear masters,” and eulogies of the piece which were -imbecile platitudes. - -Jacques received these compliments with his mouth pursed up. Incense is -always agreeable however common it may be, even when it is in the vulgar -form of tobacco smoke. He nodded his head as Figon concluded. - -“You are my two favourite authors, you and——” I will not repeat here the -name of the obscene and outrageously mediocre writer with whom the fool -associated poor Jacques. The latter gave a start which almost made me -burst out laughing, while the actress interrupted— - -“Are you going to be quiet?” she said. “I have already told you that I -would put up with you if you never spoke of books or the theatre.” When -she addressed the young man, he looked at her grinning with stupidity, -and she continued: “If Molan does not bring you into his next play, he -will be good to you. What do you think he has just told me, Jacques, -about Gladys, his old mistress; you know her, the woman you called the -'Gothen du Gotha,’ because of her love affairs with smart people. She -left him for a counter-jumper; and now she has left the counter-jumper -to live with a lord, so we can recognize her again, M. de Figon says.” - -“Come,” Tournade interposed with the air of authority of a smart man who -does not wish another man of his own set to be treated with a lack of -respect in the presence of ordinary literary men or painters; “you know -very well that Louis was joking, and it is not kind of you to chaff him. -You would be the first to grieve if you saw his name in some newspaper.” - -“First of all,” she replied turning to him, “these gentlemen are not -journalists; find out to whom you are talking, my boy. For a day when -you have not been drinking, you are missing a fine opportunity for -silence. Besides if you are not satisfied you know this is my -dressing-room.” She had such an ugly look as she uttered, with -increasing bitterness in her voice, these insolent remarks, and her -intention of getting rid of these two young men was so obvious, that I -had a feeling of shame and almost pity for them, and especially for -Tournade, who though he looked like a brutal and vulgar man, had some -pride and blood in his veins. He contented himself with answering by a -laugh as common as himself and a shrug of the shoulders, while Jacques -said— - -“We came to pay our compliments to you, little Duchess, but it does not -appear to be the evening for politeness.” - -“It is always so for you and your friend,” she said, turning to us her -face which had become tender once more, and her shining eyes which -uttered, proclaimed, and cried aloud this phrase: “Here is my lover whom -I love, and I am proud of him; I want you to know him, to quote him; I -want the whole world to know him.” - -“Thank you,” said Jacques. Without doubt his fatuity had been -sufficiently fed. It displeased him to triumph too openly over a -Tournade or a Figon, for he went on: “Allow me just a little criticism?” - -Camille cast a fresh glance at him now, somewhat uneasily, as she went -on putting the rouge on her face, and he began to quote two -insignificant remarks I had made concerning the excessive emphasis at -two places in her part. One of them concerned the manner in which the -actress had to say to a friend, “I do not want him,” speaking of the -husband she loved; the other was a gesture on recognizing the writing on -the address of a letter. - -I could not help admiring the change of look and voice in both of them -in the course of this little discussion. The sudden seriousness of their -faces showed how, in spite of his vanity in himself, and his passion for -her, the reality of their personality was there in the technicality of -their art. They had forgotten the existence of Tournade, Figon, and -myself. On their part the two men about town pretended to talk of things -which interested them, which we could not understand. I heard the names -of horses, no doubt famous at that time, mentioned: Farfadet, Shannon, -Little Duck and Fichue Rosse, alternating with the professional phrases -of the author and the actress. Ah, how quickly the shrewd Molan had -appropriated the two poor ideas I had given him without mentioning their -origin! His sole consideration for my feelings was to call me to support -his thesis! - -“Ask Vincent, for he has studied faces.” - -“Ah, well!” he said to me a few minutes later as we were leaving before -Tournade and Figon, “we will leave her a prey to the beasts, like a -Christian martyr, though she may be neither a Christian nor a martyr. -You saw that she conceals a little roughness under her pre-Raphaelite -profile, like many of her fellows. Now we have gone, those two funny -fellows will occupy her attention. What a singular machine a woman is! -You would think that a watertight bulkhead separated the lover from the -ordinary woman.” - -“Does she often lose her temper like that?” I asked him; “and why do -those two fellows put up with such treatment?” - -“Bah!” he replied with his habitual modesty, “she would have said much -more to them to prove that I was the only person she loved. For between -ourselves I know that Tournade is courting her. Do you think that in -their eyes the pleasure of saying while they are standing at a bar about -midnight imbibing a drink through a straw, ‘We were with little Favier -just now, how quaint she is?’ counts for nothing.” Then as we reached -our box and I made as if to enter he said: “No! no! you forget we must -first pay Madam de Bonnivet a visit.” - -“Whose invitation I will refuse. That is agreed.” He took my arm and one -of the staff opened most respectfully for us the communicating door -between the stage and the auditorium. As we mounted the staircase my -friend continued: “As a recompense to you, I will let you into one of -the details of the plan which will enable me to get rid of Camille this -evening. You will see what a good idea it is. With women, especially -actresses, I believe in tremendous untruths. Remember the receipt. They -are the only sort which succeed, because they do not believe any one -would have the audacity to invent such stories. Presently during the -last act I shall have a letter brought to me which I shall pretend to -read. You are there! I shall display great astonishment and scribble a -few words upon my card which I leave with you. Then I shall go out. -Camille will have seen it all and will be uneasy. She will play her -great scene with nervous force. That is what is required. Afterwards you -will take my card to her, on which I shall explain that Fomberteau—you -know him well, don’t you? No. He is one of the few critics who has not -picked holes in the Duchess, and on that account Camille loves him—that -Fomberteau has had this evening an altercation with a colleague and -wants to see me so that I may act on his behalf. I shall not be able to -refuse. You will confirm the story. She believes you and the feat will -be accomplished. But Madam de Bonnivet’s box is 32, and we have passed -it. Good, here it is.” - -He knocked at the door as he said this, but the knock was more -deferential than the one just before had been at the dressing-room door. - -A man in a black coat opened the door to us with a smile, greeted us and -disappeared. It was Bonnivet to whom I was introduced, then I was -presented to Madam de Bonnivet, and then to the Vicomte de Senneterre, -who was the “beater.” I was soon sitting upon one of the chairs vacated -by one of these gentlemen. The lady was picking bits of frosted raisin -from a box with a pair of golden tongs. She ate them, showing her small -white teeth as she did so with a sort of sensual cruelty. - -“Are you going to paint little Favier’s portrait, M. la Croix? Molan -told me you were,” she asked. “She is a pretty girl. I hope you will -give her another expression though. If the dear master were not here I -would say that when she is not talking she is like the classic cow -watching the train pass.” - -She looked at the man of letters whom she called “dear master” as she -spoke with sovereign impertinence. Knowing him to be the lover of this -woman to whom she applied this vulgar epigram, what impertinence this -was with a harsh laugh as its accompaniment! Her laughter, the voice of -her eyes, was pretty but metallic, clear but implacable, a gay laugh -which sounded frightfully brutal to me! If one could not—I repeat this -as it was the striking impression of this first meeting—imagine real -warm tears from those eyes of stony blue, neither could one imagine her -stifling a sigh, nor imagine music in her voice, nor indulgence in her -gaiety. But that which at once made her distasteful to me was not her -words—the meanness of a jealous woman was their justification—it was a -curious trait in her personality. - -How can I find words for the indefinable shades of expression on her -face which three pencil lines and two touches of colour would clearly -reproduce How can I explain that something about her which was at the -same time insensible and enervated, glacial and crazy, and so plain in -the contrast between her banter and her fine aristocratic profile, which -was almost ideal: between her jeering laugh and her fine mouth, between -the disdainful carriage of her neck and her willingly familiar manners? -This pretty delicate head, with its haughty and fragile grace, which had -at once evoked in me the image of a queen of elfs with its blonde hair -and flowerlike complexion, was, I have since understood, the victim of -the most terrible ennui in the world, that which absolute insensibility -in the midst of all the good things of the world, and the radical -incapacity of enjoying anything when one possesses all one desires, -inflicts upon us. Since then, I have thought the “dear master” was very -greatly mistaken on his own account, that this ennui, so like that of a -man of the world growing old, perhaps came from abuse, and that there -was a _blasé_ woman in this weary one. I guessed that she had dared many -things with singular intrepidity. But there was no need for these -hypotheses upon the secrets of her life for uneasiness to overcome me. -The direct way in which she questioned me, who cannot bear questioning, -gave me a feeling of insecurity. - -“Have you known Molan long?” she asked me. - -“About fifteen years,” I replied. - -“Have you ever seen him in love except in his books?” - -“You will at once intimidate him, madam,” my friend replied for me. “He -is not used to your imperial manner.” - -She went on, still keeping her eyes fixed on Molan, though addressing -me— - -“Has little Favier any brains?” - -“Oh, yes!” he replied quickly and in good faith. I should have made the -same answer to this creature whose accent alone was sufficient to -irritate me. I then began an enthusiastic eulogy of the poor girl I -hardly knew, and who had surprised me by her sudden vulgarity. Jacques -listened to me as I sang the praises of his mistress in a stupor which -Madam de Bonnivet construed into a sense of umbrage. She was not the -woman to neglect this opportunity of sowing the seeds of discord between -two friends. It is my test for all feminine or masculine natures, this -instinctive tremor of sympathy or antipathy before the sentiments of -others. It was sufficient for Madam de Bonnivet to believe that Jacques -and I were united by sincere comradeship, for the temptation to sever -this friendship to seize her. - -“Stop,” she said; “should the painter be so amorous of his model?” She -laughed her wicked laugh. Then suddenly she turned her head and said to -her husband: “Pierre, you don’t take enough exercise, you are getting -fat. It makes you look ten years older than you really are. You should -take Senneterre as your example.” This evening the “beater” was polished -and fastened together like an old piece of furniture, so that this -praise of his apparent youth was fearful irony. “Come,” she concluded, -“don’t get angry, but have some raisins, they are exquisite.” - -“What an amiable child!” I said to myself as she offered us the box of -fruit in a peevish way. “What time is she put to bed?” Her character, -which had no inner truth, was ceaselessly dominated by a double need in -which two moral miseries were manifest: the unhealthy appetite for -producing an effect developed in her by the abuse of worldly success, -the even more unhealthy appetite for emotion at all costs, the result of -secret licentiousness, which had made her _blasé_, and her lack of -heart. Have I mentioned that she was a mother, and that she did not love -her child, who had been at a boarding school for years? She could not -dispense with astonishment, and she had that strange taste for fear, -that singular pleasure of provoking man’s anger, that joy of feeling -that she was threatened with brutality which is the great sign of woman -in her natural state. Except on serious occasions the most childish -things were good enough to procure for her these two emotions: such as -dazzling a poor devil of a painter by ways so contrary to her social -pretensions, and lighting in her husband’s eyes, without any cause, the -light of anger which I had just seen there. - -Senneterre and Bonnivet began to laugh a similar laugh to that of -Tournade and Figon in little Favier’s dressing-room. The comparison -struck me at once, as it has done under different conditions when I have -skirted “High Society.” The actress and the woman of the world had -exactly the same bad tone. Only the bad tone of the delicate Burne-Jones -girl betrayed a depth of passionate soul, and an extraordinary facility -for allurement, while in the case of Madam de Bonnivet it was the -intolerable and fantastic caprice of the spoilt child; but it was very -fine, for no shade of feeling escaped her, not even the antipathy of an -unimportant person like myself, nor the ill-humour of her husband -disguised by his laughter. - -“My dear Senneterre,” Bonnivet had simply said, “we are done with. But -an old husband and an old friend are umbrellas upon which much rain has -fallen!” - -There was in these few words a strange mixture of irony with regard to -the two artists, new-comers into their circle, to whom the young woman -was talking, and a deep irritation which no doubt procured for her the -little tremor of fear she loved to feel. She gave her husband, whom she -had so saucily braved, a coquettish glance almost tender, while the -glance she gave me was indignant, and rather exciting than provoking. I -had irritated her curiosity by being refractory to her seductiveness. -Then, changing her conversation, and almost her accent, with a -prodigious suddenness, she asked me in the most simple way possible a -question about the school of painting to which I belonged. It was a -starting point for her to talk of my art, without much knowledge, but -strange to say with as much intelligence and good sense as before she -had displayed lack of it in her jeering chaff. She talked of the danger -to us artists in going much into society, and she spoke according to my -idea, with a perfectly accurate view of the failings of vanity and -charlatanism which the society of the idle induces. It was as if another -person had replaced the original woman. They resembled one another in -one point. It was the production of an effect upon a new-comer. Only -this time she had divined the precise words it was necessary to use. -Cold-blooded coquettes have these intuitions which take the place of -knowledge concerning their adorers. I was already too much on my guard -to be the dupe of this manœuvre and not to discern its artifice. But -still, how could I help admiring her versatility? - -“Is not my little Bonnivet clever?” Jacques Molan said after we had -taken our departure; “she understands everything before it is said. But -why did she not invite you to supper? For she is interested in you. You -could see that by Senneterre’s ill-humour. He hardly returned your -greeting.” The game he did not bring was not to his liking, nor was the -man who brought it. “Yes,” he went on in the tones of a man playing a -very careful game and watching every detail of his opponent’s play, “why -did she not invite you to supper?” - -“Why should she invite me?” I asked. - -“Obviously to make you talk about Camille and myself,” he said. - -“After my eulogy of little Favier,” I replied, “she had very little to -ask me. It did not please her. That is an excellent sign for you, and a -sufficient reason for not wishing to hear it again.” - -“Possibly,” he said. “But what do you think of the husband?” - -“Weak to allow himself to be spoken to like that, and I am astonished -that he does so on account of his broad shoulders. He might well reply -with an evil look. But he is weak, I repeat, very weak.” - -“Yes,” Jacques went on, “their relations are stranger than you would -think. Bonnivet, you see, is a Parisian husband like many others, who by -himself would not move in any circle of society, and who owes his whole -position to his wife’s coquetry. Husbands of this kind do not always do -this by design. But they profit by it and can be divided into three -groups: the noodles, who are persuaded against the weight of evidence -that this coquetry is innocent; the philosophic ones, who have made up -their minds never to find out how far this coquetry goes; and the -jealous ones, who wish to profit by this coquetry to have a full -drawing-room and elegant dinners. Besides, they go into a cold sweat at -the thought that their wife might take a lover. That was Bonnivet’s -case. He accepted all the flirtations of Queen Anne with a good grace. -He shook my hand. He assisted in silence like the most complaisant of -men his better half’s manœuvres. Very well, I am of opinion that if he -suspected this woman of the least physical familiarity beyond this moral -familiarity, he would kill her on the spot like a rabbit. She knows it -and is afraid, and that is the reason that she prefers him in her heart -to us all, and that in my humble opinion she has not yet deceived him. -But she loves to brave his anger in her moments of nerves. She has one -of them every hour. Camille is too pretty. Between ourselves that was -the origin of the supper: she does not want the little Blue Duchess to -be in her admirer’s company this evening. I think, too, that was the -reason she did not invite you. She hopes you will profit by my absence. -It is high comedy. Moliére, where is your pen?” - -“But,” I said to him, as I thought of the two half-mute persons whose -rather tragic picture he was painting to me, “if that is your opinion of -M. de Bonnivet, it is not reassuring for you when you become his wife’s -lover.” - -“If,” he answered shrugging his shoulders. “My dear fellow, I have -calculated. To take any woman at all as your mistress is to always run -the same number of risks of meeting face to face some one who will kill. -It is just like travelling in a carriage or on the railway, or drinking -a glass of fresh water which chemists declare is infested with microbes. -I brave the dangers, railway accidents, runaway horses, typhoid fevers, -and jealous husbands because I love to travel quickly, to refresh and -amuse myself. Then Madam de Bonnivet knows her tyrant, her Pierre, who -rejoices in the idyllic names of Pierre Amédié Placidi; she knows of -what he is capable. She amuses herself by exciting him just far enough -to procure for herself that little tremor of fear. When she wants to -overstep the mark, she will do it like the reasonable creature she is. -Suspicious husbands are like vicious animals. They are ridden more -safely after they have been carefully studied and their peculiarities -discovered. But now have you a pencil? Good. I will scribble on my card -in the box. While we are waiting, let me arrange with the attendant -about the letter I want brought to me.” - -We were at the door of our box. He stopped and exchanged a few words -with the attendant, and I saw him hand her a letter which he took from -his pocket-book. At this moment his face assumed its real expression, -that of a beast of prey, feline and supple, and his fashionable elegance -became almost repulsive. - -“That is it,” he said, “and now we are going to applaud our friend as if -we were not the author and his friend. We owe that to her, poor little -girl! She will be so disappointed! Write me a line to-morrow or come and -see me to let me know how she takes it. I am not at all uneasy as to the -result. A woman who loves never suspects the truth. She swallows the -most improbable things like a carp does the hook and a yard of string as -well.” - -“But if she guesses that I am lying?” I interrupted. This trick which -made me his accomplice weighed upon my conscience, and I was upon the -point of refusing my assistance. But if I refused it I should not see -Camille again that evening. - -“She will not guess,” he replied. - -“But if she insists and demands my word of honour?” - -“Give it to her. In the case of women false oaths are permissible. But -she will not ask you. Here she is! Are we not like two conspirators. How -pretty she is! To think that if I might have——But no, there is an old -French saying, that the woman a man adores is not the one he possesses, -but one he has not yet possessed. You must admit that these words -contain more truth than all the works of our analytical friends the hair -splitters, Claude Larcher and Julien Dorsenne?” - -Camille Favier had reappeared upon the stage. She had begun to act with -a happy grace which was changed into nervousness when the attendant -brought, according to the plan, into our box the sham letter from -Fomberteau. The actress missed her cue when she saw Jacques take a -pencil from his pocket, scribble a few words upon a card, then hand it -to me and leave the box. But the impostor was right. Her trouble as a -woman only intensified her playing as an actress. She suddenly ceased to -look in the direction of the box which her lover had left. The entire -strength of her being appeared to be concentrated in her part, and in -the great final scene very ingeniously borrowed from _La Princesse -Georges_, she displayed a power of pathos which roused the audience to a -delirium of enthusiasm. Only when she was recalled by an enthusiastic -audience and returned to bow did her eyes again turn to the box in which -I sat alone. She expressed in her look her pretty regret at being unable -to offer this triumph to her lord and master. As far as I was concerned -it was an artist’s pride in an artist. But her look was a supplication -to me not to go without speaking to her, and when the curtain fell for -the last time she came towards me without troubling about being seen by -her colleagues. - -“What has happened?” she asked. “Where is Jacques gone?” - -“He has left this card for you,” I answered evasively. - -“Come into my dressing-room,” she said after looking at the card, “I -want to speak to you.” Her impatience was so keen that I found her -waiting on the stairs for me. She seized my arm at once. - -“Is it true?” she asked me point-blank. “Is Fomberteau going to fight? -With whom? Why?” - -“I don’t know any more than you do,” I replied still with the same -indefiniteness. - -“Did he know that Jacques was at the theatre this evening? Had they an -appointment? Why did he not tell me about it? He knows how interested I -am in his friends, especially Fomberteau. He is such a loyal comrade and -so bravely defended 'Adéle’ and 'La Duchesse’! Don’t you see how strange -it seems to me?” - -“But Jacques seemed as surprised as you are,” I murmured. - -“Ah!” she said as she gripped my arm more lightly, “you are an -honourable man. You cannot lie very well.” Then in emotional tones she -said: “But you would not give your friend away; I know him too.” And -after a short silence she continued: “You live in the same direction as -myself, Jacques told me; will you wait for me and see me home?” - -She had disappeared into her dressing-room and closed the door before I -could find an answer for her. How displeased I felt with myself! What -contradictory sentiments I experienced in the theatre lobby, which was -filled to overflowing with the departing audience! One must be -twenty-three and have a romantically tortured soul as Camille’s eyes -showed she had to add to the exhausting emotions of the stage those of -the conversation she was prepared to have with me. How I feared that -talk! How I regretted not making some excuse and leaving her! How sure I -was, in spite of her words upon the duty of friendship, that this -passionate child would try to make me say something I did not want and -ought not say! It would have been better perhaps if this fear had been -verified and the profligate had appeared in her at once beneath the -lover. But do I sincerely regret the strange minutes of that night? Do I -regret that walk beneath the cold and starry January sky, unexpected as -it was, for at seven o’clock that evening I did not know this young -woman even by name; it was so innocent, almost foolish, too, since I was -the extemporized diversion of her love for another; it was so short, -too, as the walk from the Vaudeville to the Rue de la Bareuillére does -not take more than three quarters of an hour. Those three quarters of an -hour count for me among the rare gleams of light in my dark and -sorrowful life. Nothing but evoking its last charm would be worth the -trouble of beginning the tale of this long and monotonous suffering. - -Although I was quite sure that Camille had not kept me to play the scene -between La Camargo and the priest in _Les Marrons du Feu_, by the -wonderful Musset, described so foolishly by Molan as a bad poet, my -heart beat faster than usual when the dressing-room door opened. The -actress reappeared enveloped in a large black cloak with a big cape at -the shoulders. A thick black silk ruff was around her neck, and her -head, on which she wore a dark blue bonnet, looked almost too small as -it emerged from her heavy wrap. She appeared to me to be taller and -younger. I could at once see by her eyes that she had been crying, and I -could tell that she was nervous by the way in which she said good night -to her dresser. Then, as she leant upon my arm to descend the staircase, -I asked her, thinking I might cheer her by this kindly pleasantry— - -“Are you not afraid of being talked about, leaving the theatre like this -with a gentleman?” - -“Being talked about!” she said with a shrug of her fine shoulders. “That -does not worry me. Everybody at the theatre knows that I am Jacques’ -mistress. I do not conceal the fact, neither does he. He has told you, -has he not? Confess!” - -“He told me he loved you,” I replied. - -“No,” she said with a pretty, sad smile, which displayed her fine mouth -and made a dimple in her pale cheek, “I know him too well to think that. -He told you that I loved him, and he was right. All the same, it is good -of you to want me to think that he speaks tenderly of me. I repeat to -you that I shall be very quiet. I shall not try to question you. After -all, this story about Fomberteau is not an impossible one. It would have -been very simple though for him to have wished me good-bye first. I had -looked forward so to his escort this evening.” - -We were in the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin when she said this, and it was -followed by a long silence. Women who love are unconsciously cruel. But -how could I expect her not to regret her lover to me when all her charm -was in her spontaneity and the untouched ingenuousness of her nature? -Then I began to be in love with her, and this conversation, seen when -talking of some one else, enfolded me and intoxicated me with that -enchantment of the beloved presence which is in itself a pleasure. The -warmth of her arm in mine made my blood flow to my heart. In what a -discreet pose this pretty arm leant upon mine, but with a reserve so -different from the abandon of love! But her step instinctively kept time -with mine. We kept in step as we walked, and this fusion of our -movements, by making me feel the light rhythm of her body, revealed to -me, too, that though she knew very little of me, she had perfect -confidence in me. I experienced extreme pleasure at the sudden intimacy, -so complete and so devoid of coquetry; my self-respect had one more idea -of humiliation than hers had of pretence over her relations with my -comrade. By what mysterious magic of second sight had she divined at -once that I would be for her with Molan precisely the advocate she -needed, and also that she could express her feelings in my presence in -full sincerity? - -It is a fact that, in our walk, first along the crowded Boulevards, then -through streets becoming quieter and quieter, till we reached the -deserted avenues of the Invalides and Montparnasse, our conversation was -that of two beings deeply, definitely, and absolutely sure of one -another. I will not try to explain this first strangeness, the prelude -and omen of relations in which everything would be anomalous. I, who am -as reluctant to receive confidences as to give them, listened to this -actress with a passionate insatiable avidity to hear the story of her -life. Though her confidences were very singular when addressed to a -stranger almost an unknown, I did not think of doubting them, nor of -rating them as impudence or acting. But time goes backward and the -months which separate us from that hour disappear. The sky of that -winter’s night again palpitates with its crowd of stars. Our steps, -which seem almost joined together, sound upon the empty pavements. Her -voice rises and falls in turn with its tender tones. I can hear the -music of her voice still. I can feel again the trouble which was at the -same time delicious and grievous, with which each of her words filled -me: they appeared to me so touching when that dear voice pronounced -them. To-day they seem to me cruelly ironical. How life, cruel life, has -frozen the fresh sweet flowers of sentiment which opened in this young -heart, and how my heart falters when I recall her eyes, her gestures, -her smile, and the pretty way she nodded her head as she said— - -“Yes, when I can go home with him like this in the evening he knows that -I am happy. He knows, too, what it costs me to procure this liberty. -Usually mother comes to meet me. Poor mother! If she suspected! Jacques -knows how painful it is to me to lie about little things, more so -perhaps than about important matters. The meanness of certain tricks -makes one understand better how ugly and wretched deception is. I have -to say that my cousin comes to meet me, and tell my cousin too. No, I -was not born for this trickery. I love to say what I think and what I -feel. At first I did not blush at my life. But for Jacques I should have -told my mother everything.” - -“Does she really suspect nothing?” I asked her. - -“No,” she said with profound bitterness, “she believes in me. I am the -revenge of her life, you see. We were not always as we are now. I can -recollect a time when we had a house, carriages and horses, though I was -only a little girl then. My father was a business man, one of the -largest outside brokers in Paris. You know better than I do what -happened: an unfortunate speculation and we were ruined. My stage name -is not my father’s name, but my mother’s maiden name.” - -“But Jacques has not told me that,” I said in such an astonished way -that she shrugged her fine shoulders. What disillusion there was already -in that sad and gentle gesture which indicated that she clearly judged -the man whom she continued to love so much. - -“The story was without doubt not sufficiently interesting for him to -recollect. It is so commonplace, comprising as it does the death of the -unfortunate man who killed himself in a fit of despair. The least -commonplace part of the story is that mother sacrificed her fortune to -preserve my father’s honour. It is true it was a fortune he had settled -upon her and it had come from him. That makes no difference. There are -not many women in the world of wealth which Jacques loves so dearly, who -would do that, are there? Every debt was paid, and we are left with an -income of 7,000 francs, on which we lived till last year, when I -appeared at the Vaudeville.” - -“How did the idea of going on the stage enter your mind?” I asked. - -“You want a confession,” she said, “and you shall have one. Is it -possible to say why one’s existence turns in this or that direction? A -person would not go out in the street but for the thought of events -which lead to a meeting.” She smiled as she uttered this phrase which -awakened in me a very clear echo. I realized that it was one of those -chances which had made me acquainted with her, for the destruction of my -peace of mind. She went on— - -“If I believe in anything, you see, it is in destiny. Among the few -persons we continued to meet was a friend of my father’s, a great lover -of the theatre. He is dead now. He listened to me one day, without my -knowing it, reciting a piece of poetry I had learnt by heart. Our old -friend spoke to me of his memory, which was failing him. He advised me -to cultivate mine. This little chance shaped my life. He realized that I -recited those few verses well. For amusement he gave me others to learn. -I was fifteen years old, and he treated me without any more ceremony -than he would his own niece. After my second effort at reciting he had a -long conversation with mother. We were poor. We might become worse off -still. We had nothing to expect from our relatives, who had been very -hard on my poor father. A talent is a livelihood, and to-day the stage -is a career like painting and literature. The days of prejudice are -past. You can imagine the arguments of the old Parisian and my mother’s -objections. But the latter could not outweigh the authority our friend -had acquired over us by remaining faithful to us. We had been so utterly -deserted by our other friends, though perhaps it was partly our own -fault. Mother was so proud! The joy I displayed when I was consulted was -what finally convinced mother. That was how I first went to a professor -and then to the Conservatoire, which I left three years ago with two -first prizes. An engagement at the Odéon was followed directly by one at -the Vaudeville; and now you know as much as I do about Camille Favier.” - -“About Mademoiselle Favier,” I corrected her, “but not about Camille.” - -“Ah, Camille!” she replied, releasing my arm as if an irresistible -instinct made her recoil. “Camille is a person who has never had much -good sense, and now she has still less than she used to have,” she added -with a melancholy and arch nod of the head, a gesture I always noticed -her make in times of emotion. - -“Without a doubt I take after my dear father who had no good sense at -all, I have been told, for he married mother for love, and that his -brothers, sisters and cousins never forgave. Poor father and poor -Camille! But you can see”—she said this with a smile—“that I have no -good sense at all by my telling you this after an acquaintance of two -hours. I have a theory, however, that friendship is like love, it either -comes all at once or not at all.” - -“In my case you have realized that it has come?” I said to her. - -“Yes,” she said with almost grave simplicity as she took my arm again -and pressed it against her own. “You would like to ask me about my -feelings for Jacques? I guessed as much, and you dare not. I should like -to explain to you, but I don’t know how. As I have begun to tell you -everything, I will try. It seems to me that you will not think so badly -of me afterwards, and I don’t want you to think badly of me. I must go -back to the beginning again. I have told you how and why I entered the -Conservatoire. It is a curious but not very well-known place where there -is everything, from the very good to the very bad, corruption and -artlessness, intrigues, youth, exasperated vanity, and enthusiasm. -During the years I spent there, this enthusiasm for the stage was my -romance. Yes, I had the frenzy and fever for being one day a great -actress, and I worked. How I worked! Then as one does not reach the age -of eighteen without dreaming, without ears to hear and eyes to see, on -the day I left there, you can understand, if I was virtuous it was not -the virtue of ignorance. I had seen, I think, as many ugly happenings as -I shall see in the course of my life. I shall not be courted more -brutally than I was by some of my companions, nor more hypocritically -than by some of the professors. I shall not receive more depraved advice -than I did then from some of my friends, nor less enchanting -confidences. But my environment has never had much influence over me. -What I was told went in at one ear and out of the other. I listen to the -little inner voice of conscience which speaks to me when I am alone. It -was this little voice which whispered to me 'yes’ at once when our old -friend spoke of the stage. It was the little voice which prevented me -succumbing to the temptations by which I was surrounded. Don’t you think -the counsels of this little voice were very good ones? Think what a task -it was for a girl of my age: always repeating words of love, putting the -accents of love into my voice, and giving to my face and gestures the -expressions of love. At this acting, a woman ends by catching the fever -of the parts she plays. A wish to taste on one’s own account the -sentiments one has tried so often to depict arises. I cannot explain -that to you, but without a doubt I was born for the stage, where I -cannot play a part without almost becoming that person I represent, and -when I have to say to another character - - 'I feel that I love you.’ - -you don’t know how I sometimes desire to say this sweet caressing phrase -on my own account.” - -“Alas!” I answered her when she was silent, “that is our story to every -one. We read of this feeling in books. There is something contagious in -a poet’s suffering. We imitate them unconsciously, and we are sincere in -this imitation. All this once more proves that the heart is a very -complicated machine.” - -“More complicated than you think,” she said with a knowing smile, “when -it concerns a girl who lives as I lived. I have told you that I was -madly enthusiastic over my art. Why did I decide, in my own poor head, -that this art is not compatible with the middle-class respectability of -a regular existence, and that prosaic and monotonous virtue is the enemy -of talent? I don’t know how to explain it to you, but it is like this. I -was convinced that no one could be a great artiste without passion. Even -now I don’t think I was wrong. This evening, for example, I acted my -last scene as I have never done before. There was nervousness in all my -words and gestures. I gave myself up to my part madly! Why? Because I -had seen Jacques leave your box and I did not understand. If you only -knew what anguish I suffered at the moment I looked at that frightful -Madam de Bonnivet’s box! How I hate that woman! She is my bad genius and -that of Jacques as well. You see, if she had left the theatre before the -end of the play with her fool of a husband, I should have thought that -she and Jacques had gone away together; I should have fallen down on the -stage. Forgive me, I will go on with my story if it does not weary you. -All these romantic, confused and vague sentiments which moved in me -while I worked hard at my studies on leaving the Conservatoire, are -summed up in a dream at which I beg you not to laugh too much. Yes, all -the sorrows and joys of love, all the emotions which must exalt the -artiste and make me into a rival of Rachel, Desclée, Sarah Bernhardt and -Julia Bartet, I desired to feel for some one whom they would exalt while -they exalted me, for a man of genius whom I would inspire in inspiring -myself, and who would write sublime plays which I should afterwards act -with a genius equal to his own. How difficult it is to clearly describe -what one feels! I am searching for a name in the history of the theatre -which will explain to you these chimeras more clearly than my poor -gossip.” - -“You would have liked to be a Champmeslé; to meet Racine and create for -him '_Phédre_’ after posing to him,” I interrupted. - -“That is it,” she said quickly. “That is it. Yes, Champmeslé and Racine; -or Rachel and Alfred de Musset, the Rachel of the supper if she had -loved him. Yes. To meet a writer, a poet, who needed to feel before he -could write, to make him feel, to feel with him, to incarnate the -creations of his talent on the stage, and thus go through the world -together, and attain glory together in a legend of love, that was my -dream. Do you think there can be blue enough for the heavens and your -pictures in the head of a little actress, who rehearses her part in an -old street in the Faubourg Saint Germain by her old mother’s side, with -imagination as her only stage property? Such a desire is an absurdity, a -chimera, a folly. But I thought I could grasp this chimera and realize -this folly when chance threw me in the path of Jacques. I should realize -it, if he only loved me;” and in a deeply moved voice, with a sigh, she -repeated, “if he loved me!” - -“But he does love you,” I answered her. “If you had heard him speak of -you this evening.” - -“Do not hope to mislead me,” she said seriously and sadly. “I know very -well that he does not love me. He loves the love I have for him, but how -long will it last?” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -How distinct the least important words of this conversation have -remained in my memory with their gay or sad, sentimental or bantering, -disabused or tender intonation! I could continue to note down pages and -pages of details without weariness. It seems to me, while writing this -upon cold mute paper, that the clock has gone backwards and it is once -more the time when the conversation ended, too soon for my liking, and -we reached the house in the Rue de la Barouillére. I can see myself -saying good-bye to Camille before the massive door which a sleepy porter -was very slow in opening. I think I can hear the sound of the bell and -feel the warmth of her little feverish hand in mine, while I wished her -good-bye and she appeared to me, in the light of the moon, like an -adorable phantom ever disappearing. She half closes her fine eyes which -were heavy with sleep, she bows her head with a smile, she puts her -finger to her mouth with a malicious gesture, to remind me to be -discreet over the confidences she had entrusted to me. Her little head -and long cloak disappeared in the darkness and the door closed with a -dull sound. - -Unconsciously I listened for a moment longer. I stretched out my hand to -clasp hers and felt instead a metal object, the lamp which was left for -her every evening. A match was struck, a hasty step sounded, and another -door, the staircase door, closed. That was all, so I went towards home -in the pale moonlight along streets deserted except for a few stray cats -and dogs, a few policemen on their beats, a belated cab, and a group of -young artists just leaving a café in the Boulevard Saint Michel, which -were the only things which testified to the existence of life in the -great sleeping mansions, dark convents, the little houses with a single -jet of gas burning, and the black, sinister-looking hospitals. This -quarter is really one of the suburbs of Paris, though it is so near the -densely populated Boulevards, just as Camille’s peaceful life with her -mother is so near her passionate stage life. - -It had only taken us three quarters of an hour to return from the -theatre, though our pace was unequal, sometimes slow and sometimes -rapid, as if we were hastening over our confidences. It took me less -time to reach the little house on the Boulevard des Invalides where I -live, though I wandered aimlessly in this deserted part overwhelmed by a -trouble for which I could scarcely blame myself. That sudden burning of -the inner being, that handling and interminable repetition of phrases -which one has just heard, that obsession of thought at the same time -pleasing and terrifying, that occupation as if by force by a creature to -whom one was the previous evening and the same day a perfect -stranger—these are the signs which denote the fatal fever, malaria of -the soul, which takes longer to cure than other and more dangerous -maladies. - -“A good night’s sleep,” I said to myself, “and to-morrow these foolish -ideas will be gone; besides she is a friend’s mistress. I know myself. -The thought of their caresses simply would prevent me from becoming -amorous of her, if I desired to. But I shall not have this desire. She -has moved me this evening in her real life as she moved me at the -theatre, as she would have moved me in a novel. But that is pure -imagination. To-morrow I shall not think of her, and if I think of her, -I shall not see her nor Molan again. That is all.” - -Pure imagination is an expression easily used. But is there not a -profound and very sensible point by which this imagination touches our -heart, is our heart in fact? When a woman’s grace has wounded this -point, we always discover motives why we should not remain faithful to -the prudent programme of not seeing her again. The fact was, I began by -not having the good night’s sleep I promised myself, and when I awakened -from my morning doze I thought of Camille Favier with as much troubled -interest as I had done the evening before. I at once found a pretext for -breaking my good resolution not to see either her or Molan again. Had I -not promised Jacques to inform him as to the success or otherwise of his -scheme? All the same, it was not without remorse that about ten o’clock -I set out to fulfil my strange mission. - -I had forgotten the previous evening that I had a model coming at ten. A -girl called Malvina came to pose for my never-ending “Psyché pardonnée.” -When I sent her away I heard the little inner voice, of which on the -previous evening Camille had prettily spoken, whisper: “Coward! Coward!” -But even without the little voice, did not the presence of this creature -demonstrate to me the absurdity of my incipient sentiment? Malvina had, -too, like Camille, the ideal head for the primitive Madonna, and she was -pleasure personified. Her mouth, which looked so beautiful in its silent -smile, only opened to retail obscenity. What a good plan it is never to -believe in the bewitching charm of a face! Fate has warnings like this -for us which we disregard with an obscure feeling of the irreparable. -After Malvina had gone I looked round my studio, at the unfinished -canvas, my colour box, my palette, and I went out pursued by their mute -reproach. Why did I not listen! - -To reach the Rue Delaborde, where Jacques Molan lived, I had fortunately -to traverse a nice part of Paris, of the sort to distract my attention. -I know it so well from making numerous studies of it when I was -preoccupied, as the critics say when they are looking on our pictures -for an opportunity to theorize and be modern. That is finished as far as -I am concerned. It has profited me all the same; for if I no longer -think a picture ought to represent freaks of light without significance, -or bodies of human life without essential value, I have kept for these -studies a keener taste, a more refined sense of certain landscapes, -those of the Seine, for example, the Tuileries, and the Place de la -Concorde. I love them especially in their morning tints which give them -a tender freshness, distinct water-colour transparencies, with a thrill -of alert activity. That morning, though my nerves were still quivering -with the intoxication of my new-born passion, the water of the river -seemed to me fresher than ever; the grey-blue of the sky more delicate -above the leafless trees; the water of the fountains more sparkling with -a whiter and more noisy foam. My over-excited being more readily -appreciated the charm of the trees, houses, and flowing water. I -unconsciously forgot my wise resolution and my remorse at leaving my -work, to picture to myself the renewal of the soul which a liaison such -as the one satiated Jacques Molan held so cheaply would instil into me. -Then the irresistible demon of irony took possession of me. - -“Yes,” I actually or almost said to myself, “what a dream it would be to -be loved by a woman like Camille! Just free enough to give long hours to -her lover and not free enough to absorb his time; enough of an artist to -understand the most delicate and subtle shades of impression; natural -enough to be amused at the Bohemian caprices, which are so savoury when -they are not accompanied by misery; enthusiastic enough for a constant -encouragement to work to emanate from her, and too spontaneous, too -sincere to ever drive you to that slavery to success, which is the fatal -influence of so many mistresses and wives. And then what an adorable -lover she would be! Was it a rare tint of soul, which the story she told -me yesterday had, and was it different from the ones in the heads of her -little friends? A rich protector and much advertisement is the usual -ideal of such girls! The only actress who thinks differently must needs -meet with Molan, the cold machine for producing prolific copy. But what -is the use of my understanding and appreciating her like this, when I am -on my way to contribute to the closeness of their intimacy? What absurd -chance made me meet Jacques yesterday evening? That must happen to me: -it is the symbol of our whole lives, his and mine. I am, or rather am -ready to be, the man who really loves; he is the lover. I have the -sensibility of a real artist, while he achieves works and reaps the -glory of them. Meanwhile I am wasting a very clear morning and my -picture is at a standstill. Ah, I shall soon be back and I will send for -Malvina. I will work all the afternoon, I will make up for lost time. -Directly my commission is executed I will hurry away. I am rather -curious to see how the animal is lodged. He must be making just now from -80,000 to 100,000 francs a year, and it is a great change from his -former position.” - -It was a long time since I had called upon my old friend. While the -lift-man whisked me up to the second floor, where he lived, of a large -new house with bow windows of coloured glass, I recalled the numerous -quarters where I had known this author, who was such a clever -administrator of his wealth and talents, and ran over in my mind his -rapid advance along the highway of Parisan glory. First of all on -leaving college he had a little furnished room in the Rue Monsieur le -Prince. A portrait of Baudelaire by Félicien Rops and a few bad -medallions by David constituted the personal furniture of this retreat. -The fastidious arrangement of the books, papers and pens on the table -already testified to the worker’s strong will. - -Jacques’ only resource then was a small income of 150 francs a month -allowed him by his only relative, an old grandmother, who lived in the -Provinces, and to whom he behaved like a grateful grandson. I saw him -weep real tears when she died, and then he put her into a book. Strange -to say, that was the only one of his books which was really bad. Could -it be that talent of writing is only nourished by imaginative -sensibility, which, to be realized, has need of expression, whereas real -sensibility exhausts itself and comes to an end through its own reality? -Happily for him, in the early years of his literary life he only -depicted sentiments which he had not. His first volume, so elegant and -yet so brutal, was, strange to say, scrawled in this Latin Quarter -garret. His joining the staff of a Boulevard paper and a change of -residence showed that the writer did not intend to vegetate in the same -narrow circle. He took rooms in the Rue de Bellechasse still on the left -bank of the river, but now very close to the right bank. The portrait of -Baudelaire still remained, to proclaim his fidelity to his early -artistic convictions; but now it was framed in velvet and hung upon red -Adrianople tapestry, which gave to this retreat an air of a padded -shelter. This counter-balanced the lack of artistic character in the -furniture, which was on the hire system and very solid and commonplace, -without any other pretension than the quality of its old oak. The noted -trader in literary wares, which Molan was, betrayed himself by his -choice of durable furniture and a well made desk never likely to need -repair. His success still increased, and the period of the little house -at Passy came, though directly afterwards the house became unsuitable. - -Jacques had not been there eighteen months when the opulent and final -abode of the successful man took its place. The anteroom where I was -received by a little page in livery was sufficient to convince me. A -commissionaire, whom I seemed to have seen stationed in my own -neighbourhood, was in attendance. I was shown into a large smoking-room -which adjoined a small study and contained a case full of rare curios, -consisting of old Chinese lacquer-work, admirable sixteenth century -bronzes, polished boxes, statuettes from Saxony, and old sweetmeat -boxes. The dissimilarity of the objects expressed Molan’s utilitarian -ideas. He studied the possibility of sale in case of misfortune. A few -pictures decorated the walls, but they were all modern with the most -excessive and extravagant modernity. Paintings by an obscure -contemporary sometimes turn out a good investment, for he may be a -Millet or a Corot. It is a ticket in a lottery, but the prize is a good -one. Molan bought these pictures for a few pounds from young painters in -distress, and received them as a return for a little advertisement. - -But it was necessary to know him as I knew him to understand the use of -this smoking-room, which was destined by the fashionable author for -show, for interviews and receptions. Its significant feature was order, -implacable, studied and fastidious order. Everything displayed this -order, but most of all the arrangement of the books on the book-shelves. -The books themselves were all the work of young colleagues, who would be -flattered by seeing their works bound in colours appropriate to their -talents, the colourists in red, the elegists in mauve, and the stylists -in Japanese paper. The brilliant new silver articles, the freshness of -the Havanna carpet and many other little things showed the eye of a -master difficult to please, whose wishes extended to the smallest detail -without ever being satisfied. The conversation that the author had with -me the previous evening concerning his investments came back to my mind, -and I thought he had told me the truth. He himself entered, manicured, -shaved, with keen eyes, a fresh colour, and wearing the most delightful -lounge coat that ever a tailor of genius had made for a man about town. -He had in his hand a quill pen which he showed me before throwing it -into the fire, saying— - -“Have I kept you waiting? I had to finish my third page. If I do one -page more by half-past twelve I shall have done my day’s work. Four -pages a day, whether it is a novel or a play, is my method,” and -pointing out to me a long row of books not so tastefully bound as the -others: “And that is the result.” - -“Can you leave and resume your work when you please?” I asked him. - -“When I like. It is force of habit, you see. I have regulated my brain -as a gas meter is regulated. Does the comparison scandalize you? You -have, as I have done, meditated upon these words of a great master: -'Patience is that which in man most resembles the proceeding which -nature employs in her creations.’ Almost automatic regularity is the -secret of talent! But let us talk of your errand last evening to -Camille. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, was there not?” - -“Not at all,” I replied, rather pleased at being able to disconcert his -fatuity; “she did not even question me in order not to make me tell -lies.” - -“Yes,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders, “that delicacy is just -like her. We live in an amusing time. You meet with a woman of exquisite -sentiment, and a delightfully fine heart. She turns out to be a poor -little actress. Another woman with an income of 200,000 francs, coming -of a good family, bearing a famous name, beautiful, and with a position -in society, is a bad actress. But if the little one is romantic, she is -shrewdly romantic. She had scruples about making you speak, so as not to -ask you to betray a friend. Then she turned to the right place to learn -the truth. She sent an express message to Fomberteau this morning.” - -“Did you not foresee that?” - -“I reckoned on calling upon her when I went out. She was too quick for -me. Fomberteau sent her this reply,” and he took a piece of paper from -his pocket. “Imagine Camille as she read this”— - -“'Dear friend, I had no duel to fight. Your Jacques therefore was not my -second. Except that, all the rest is true. Set your mind at rest -regarding both of us, and as it is press day please excuse me from -coming in person to thank you for your kind anxiety.’ To this Camille -has added a postscript: 'As you gave me an explanation yesterday which -was not true, I have the right to another one, the true one, and I am -waiting for it.’” - -“What time did you get this letter?” I asked him. - -“About twenty-five minutes ago. The messenger is waiting. I wanted to -see you and know what she said to you. She has lost nothing by waiting. -I am going to reply to her in my best style.” - -“I should be curious,” I said, “to know by what new scheme you will -excuse yourself.” - -“I!” he replied as he sat down at a little table and began to write, “by -none. I am telling her that I have not the least explanation to give -her, and I do not wish her to allow herself another time to play tricks -upon me as she did when she sent to Fomberteau.” - -“You will not do that,” I interrupted him quickly. “The poor girl loves -you with all her heart. She could not bear the doubt. She thought you -were lying to her and she wanted to know the truth. Come, is not that -natural? Had she not the right? Be just. It is so simple to find another -excuse. Rather tell her the truth as she asks for it; it will, too, be -less trouble.” - -“There is only one slight objection,” Jacques replied as he fastened the -note, rang the electric bell to summon the messenger, and gave it to -him, “and it is that I should be perfectly happy if Camille quarrelled -with me. That is, too, another principle as absolute as the regularity -of work. When a man wishes to break with his mistress, the more -insignificant the motive the better. My progress is so good in the other -direction that I don’t need her any longer to urge on her rival. As you -are my 'beater,’ and I know that you are as silent as a tomb, I will -tell you everything in spite of those noble phrases about discretion, -more especially as up to the present this confidence only compromises -me. Last evening I obtained an appointment from Madam de Bonnivet. You -would never guess the place though, not in a thousand times. At Pére -Lachaise, before the tomb of Musset like the other girl. You don’t think -that is very grand, do you? From the cemetery to the carriage is like -the sublime to the ridiculous, and it is only one step, and from the -carriage to a place of my acquaintance is the programme and only another -step. For you know one never ought to take a woman to one’s own home. -Under these circumstances Camille quarrels with me, so much the better! -But don’t look at me as if you would like to say: 'My dear Molan, you -are a monster.’” - -If I had still doubted the keen sentiment inspired in me by the charming -Camille, the doubt would have been swept away by the cruel emotion I -experienced at this cynical speech. I could see the reality of the drama -in which I was concerned as a witness; as in some duels the sight of a -life very dear to him in danger makes the second paler than the -duellist, Little Favier’s passionate love served Jacques as an attack -upon the vanity of the _blasé_ woman of the world who was coquettish and -coldly perverse without doubt, but also elegant, envied and rich, and -afterwards whom his vanity and curiosity attracted. The heart of the -poor little actress which had remained naïve and romantic in spite of -his disenchanting existence, her true heart—which I had felt to be so -true, which had opened with such spontaneity in an hour of inward -suffering—was about to be broken, torn and crushed between two prides -fighting one against the other—and what prides they were! - -This most ferocious and implacable of all prides, that of an almost -great lady and an almost great author, both gangrened with egoism by -their habitual display, was withered by their constant and detestable -study of the effect produced, without which a person does not retain the -world’s uncertain prestige. By frightfully certain intuition, I at once -measured the depth of the abyss in which my friend of the previous -evening unknown to herself was plunged. The extreme clearness of this -vision prevented me answering Jacques with indignation, as he no doubt -expected and was prepared to amuse himself at my simplicity. He would -have chaffed me, and that would have annoyed me. He would have told me -in words what his enigmatic smile expressed. “If she pleases you so -there is a place for you to take at once as her consoler.” I can give -myself the credit for not using that ugly expression. But I lay claim to -no other merit. Is there any merit in not profaning in oneself an image -which only pleases when it is tender and pure? Strange though it may -seem to apply this word to a girl whom I knew to be the mistress of one -of my comrades, I respected in Camille that foolish illusion by which -her twenty-two years risked on a single card their precious treasure of -delicate dreams, naïve tenderness and noble chimeras. I respected in her -the dream which she had already made me dream. - -During that conversation last evening, the inmost depths of my -melancholy had trembled at the thought that had I met her a little -sooner, before she gave herself to Molan, understood and pleased her, -perhaps this unreasonable and touching child would have turned to me in -her need to take up with another artist those ancient and ridiculed -parts of muse and inspirer. What maker of beauty, however, has not -sighed for the presence near him of a charming woman’s mind, of a dear -and devoted face from which to drink in courage in times of lassitude, -of two weak but steady hands to clasp in his own weary ones, or a -faithful shoulder on which to rest his weary brow. It was enough to have -associated this sigh of regret for some minutes with the name of -Jacques’ mistress for the hope of a common and spiteful adventure with -this poor girl not to need dismissing. But the fact of my not nourishing -a dirty gallant project did not prevent my sympathy, which was already -unhealthy, growing during this talk with my comrade. That is why instead -of writing to Malvina the model, according to the wise plan formed a few -hours before, I followed my illogical visit of the morning by one still -more illogical in the afternoon, and that imprudent day terminated by a -third also foolish visit. An attack of irrationality was beginning. It -is not over yet as my pen trembled in my hand at recording Jacques’ -brutal phrases. On the point of setting down the details of these two -other episodes which finished the prologue of this private tragedy, I -had to put down the pen. I had a pain in my memories, just as a person -suffers from a badly-closed wound. Nevertheless, by a contradiction -which I suffered without being able to explain, a charm arises from -these sorrowful souvenirs, a magic and an attraction. - -The second visit I paid was, as can easily be guessed, to the poor Blue -Duchess herself, as I had begun to call her in my heart; and I forgot -the pedantic reminiscence which had inspired Jacques Molan with this -name, in making it convey the tender grace, and the fantastic melancholy -of one of Watteau’s dreams which are chimerical and caressing, ideal and -voluptuous. There was certainly no more difference between the -sentimentalism which this pretty child had ingenuously confessed to me -on the previous evening, and the practical materialism of her lover, -than between the sumptuous new house in the Place Delaborde and the -third floor in the modest Rue de la Barouillére where I rang about two -o’clock. The faded tints of the badly painted front harmonized with the -sordidness of the hall, and the glacial chill of the uncarpeted wooden -staircase, the dirty stairs of which sloped towards the street. An air -of shabby mediocrity extended over the old building, and the common -visiting cards nailed to the doors, at which I was curious enough to -look, revealed what sort of tenants dragged out their existence there. -These poor houses abound in the old streets near the Faubourg Saint -Germain, and as the highest rent is 1,200 francs they are the last haven -open to all the waifs of humble middle-class virtue. While I listened to -the bell and the sound of approaching footsteps all my impressions were -moved at this evidence of sentimental analogy which touched me still -more. I wished to discover in the fact that the already well-known -actress continued to live here a proof that she had not lied to me when -she spoke of her mother’s and her own peaceful life, an obvious sign of -a total absence of vanity and an indisputable evidence of her pride. If -she had ceased to be modest, she had not sold herself for luxury. She -had given herself to love and adoration. Alas! I was very quickly to -learn that the temptation for great Parisan elegance, too natural to a -fine young creature when she has known and lost it, still composed one -of the elements of the moral drama which was being enacted in her. - -While these thoughts were in my mind the door opened. An old servant, -very simply dressed, after some hesitation told me she would see if the -ladies were at home and showed me into a little drawing-room. It was -full of furniture, too full in fact. If I had raised the covers from the -furniture I should have seen that the quality of the upholstery and the -gilded wood betokened former opulence. A beautiful tapestry covered one -of the walls. It had been necessary to double it up to adapt it to the -size of the room, the ceiling of which I could almost reach with my -cane. The grand piano, the great bronze clock, and the too lofty -candelabra had also come from a financier’s mansion. These mute -witnesses of vanished splendour told by their presence alone of the -melancholy of the ruin with more eloquence than any phrases could do. -Besides, I had scarcely time to meditate upon what Claude Larcher, in -his evil days of pedantry, had called the psychology of this furniture -before a woman of about fifty entered the drawing-room. I could see at a -glance that she was Camille’s mother. - -Madam Favier at an interval of a quarter of a century resembled her -child with a similarity of features which became almost sad in its aging -and deformation. There is something very sorrowful in finding oneself -face to face with the anticipated spectre of a fine young beauty, whom -one admires and is beginning to love. Still the mother’s and daughter’s -expression were so different that the likeness was at once corrected. -Just as Camille’s blue eyes, with their pupils in turn very clear or -very dark, very animated and very languishing, revealed a passionate -inequality of soul, and profound troubles, so did the peaceful and -sluggish azure of Madam Favier’s eyes tell of passive serenity, resigned -acceptance, and above all happiness. This woman, the widow of the -stock-broker, whose life ended in a tragedy, was the image of internal -peace. Seeing her as I saw her, a little fat, with the fresh colour of -health in her full cheeks, and if not elegant at any rate very tasteful -in a dress which was almost fashionable, it was impossible at first to -imagine that this woman had endured the trials of a drama, of ruin and -suicide, and that this tranquil and irreproachable dowager was simply an -actress’ mother. - -But we have changed all that, as my friend used to say. Did I myself -look like a painter who believed in the ancient traditions, or did my -comrades? Does the aspiring clubman, dressed like a tailor’s -fashionplate as Jacques Molan, look any more like Henry Murger’s -Bohemians? But do we not live in the days when a successful play brings -in an income for years equal to the capital and revenue of a farm in -Beauce, when the portrait of an American brings in 15,000, 20,000, or -30,000 francs, and when an associate of the Comédie Française draws the -salary of an Ambassador before retiring with the red ribbon in his -button-hole, while actresses on tour abroad are received at monarch’s -receptions. The barrier of prejudices or principles which separated the -artistic life from the world of society has been broken down, to the -applause of the democrats and progressives? The example of Jacques and -my studies have convinced me that it is on the contrary one of the worst -errors of the period. The artist has always gained by being treated -almost like an outcast. His natural taste for the brilliant, which is -the inevitable ransom of his powers of imagination, so soon turns to -vanity when it is the dupe of decorum, luxury and the praises of the -smart woman in particular, which is also a flattery irresistible to his -self-respect and senses! When he does not succumb to the temptation, he -goes to the other excess, quite as natural to this irritable class and -no less dangerous, that of revolted and misanthropic pride. - -But I am falling into a great failing of mine, that of indefinite and -never-ending reverie. Let us go back to that which remains the true -corrective of all vices, intellectual and otherwise, “Reality.” So I was -sitting facing the respectable Madam Favier, in the drawing-room with -its covered up furniture, with a rather sheepish look at finding myself -with the mother when I had come to see the daughter. The widow, however, -soon reassured me as she entertained me with commonplace conversation -suitable to her appearance and birth. I have found out since that she -was the daughter of a small business man in the north, and had been -married for her beauty by the romantic father of the romantic Camille -after a chance meeting. - -“Camille is coming directly,” she said to me. “The dressmaker is with -her trying a dress on. The poor child is not very well to-day. Her -profession, sir, is a very trying one, and she wants a rest already. We -were wrong not to go to the seaside this year. Do you know Yport, sir? -It is very pretty, and very quiet, but we have been there six summers. I -like, when I go into the country, to go to a familiar place. You are so -much better treated if you do, and feel more at home. When my dear -husband was alive we spent two months every year in Switzerland. We -always went on July 16 and came back on September 15. I have never been -there since, for it would bring sad memories back to my mind. Have you -come to talk to Camille about her portrait?” - -“Has she spoken about it to you then? She has not forgotten?” I said. - -“No, certainly not,” her mother answered, “and I was very pleased and -astonished when she told me, for it is very difficult to get her to sit -for her portrait. Did you think of showing Camille’s portrait at the -annual exhibition of pictures? It will be an excellent thing, I think, -for you, and not bad for her. We are waiting, before moving back to our -old neighbourhood where we have a few friends, till Camille has signed a -definite engagement. The Théâtre-Français has offered her one, but as -they let her go after she had won two prizes, she has been advised to -make them pay her a large salary now she is famous. I am willing for her -to do so; but I tell her that the house of Moliére is to the other -theatres what a great shop like the Louvre or the Bon Marché is to one -belonging to a small retailer.” - -I am not quite sure I am reproducing these phrases in their right order. -But on looking at them I am very sure of their tenor, and more so still -of the mind which inspired them, as well as the phrases which followed. -Poor Madam Favier was so simple as to be sometimes almost common, and so -trusting as to be almost loquacious. Her mind was a very solid and -sensible one and that of a woman who had retained her good sense through -her ruin. This phenomenon is rarer even than sentiment in an actress. -Usually these sudden falls from the Olympus of opulence have as a result -a moral bewilderment which last for the rest of life. Ruined people seem -to lose with their money every faculty of adaptation to the narrow -circle of activity in which their social downfall imprisons them. It is -particularly so when their wealth has only been an episode between two -periods of poverty. - -This alternation of situations is like a phantasmagoria in which -judgment is warped. To have withstood such a shock Madam Favier must -have been absolutely, as her youthful smile, her fresh cheeks, and the -harmonious lines of her face showed her to be, a simple creature -tranquil in her positivism, and quite the opposite of this girl whose -future she foresaw as she would have foreseen the future of a son who -had joined the army. Her steps from the Conservatoire to the Odéon, -Vaudeville and Comédie Française were fixed in this good woman’s mind -with a regularity which was the more astonishing because her education -had been such as to make her think of another type of destiny for a -woman. How had such a revolution been accomplished in her mind? Is it -necessary to explain that there are certain natures whose primordial -instinct is to model themselves on circumstances, just as the instinct -of others is to struggle and rebel against them? The latter case was -that of the poor Blue Duchess. This essential difference between their -two characters had prevented any real intimacy between the two women. -They had not and could not have real intercourse. I realized this only -too well when after ten minutes conversation with her mother, I saw -Camille enter with a pale face and eyes red from weeping, for her -trouble was so obvious, and yet her mother never even, suspected it! - -“It is your turn to try on now, mother,” she said. “We will wait for -you. M. la Croix has a few minutes to spare us I am sure.” But when the -good lady had shut the door she said “Have you seen Jacques?” - -“I called on him this morning,” I replied. - -“Then you know that I am aware of everything?” - -“I know you wrote to Fomberteau,” I replied evasively. - -“You know, too, your friend’s answer, when I asked for an explanation of -his deception? He has sent you to find out for him what impression his -infamous note has produced upon me? Now, confess that is so, it will be -more straightforward.” - -“Why do you judge me to be like that, mademoiselle?” I said, displaying -grief which she could see was sincere, for she looked at me in -astonishment, while even I was surprised at my own words: “You were more -just to me. You understand that sometimes silence is neither an -approbation nor a complicity. It is true that Jacques did not conceal -his sorry scheme nor his note from me. I did not hide from him what I -thought of his harshness, and if I come here it is of my own accord, -under the impulse of a sympathy which I admit I have no right to feel. -We have only been friends for twenty-four hours and yet I feel that -sympathy. You spoke to me with such a noble outpouring of the heart, -with such touching confidence that henceforth, I thought, we cannot be -strangers. I felt that you were unhappy and I came to you simply and -naturally. If it was an indiscretion you have thoroughly punished me for -it.” - -“Forgive me,” she said in different tones with an altered look as she -stretched out her little burning hand to me. “I am suffering and that -makes me unjust. I, too, though I hardly know you, feel too keen a -sympathy for you to doubt yours. But this note from Jacques has wounded -me and he really has gone too far. He knows that I love him and he -thinks he can do as he pleases with me. He is mistaken. He does not know -where he is hurting me by playing with my heart in the way he is doing!” - -“Do not be enraged at what is only a burst of anger in him,” I said, -full of apprehension. “You wrote to Fomberteau. For the moment Jacques -was wounded. He wrote most unkindly to you, but I am sure he regrets it -by this time.” - -“He?” she cried with a nasty laugh. “If you are saying what you think, -you hardly know him. That which causes me the most pain, please -understand me, is not what he has done to me, though that makes me -suffer cruelly, it is what he pretends to himself to be from the idea I -had of him. I put him so high, so high! I saw in him a being apart from -others, some one rare, as rare as his talent! Yet I find him like the -lovers of all my theatre companions, the worst of their lovers, those -who have not even the courage of their infidelities and conceal them by -girlish untruths, those to whom the love given to them is nothing more -than vanity, a woman’s sentiment to be put in the button-hole like a -flower. But come, my passion blinds me no longer. That rends me, and he, -who is so intelligent, does not even suspect the nature of my suffering. -Don’t you think that I guessed that creature Madam de Bonnivet invited -him to supper last evening, or else to see her home, or worse still? We -know what fashionable women are when they once begin. We have about us -the same men as they do, and they tell us their stories. They are -sometimes haughty wretches; and Jacques accepted her invitation because -she has a house, horses, pictures, dresses by Worth, 50,000 franc -necklaces, and 30,000 franc furs. But I, too, some day when I like, will -have luxury since that is what pleases this great writer with the soul -of a snob. I have only to accept Tournade as my lover, the big fellow -with a face like a coachman whom you saw in my dressing-room, and I -shall have a house as good as Madam Bonnivet’s barrack, diamonds, -dresses by Worth, carriages and horses. I will have them, I will have -them, and he shall know it. He will be the man who has turned me into a -kept woman, a courtesan, and I will tell him so and shout it after him. -Do you think I dare not?” - -“No, you will not dare,” I replied; “even to say it raises a feeling of -disgust in you.” - -“No,” she replied in a dull voice, “you must not think me better than I -really am. There are days when that glittering life tempts me. I have -been rich, you see. Up to the age of twelve or thirteen I was surrounded -by all the luxuries it was possible for a father making 100,000 francs a -year on the Stock Exchange to give his only daughter. Ah well, at times -I miss that luxury. The mediocrity of this drab, vulgar and commonplace -existence disgusts and oppresses me. When I am waiting for a tram with a -waterproof and overshoes to save a cab fare of 35 sous, I sometimes get -impatient, and those tempting words, 'If you liked,’ come into my mind. -Ah! when I have a soul full of happiness, when I can think that I love -and am loved, that I am realizing and carrying out the romance of my -youth, that Jacques clings to me as I do to him, and that I shall remain -mingled in his life and work, then it is an intoxication to answer -myself: 'If I liked? But I do not like.’ I smile at my beloved poverty -because it is my beloved chimera. But when I have terrible evidence, as -I did to-day, that I am the dupe of a mirage, that this man has no more -heart than the wood of this furniture”—and she struck with her clenched -fist the table upon which she was leaning while she talked to me—“then I -make a different reply to the temptation. 'If I liked?’ I repeat and I -reply: 'It is true, and I am very foolish not to like!’ I shall not -always be so.” - -“You will always be so,” I said as I took her hand again, “because this -foolishness simply consists in having what you believe Jacques has not, -I mean a heart. But then he has one of a sort,” I added, “and you will -be of that opinion this evening or to-morrow morning.” - -“You do not know me,” she replied with a frown upon her pretty forehead -and a tremor of hatred around her fine mouth, which had become bitter -again. “He will have to humble himself and wait days and days for his -pardon. Yesterday you only saw me as the weak and amorous woman. There -is another side to my character, the bad side. You will find it out. -There is another characteristic, too, pride; but don’t be any the less -my friend,” she went on, introducing a subtle touch of melancholy into -her anger. The grace of this sudden change of front brought the shadow -of a sad smile to her face. She wiped away with her handkerchief two -large tears, and added with a shrug of the shoulders in a childish tone -which contrasted graciously, too, with the tragic discourse which had -just preceded it: “I hear mother coming back. I don’t want her to see -that I have been crying. As I am ashamed of lying to her, let us do so -thoroughly.” - -What a conversation this was for a man to hear who, as I, since the -previous evening, had been invaded by the most passionate interests, and -by an emotion so keen that it was real love! During the hours of that -afternoon of confidences I could do nothing but ask myself: “Was she -sincere? Would it be possible for despair to make her take that horrible -course?” I could see in my mind that fat Tournade, and the gleam of the -eyes of that horrible being standing out from his red face. I discerned -now on reflection a will I had not realized on the previous evening, -that of the rich and patient rake who is weary of play and fastens -himself upon a particular woman. At the same time I could see Jacques -Molan as I had left him that morning, and his look when he had spoken of -his scheme for a rupture. But it was impossible that he could suspect -the responsibility he was incurring. I tried to demonstrate to myself -that there was more affectation than real perversity in his nature as a -literary man and that it was inoffensive. It is always childish for a -man to make such a parade of himself, even when, as in his case, it was -diplomatic and calculated. Was he not better than his attitudes and -paradoxes? Who knows? In telling him simply and frankly my impression of -the evil he could do this poor girl, should I not touch in him a chord -of remorse? There is, however, a sentimental honour, a probity, trivial -but strictly accurate, in affairs of the heart, as there is professional -honour and probity in money matters. How many people anarchists in -theory recognize in practice this pecuniary probity! They preach the -suppression of inheritance, and they would not rob you of a farthing in -a business transaction. Why had not Jacques too a fund of scruples and -probity in the presence of an obviously bad action to be committed or -not? - -This reasoning resulted, after weighing the pros and cons, after -resolving to speak to him and then proving to myself the ridiculousness -of doing so, in my once more, about six o’clock, crossing the threshold -of his house in the Place Delaborde, only to discover that Molan was not -there. I went to dinner hoping to meet him as I had done the previous -evening; I did not do so. Seeing the impossibility of meeting him, I -wanted at least to have another talk with the woman who had been the -cause of my fruitless search, the seductive Camille Favier, whose frail -silhouette, blue eyes and emotional smile, pursued me with an obsession -much more irresistible than my pity justified. That was the pretext I -found as I made my way to the Vaudeville. I reached the theatre even -before the end of the first act. My weakness inflicted upon me a feeling -of shame, which made me hesitate about entering. I can see myself now -walking round the entrance, first of all looking at the staircase -leading to the theatre and then at the stage door in the Chaussée -d’Antin. At last I made up my mind to enter by the latter door, and as I -did so the audience were coming out in the interval. I ran up against -Jacques himself. - -“Are you going to see Camille?” he asked with a heartiness through which -I discerned malice, and I believe I blushed as I replied— - -“No, I am running after you.” - -“You have come to plead her cause, I am sure,” he said as he took my -arm. “I know you had a talk with her this afternoon and even defended -me. I thank you, for it would have been quite legitimate for you to try -and profit by the situation. Only you are an honourable man. The cause -is won and we are so reconciled, your friend and I, that to-morrow she -is coming to visit me in my 'Abode of Love,’ as your friend Larcher -calls it.” - -“What of Madam de Bonnivet?” I asked him, surprised at this unexpected -change of front. - -“Madam de Bonnivet is nothing but a simpleton, a woman of the world in -all her horror. She kept the appointment at Pére Lachaise. She came -there with the intention of making me climb to the top of the yew trees -between which we walked. She played the coquette there more coldly than -in her own drawing-room. As I don’t like to be laughed at, we separated -after what was almost a quarrel.” - -“So Camille benefits by the desire rejected by the other woman?” I -interrupted. “That is what is called a 'transfer’ in the money market.” - -“No, not that,” he said as he shook his head. “A man’s heart is more -complicated than that. After seeing Madam de Bonnivet to her carriage, -for she had the audacity, or if you prefer it, the precaution, to come -to the rendezvous in her private carriage, I told her in English the -astonishing phrase Lord Herbert Bohun used to Madam Éthorel when he had -the audacity to make a declaration to her on his second visit, and which -is the finest example of insolence and fatuity I know! 'You know I -shan’t give you another chance.’ I raised my hat too tranquilly for the -fool to think I was sincere. But I was. I lit a cigar, reaching the -Boulevard on foot with a quickness which surprised even myself. I made -the discovery that not only I did not love this woman, but that she -really displeased me. With her a visit to my bachelor’s apartments, the -usual theatre of my pleasures, would have been a sport which flattered -my vanity without a doubt, but still an unpleasant job. She is, then, -quaint and pretentious. Then the image of the other one came into my -mind, and this infidelity which I had almost committed against her made -her seem adorable by comparison, so adorable that I at once went into a -café to write to my pretty Camille a letter of reconciliation. I would -have given my author’s fees for that evening for Queen Anne to have seen -me, for without a doubt she believed I was in some corner shedding the -tears of wounded love and humiliated vanity. That would be like me, -would it not?” - -“Did Mademoiselle Favier answer your note?” I asked. - -“A six-page letter which is a masterpiece, just like everything she -writes to me—five and a half pages to tell me she would never forgive -me, and the last half-page to forgive me. It is a classic! But where are -you going? I believe you were going to see her.” - -“I repeat that I was looking for you,” I replied. “I have found you, but -what I had to tell you you have found out. You are doing her justice and -have done so to the other one. Your lover’s quarrel is over. You are -reconciled and happy. There is nothing left for me to do but bless you.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -I left Jacques after this jesting remark which I laughed at him with a -gaiety sufficiently well simulated for the strange pain I was stifling -to escape his irony. Here was my cowardice again, my grievous -inconsequence of heart which was always the same in spite of experience, -in spite of resolution, and in spite of age! I had run after my friend -all the afternoon to beg him not to slight his poor friend by abandoning -her so brutally. I had come to the theatre to exhort Camille not to -judge her lover as she did, for her possible vengeance had moved me with -anxiety to the depths of my soul. I ought then to rejoice at their -reconciliation. So much the better if Madam de Bonnivet’s coquetry had -produced naturally a result which without doubt my counsel would not. -But it was not so. The fact of the actress pardoning with the facility -of a true lover wounded me in a still unsuspected place, and the thought -of their appointment on the morrow was more painful still. I could see -them in each other’s arms, with the help of that terribly precise -imagination which a painter’s craft develops in him. This unsupportable -vision made me admit the sad truth. I was jealous, jealous without hope, -and the right to be so, with a childish, grotesque and unacceptable -jealousy. I was about to enter, I had entered into that hell of false -sentiments in which one feels the worst of passion’s sorrow without -tasting any of its joys. How well I knew that cursed path! - -In the course of my love affairs, which were as incomplete and -incoherent as the rest of my existence, I had already experienced this -dangerous situation more than once. I had been the too tender friend of -a woman who was in love with some one else, but never with the sudden -emotion, with the troubled ardour in the sympathy which Camille Favier -inspired in me. I was afraid, so I concluded a solemn compact with -myself. I took my hand and said aloud: “I give my word of honour to -myself I will keep my door shut all the week, and I will neither go to -see Jacques, nor to the theatre, nor to the Rue de la Barouillére. I -will work and cure myself.” - -Every one in his character has strong points which correspond to his -weak ones. The latter are the ransom of the former. My task of energy in -positive action is compensated by a rare power of passive energy, if -that expression is allowable. Incapable of going forward vigorously, -even when my keenest desire urges me on, I am capable of singular -endurance in abstention, in abnegation and absence. Telling a woman that -I love her stifles me with timidity into thinking that I shall die of -it. I have been able to fly with savage energy from mistresses I have -passionately adored, and remain even without answering their letters, -though in agonies of grief, because I had sworn never to see them again. -To keep my oath as regards Camille was much easier. In fact the week I -deemed sufficient for my cure passed without my giving to her or to -Jacques any sign of my existence. Neither did the two lovers give me any -sign of their existence. - -The first part of the programme was completed, but not the second, for -the cure did not come. I must say that my wisdom in my actions was not -accompanied by equal wisdom in my thoughts. I worked hard, but at what! -I tried at first for forty eight hours to resume my “Psyché pardonnée.” -I could not become absorbed in it. The smile and the eyes of my friend’s -mistress ceaselessly interposed between my picture and myself. I put -down my brush. I told Malvina Ducras, my stupid model with a common -voice and such sad eyes, to take a little rest, and while the girl -smoked cigarettes and read a bad novel, my mind went far away from my -studio and I could see Camille again. I had read too many books, as my -custom was, about this fable of Psyché for it not to make me dream. The -idea represented by this story, this cruel affirmation that the soul can -only love in unconsciousness, has always appeared to me to be a theme of -inexpressible melancholy. Alas! it is not for matters of love only that -the Psyché imprisoned and palpitating in each of us submits to this law -of ignorant and obscure instinct. This stern law dominates matters of -religion and matters of art. To believe is to renounce understanding. To -create is to renounce reflection. - -When an artist like myself suffers from a hypertrophy of the -intelligence, when he feels himself intoxicated by criticism, paralysed -by theories, this symbol of the cursed and wandering nymph who expiates -in distress the crime of wishing to know, becomes, too, too real, too -true. It agitates too powerfully cords which are too deep. I always felt -myself attracted by this subject, without doubt on account of that, and -I have never been able to make a success of the scenes of canvasses on -which I have begun to treat the subject. Camille Favier is far away and -the “Psyché pardonnée” is still unfinished. I would like to introduce -into the picture, too, many tints. But then the slightest pretext has -always been and will always be enough to distract me. The clear -impression which I retained of Camille was of all these pretexts the -most delightful, and the one which least disturbed my craft as a -painter, thanks to the strange compromise of conscience which I devised, -about which I will tell you. - -“As I cannot help thinking of her all day long,” I said to myself at -last, “suppose I try to paint her portrait from memory? Goethe pretended -that to deliver himself from a sorrow, it was sufficient for him to -compose a poem. Why should not a painted poem have the same virtue as a -written one?” Was not this paradoxical and foolish enterprise, the -portrait without a model of a woman seen but twice, the work of a poet? -It was paradoxical but not foolish. I had to fix upon canvas this pale -silhouette which haunted my dreams, my first impression of which was so -clear that by shutting my eyes I could see her before me just as she -appeared—upon the stage, fine and fairylike in her youth and genius -beneath her make-up, with the blue costume of her part; then in her -dressing-room, by turns tender and satirical, with the picturesque -disorder around her which betrayed the thousand small miseries of her -calling; then along the wall of the Invalides under the stars of that -December night, leaning on my arm, pale and magnified as if she were -transfigured by the sadness of her confidences; and last of all at home, -tragic and trembling at the deceit practised upon her? All these -Camilles were blended in my mind into an image hardly less clear than -her presence itself. I dismissed Malvina. I relegated “_Psyché_” to a -corner of the studio, and I made a large red crayon drawing of my -phantom. The likeness in this portrait outlined in the fever of a -passionate pity was striking. Camille smiled at me from the bluish -paper. It was only a sketch, but so lifelike that I was astonished at it -myself. - -As usual I doubted my own talent, and to verify the fact that this -portrait from memory was really successful to this extent, I went to a -shop in the Rue de Rivoli where photographs of famous people were for -sale. I asked for one of the fashionable actress. They had a collection -of six. I bought them with a blush on my face, a ridiculous timidity -considering my age, my profession, and the innocence of the purchase. I -waited before examining, them in detail till I was alone beneath the -bare chestnuts in the Tuileries on this overcast autumn afternoon, which -accorded well with the nostalgia with which I was seized before these -portraits. The most charming of them represented Camille in walking -dress. It must have been at least two years old, at a period certainly -before she became Jacques’ mistress. There was in the eyes and at the -lips of this girlish picture a maidenly and somewhat shy expression, the -shamefaced nervous reserve of a soul which has not yet given itself—the -soul of a child which foresees its destiny and fears it, but desires the -mysterious unknown. Two others of these photographs represented the -debutante in the two parts she had played at the Odéon. She was the same -innocent child, but the determination to succeed had formed a wrinkle -between her brows, and there was the light of battle in her eyes; the -firm, almost strained fold of the mouth revealed the anxiety of an -ambition which doubts itself. The three latter photographs showed in the -costume of the Blue Duchess the woman at last born from the child. The -revelation of love was displayed by the nostrils which breathed life, -and by the eyes in which the flame of pleasure, light and burning, -floated; and the mouth had something like a trace, upon its fuller lips, -of kisses given and received. - -Would another day come when other pictures would tell no more of the -romance of the artist and lover, but of the venal slave of gallantry, -kept by a Tournade, by several Tournades, and forever branded by -shameless and profligate luxury. But I always went back to the earliest -of these photographs, the one I would have desired, had I been able to -meet the living model in that same garden of the Tuileries, on her way -to the Conservatoire. Now I could think of her only as she had been -before her first stain, such as she would never be again! - -“Poesy is deliverance”; yes, perhaps, for a Goethe, or for a Leonard, -for one of those sovereign creatures who throw all their inner being -into, and incarnate it in, a written or painted work. There is another -race of artists to whom their work is only an exaltation of a certain -inner state. They do not rid themselves of suffering by expressing it, -they develop it, they inflame it, perhaps because they do not know how -to express it and to entirely rid themselves of it. This was so in my -own case. Before these photographs my project for a portrait became -praise. I only retained the first one. It was the eighteen-year-old -Camille I wished to evoke and paint. It was a phantom, the phantom of -her whom I might have known in her purity, as a virgin, might have loved -and perhaps married. It was a portrait of a phantom, of a dead woman. - -From this task was diffused upon me during the week’s seclusion and -uninterrupted labour that vague and satisfying delight which floats -around a woman’s form which has gone for ever. In analysing under the -microscope the tiny details of this face upon this bad and almost faded -photograph, I enjoyed for hours a voluptuous and unutterably attractive -soul’s pleasure. There was not a trait in this ingenuous face in which I -did not discover a proof, quite obvious and physiological to me, of an -exquisite delicacy of nature in the person, of whom that had been a -momentary likeness. The tiny ear with its pretty lobe told of her -breeding. Her pale silky hair displayed tints in its ringlets which -seemed faded and washed out. The construction of the lower part of the -face could be seen to be fine and robust beneath her slender cheeks. -There was a shade of sensuality in her lower lip which was slightly -flattened and split by the wrinkle which betokens great goodness. There -was intelligence and gaiety in her straight nose, which was cut a trifle -short in comparison with her chin. But what of her eyes? Her great, -clear, profound eyes, innocent and tender, curious and dreamy! As I -looked at them, to my overwrought imagination they seemed to be animate. -Her little head turned upon a neck, which fine attachment displayed the -slenderness of the rest of the body. - -I never understood so well as in that period of contemplative exaltation -that oriental jealousy which protects their women from the caress of the -glance, which is as passionate, as enveloping, and almost as deflowering -as the other caresses. To contemplate is to possess. How I felt that -during those long sittings spent in putting on to canvas such a real and -deceptive mirage as the smile and eyes of Camille, her smile of the -past, and her eyes of to-day lit by ether flames! How I felt, too, that -my talent was not in the depths of my soul, since the intoxication of -this spiritual possession was not achieved by a definite creature! I -have only sketched these days in which I lived and experienced the -sensations produced by the achievement of a masterpiece. At least I -respected in myself this attack of the sacred fever, and I never again -touched, to complete it, the portrait I had drawn in that week. Why was -not the period prolonged? - -Why? The fault is not alone in my own weakness. A simple incident -occurred which did not depend upon my will. It sufficed to dismiss me -from the drama of coquetry and real love which I wished to shun, to -avoid being the confidant of former tragedies boasted of by Jacques—a -confidant himself wounded and bleeding. Because of my troubles during -the day following my introduction to the Bonnivets, and during my week’s -solitary work, I had neglected to call upon them and leave my card. For -that reason I felt I was not likely to see Queen Anne again. But that -was the quarter from which reached me the pretext to break this period -of solitude and work in the ordinary shape of a perfumed note emblazoned -and scrawled in the most coquettish and impersonal English handwriting, -by Madam de Bonnivet herself. It was an invitation to dine with her and -a small party of mutual friends. - -The fact that this invitation reached me after my breach of etiquette -proved clearly enough that her quarrel with Jacques had not lasted. The -brief notice the dinner was for the following day, showed on the other -hand that it was an unexpected invitation. A third fact added an -enigmatic character to this note, which was as commonplace as the -writing in it! Why had it not reached me through Jacques or with a few -lines from him? My first idea was to refuse it. A dinner in town had -appeared to me for years an insupportable and useless task. The too -numerous family feasts I am constrained to attend, why?—the monthly love -feasts of fellow artists which I am weak enough to frequent—why -again?—two or three friends who dine with me from time to time—because I -like them—the dining-room at the club where I go when I am very -bored—these gatherings to a great extent suffice for the social sense -which has withered in me with age. I shall end, I think, by only dining -out about once in three years. - -The dinner to which the beautiful and dangerous Queen Anne had invited -me was one the more to be avoided, as it plunged me once more into the -current of emotions I had stemmed so resolutely and painfully. I sat -down to write a note of refusal, which I put into an envelope and -stamped. Then instead of sending the letter to the post, I put it in my -pocket to post myself. I called a passing cab, and instead of telling -the driver to stop at the nearest post office I gave him Molan’s -address, Place Delaborde—the house I had sworn not to enter again. Would -there not still be time to send my refusal after finding out from -Jacques the reason of Madam de Bonnivet’s amiability, about which I -could say with Ségur of the promotion of officers, after the battle of -Moskwa: “These favours threatened?” - -The page showed me this time into the great man’s study. Molan was -sitting at his writing-table which was of massive oak with numerous -drawers in it. Bookcases were all round this little room, and in -appearance the volumes were works of reference often used but always put -back in their places. There was no dust on them, nor was there any trace -of the disorder to be found with the writer-born, whose fancy -ceaselessly interrupts his work. A high desk held out an invitation for -standing composition. Another bookcase, lofty and revolving, full of -dictionaries, atlas, books of reference, and maps stood at the corner of -the writing-table; and the order of the latter piece of furniture, with -its sheets of paper carefully cut, its stock of useful articles, its -place for answered letters and for letters to be answered, demonstrated -the methodical habits of work daily allotted and executed. These details -of practical installation were too like their owner for a single one to -escape me. There was not a work of art to be seen, not even on the -mantelpiece, where stood the usual library clock. This timepiece which -marked the hours of work was a good, accurate instrument, metallic and -clear in its glass and copper case. - -What other portrait could one paint of this writer, who was an absolute -stranger to anything not his own business, as methodical as if he were -not a man of the world, as regular as if he were not, by his art itself, -the painter of all the troubles and all the disorders of the human soul, -than sitting at his table with his cold and reflective face, and his way -of using his pen with a free, measured and regular gesture. To make his -portrait really typical it was necessary to paint Molan as I surprised -him, engaged in reading the four pages he had written since his -awakening that morning—four little sheets covered with lines of equal -length in a handwriting every letter of which was properly made, every T -crossed and every I dotted. Was I envious as I noted these details with -an irritation not justified in appearance? He had the right after all, -this fellow, to administer his literary fortune as if it were a house of -business. But is there not something in us, almost a sense which this -indefinable deception offends: this working of a fine talent, with so -much egoism, so much calculation at its base, and so little moral unity -between the written thought and the thought lived? - -Another mannerism of Jacques’ irritated my nerves. He stretched out his -hand to me with an indifferent cordiality quite his own. He had been for -months without seeing me till we met at the club, and he spoke to me -then in as friendly a way as if we had met on the previous day. He had -told me about the two adventures he had on hand as if I were his best -and surest friend. Directly I turned on my heel I saw or heard no more -of him. I had ceased to exist as far as he was concerned. When I saw him -again he greeted me with just the same handshake. How much I prefer, to -these smiling and facile friends, the suspicious, the susceptible, and -the irritable ones with whom you quarrel, who either want you or do not -do so, who often get angry with you, sometimes wrongly and by the most -involuntary negligence, but for whom you exist and are real with human -living reality! To the real egoists, on the other hand, you are an -object, a thing the equal in their eyes of the couch they offer you to -sit down upon with their most amiable and empty smile. Your only reality -to them is your presence, and the pleasure or the reverse they feel at -it. To be entirely frank, perhaps I should have wished Camille’s lover -to receive me in the way he always had done, with his impersonal -graciousness, if I had not found him looking a little pale and -heavy-eyed; and I was obliged to attribute this slight fatigue to his -love of the charming girl, whose maidenly grace of the past I had just -spent a week in evoking, sustained by the most passionate of -retrospective hypnotism. This impression was as painful to me as if I -had over Camille other rights than those of dream and sympathy. I had -really come to talk about her, and I would have liked to depart without -even her name being mentioned. This silence was the more impossible as -after our greeting I held out to Jacques Madam de Bonnivet’s invitation. - -“Were you the cause of this being sent to me?” I asked him. “Who will be -present at this dinner? What answer shall I give?” - -“I?” he said, after reading the letter, unable to conceal his -astonishment. “No. I had nothing to do with it. You must accept for two -reasons: first because it will amuse you, and then you, by doing so, -will be rendering me a real service.” - -“You a service?” - -“Yes. It is very simple,” he replied, a little impatient at my -stupidity. “You don’t understand that Madam de Bonnivet has invited you -because she hopes to find out from you my actual relations with Camille -Favier? It is a little ruse. As a matter of fact, you have deserted me -again and are not up-to-date. But you know me well enough to be sure -that I have not let the week pass without manœuvring skilfully in the -little war which Queen Anne and myself are waging! I say skilfully, but -it is merely working a scheme, the foundation of which never varies. -Mine has progressed in the way I told you, by persuading the lady more -and more that I have a profound passion for little Camille. There is no -need for me to tell you my various stratagems, the simplest of which has -been to behave with Camille as if I really loved her. But Queen Anne is -clever, and is studying my play. I have only to make one slip and my -plan will fail.” - -“Come. I don’t understand you. One fact is that you are courting Madam -de Bonnivet. You talk to her about your passion for little Favier; that -is another fact. How do you manage that? For to pay court to one is not -to have a passion for the other?” - -“But, my dear fellow,” he interrupted, “you forget the remorse and the -temptation. I am not paying court to Queen Anne, I am arranging to do -so. Have you ever kept a dog? Yes. Then you have seen it, when you were -at table enjoying a cutlet, look at you and the bone with eyes in which -the honest sentiments of duty and the gluttonous appetite of the -carnivorous animal were striving for mastery? Ah, well, I have those -eyes for Queen Anne at each new ruse she employs to arouse my desire for -her beauty. The man being superior to the dog in virtue, sir, and in -self-control, duty carries him away. I leave her quickly like some one -who does not wish to succumb to temptation. Stop, shall I give you an -illustration? Take, for example, yesterday; we were in a carriage in the -fog; it was what I call a nice little adultery fog. Madam de Bonnivet -and I had met in a curiosity shop, where she had gone to buy tapestry, -and so had I. What luck! She offered me a lift.” - -“In her own carriage?” I asked. - -“You would have preferred a public carriage, would you not?” he asked -me. “I do not, for let me tell you that carriage rides are very -fashionable. There are innocent and guilty ones. You can imagine us, -then, in this small carriage filled with the perfume of woman, one of -those vague and penetrating aromas in which a hundred scents are -mingled. Queen Anne and I were in this soft, warm atmosphere. The fog -enveloped the carriage. I took her hand, which she did not withdraw. I -pressed the little hand, and it returned my pressure. I put my arm -around her waist. Her loins bent as if to avoid me, in reality to make -me feel their suppleness. She turned to me as if to become indignant, -but in reality to envelop me with her staring eyes and madden me. My -lips sought her lips. She struggled, and suddenly instead of insisting, -I repulsed her. It was I who said: 'No, no, no. It would be too wicked.’ -I could not do that to her, and made use of the expressions usual to her -sex at such times. I it was who stopped the carriage and fled! With a -mistress on the other side of Paris, who loves and pleases you, to whom -to bring the desire awakened by her rival, this is truly the most -delightful of sports. It is very natural that Queen Anne will allow -herself to be taken. The feeling that she is passionately desired and at -the same time shunned is likely to provoke the worst follies in a woman, -who is a little corrupt and a little cold, a little vain and a little -curious.” - -“Then if I have understood you, my part at to-morrow’s dinner would -consist of lying to the same effect as yourself when Madam de Bonnivet -speaks to me of Camille? In that case it would be useless for me to -accept the invitation. I will not commit that villainy.” - -“Villainy is a hard word. Why not?” asked Jacques with a laugh. - -“Because I should feel remorse at contributing to the success of this -dirty intrigue,” I replied, getting quite angry at his laughter. -“Whether Madam de Bonnivet does or does not deceive her husband is no -business of mine, nor would it concern me if either of you injured -yourself through the villainous game you are playing. But when I meet -real sentiment, I take my hat off to it, and I do not trample on it. It -is real sentiment which Camille Favier feels for you. I heard her speak -of her love, the evening I saw her, while you were at supper with your -coquette. I saw her, too, the next day when she received your cruel -reply. This girl is true as gold. She loves you with all her heart. No, -no, I will not help you to betray her, all the more so as the crisis is -graver than you think.” - -I was wound up. I went on telling him with all the eloquence at my -command the discoveries I had made and omitted to tell him a week -before: the troubles of the pretty actress, what he had been, what he -was to her, the ideal of passion and art she believed she was realizing -in their liaison, the temptations of luxury which surrounded her, and -the crime it is to provoke the first great deception in a human being. -At last I was expending, in defending the little Blue Duchess to her -lover, the warmth of the unfortunate love I myself felt for her. And I -was so jealous of it! It was a grievous sentimental anomaly which -Jacques did not discern in spite of his keenness. He could only see in -my protests the deplorable _naïveté_ with which he always believed me to -be contaminated, and he replied with a smile more indulgent than -ironical— - -“Did she tell you this in the two or three hours you were together? It -is not a boat she has manned, it is a squadron, a flotilla, an armada! -But, my friend, do you think I have not noticed the feelings of our -little Blue Duchess? It is perfectly true that she was chaste before -meeting me. But as she first threw herself at my head and knew perfectly -well what she was doing, however modest she may have been, you will -permit me to have no remorse, and all the more so since I have never -concealed from her that I only offered her a fantasy and that I did not -love her with real love. Even I have my own code of loyalty to women, -although you don’t think so. Only I place it so as not to deceive them -upon the quality of the little combination to which I invite them in -courting them. It is for them to accept and take the consequences. If -to-day Camille experiences the temptation for luxury, which, by the way, -I think very natural, this temptation has nothing to do with her broken -ideal. She makes that pretty excuse to herself, and that, I think, is -very natural too. She is almost as sincere as the young girls who make a -wealthy marriage and excuse themselves for a first love betrayed. Let -her take her rich lover—you can give her my permission; let him pay for -dresses for her by Worth, horses, carriages, a house and jewels! Let her -take him this afternoon, to-morrow, and I swear to you I shall have no -more remorse than I have in lighting this cigarette. It will even amuse -me when she does so. In the meantime, accept Madam Bonnivet’s -invitation. You will have a good dinner, a thing never to be disdained, -and then you can thwart my dirty intrigue, as you call it, as much as -you please. In love it is just as at chess. Nothing is so interesting as -playing in difficulties. Besides, I am foolish to suppose even for a -moment that you would not go. You will go, I can see it in your eyes.” - -“How?” I asked him, somewhat confused at his perspicacity. It was true -that I felt my resolution to refuse destroyed by his presence alone. - -“How? By your look while you are listening to me. Would you pay such -attention if the story did not passionately interest you? It means that -you would imagine us all three, Camille, Madame Bonnivet and myself, -rather than pass from knowing us. I told you the other day, you are a -born looker-on and confidant. You have been mine. You suddenly became -Camille’s, and now you must become Madam de Bonnivet’s. You will receive -the confidences of this woman of the world; you will receive them and -believe them!” he insisted, accentuating each syllable, and he -concluded: “That will be the punishment for your blasphemies. But it has -just occurred to me, when do you begin the portrait of the Blue -Duchess?” - -It must be admitted that this devil of a man was not wrong; as a matter -of fact, his adventure hypnotized me with irresistible magnetism. After -all, I did not leave his study till I had written with his pen on his -paper a letter of acceptance to Madam Bonnivet. Besides that, I had done -worse. In spite of the spasm of unreasonable and morbid jealousy which -clutched my heart each time I thought of the intercourse between Jacques -and his mistress, I made an appointment to begin the promised portrait, -not that of the ideal dream Camille, but of the real one, who belonged -to this man, who gave him her mouth, and her throat, and who surrendered -herself entirely to him, and we arranged the first sitting for the day -after Madam de Bonnivet’s dinner, in my studio! - -I repented of these two weaknesses before I was down the staircase of -the house in the Place Delaborde, but not enough, alas, to return and -take back my note, which Jacques had promised to deliver. My remorse -increased as directly I entered my studio I saw Camille’s head upon my -easel. Delicious in her phantom and unfinished life, she smiled at me -from her frameless canvas. “No, you will never finish me,” she seemed to -say to me with her sad eyes, her fine oval face, and her mouth framed in -a melancholy smile. It is certain that neither that evening nor during -the hours which followed had I the courage to touch that poor head, nor -have I done so since. The enchantment was broken. I passed the ensuing -hours in a state of singular agitation. I was seized again by the fever -of my new-born passion, and this time I had neither the hope nor the -will to struggle. I felt that this week of renunciation and seclusion -with the ideal Camille had given me the only joy that this passion, -which was so false and also condemned in advance, would ever give me. -These joys I renounced were symbolized to me by this chimerical -portrait. - -But to continue, I spent the day before Madam de Bonnivet’s dinner in -contemplation. Then when the moment of departure had come, I wished to -bid adieu to this picture, or, rather, to ask its pardon. I experienced -in the presence of this dream portrait, with which I had spent a sweet -romantic week, as much inner remorse as if it had been the image, not of -a chimera, but of an actually betrayed _fiancée_. I can see myself now -as I appeared in the large mirror of the studio, walking with my fur -coat open like a guilty man towards the canvas, which, after gazing at -for the last time, I was about to hide by turning it face towards the -wall in an adjoining garret. Did not the Camille Favier of my fancy -disappear to give place to another as pretty, as touching perhaps, but -not my Camille? - -But come, my sweet phantom, one more sigh, one more look, and I will -return to reality. Reality was, in fact, a cab waiting at the door to -take me through the driving rain to the Rue des Écuries d’Artois, where -the fashionable rival of the pretty actress dwelt. What would she say -when Jacques told her that I had dined at her rival’s house? He would be -sure to tell her in order to enjoy my embarrassment. What would Madam de -Bonnivet herself say? Why had she invited me? What did I really know -about it? What did I know of her, save that the sight of her gave me a -pronounced feeling of antipathy, and Jacques had told me many unpleasant -things about her? But my antipathy might be mistaken, and Jacques might -be slandering her as he did Camille Favier. “Suppose,” I asked myself, -“this coquette is caught in the net? It is not very likely,” I replied, -“seeing the hard blue of her eyes, her thin lips, her sharp profile, and -the haughty harshness of her face. But still she might!” - -It was less probable still, when one came to consider the frequent -festivities and the gaiety at the house before which my modest cab -stopped in the course of this monologue. I don’t consider myself more -stupidly plebeian than most people, but the sensation of arriving at a -600,000 franc house to take part in a fifty pound dinner in a vehicle -fare thirty-five sous will always suffice to disgust me with the smart -world without anything else. But other things had a similar effect on -me, and the Bonnivets’ house was one of them, for it seemed to me most -like a parody of architecture, in which the feat has been achieved of -mingling twenty-five styles and building a wooden staircase in the -English style in a Renaissance framework; the hang-dog faces of the -footmen in livery seemed like a gallery of mute insolence to the -visitor. How could I bear this adornment of things and people without -perceiving its hideous artificiality? How could I help detesting the -impression made by this furniture, which smelt of plunder and curiosity -shops, for nothing was in its place: eighteenth century tapestry -alternated with sixteenth century pictures, with furniture of the days -of Louis XV, with modern sliding curtains, and with bits of ancient -stoles furnishing off a reclining chair, the back of a couch, or the -cushion of a divan! In short, when I was ushered into the boudoir -drawing-room where Madam de Bonnivet held her assizes I was a greater -partisan than ever of Camille, the brave little actress, as she had -appeared to me in the modest room in the Rue de la Barouillére. - -The millionairess rival of this poor girl was reclining rather than -sitting upon a kind of bed of the purest Empire style, after the manner -in which David has immortalized the cruel grace of Madam Récamier, the -illustrious patroness of coquettes of the siren order. She wore one of -those dresses which are very simple in appearance, but which in reality -mark the limit between superior elegance and the other kind. The -greatest artists in the business are the only ones successful with them. -It consisted of a skirt of a thick dead-black silk which absorbed the -light instead of reflecting it. A cuirass, a jet coat of mail, applied -to this stuff, showed distinctly the shape of the bust, and allowed the -whiteness of the flesh to shine through at the bare places at the -shoulders and arms. A jet girdle, a model of those worn in ancient -statues on tombs by queens of the Middle Ages, followed the sinuous line -of the hips, and terminated in two pendants crossed very low down. -Enormous turquoises surrounded by diamonds shone in this pretty woman’s -ears. These turquoises and a golden serpent on each arm—two marvellous -copies of golden serpents in the Museum at Naples—were the only jewels -to lighten this costume, which made her figure look longer and more -slender even than it was. Her blonde pallor, heightened by the contrast -of this sombre harmony in black and gold, took the delicacy of living -ivory. Not a stone shone in her clear golden hair, and it looked as if -she had matched the blue of her turquoise with the blue of her eyes, so -exactly similar was the shade, except that the blue of these stones, -which is supposed to pale when the wearer is in danger, revealed tender -and almost loving shades when compared with the metallic and implacable -azure of her eyes. She was fanning herself with a large feather fan as -black as her dress, on which was a countess’ coronet encrusted in roses. -It was without doubt a slight effort towards a definite relationship -with the real Bonnivet. I have found out since that she went further -than that. But the real Duc de Bonnivet, on the occasion of a charity -fête, where Queen Anne had risked claiming a title, had interposed with -a lordly and inflexible letter, and all that was left of this thwarted -pretension was this coronet, embroidered here and there, without a coat -of arms. - -Near this slender and dangerous creature, so blonde and white in the -dead-black sheath of her spangled corsage and skirt, Senneterre, “the -beater,” was sitting on a very low chair, almost a footstool, while -Pierre de Bonnivet warmed at the fire the soles of his pumps as he -talked to my master Miraut. The latter seemed somewhat surprised, and -not very pleased to see me. Dear old master; if he only knew how wrong -he was in thinking that I was his rival for a 20,000-franc portrait! But -this pastel merchant comes of the race of good giants. Besides his six -foot in height, and suppleness from exercise, his porter’s shoulders, -broadened still more by his daily boxing, his Francis I profile, -sensual, fine, and gluttonous, he has retained, beneath the trickery of -the profession, a generous temperament. So he received me with a -friendly though a little too patronizing greeting! - -“Ah! then you know my pupil?” he said to Madam de Bonnivet. “He has -great ability, only he lacks assurance and confidence in himself.” - -“But there are so many who have too much of these qualities,” the young -woman interposed, casting an evil glance at the pastelist who seemed -disconcerted. “He makes up for them.” - -“Good!” I thought, “she is not in a good humour, nor even polite. It is -quite true that Miraut is a little too conceited. But he is a man of -great talent, who has done her a great honour by coming here. How -bad-tempered she looks this evening! Bonnivet, too, looks preoccupied in -spite of his mask of gaiety! I will stand by what I told Jacques the -other day. I would not trust either the woman or the husband. These -cold-looking blondes are capable of anything, and so are strong -full-blooded men like the husband. Now we shall see Jacques’ manœuvre. -To think that he could be so happy quite simply with his little friend! -Life is really very badly arranged.” - -This fresh internal monologue was almost as distinct as I have written -it. This doubling process proved the extreme excitement of my faculties. -For my clear, distinct thoughts did not prevent me being all attention -to the conversation which was reinforced by the presence of Count and -Countess Abel Mosé. He is an accomplished type of the great modern -financier. Strange to say, this kind of face which is often met with -among the Jews is not displeasing to me. I can see in it the setting of -a real passion. For people of this kind the vanity of their club and -drawing-room life has at least its realism. In playing the part of the -noble host they prove they have mounted one step of the social ladder. -The life of fashion is to them a second business, which is in -juxtaposition to the other and continues it. It is a step gained; but -what a life theirs must be to endure the wear and tear of these two -existences, anxious cares alternating with exhausting pleasures, and -years made up of days on the Stock Exchange followed by dinners in town. -Then, too, Madam Mosé is very beautiful in her oriental fashion, with -nothing of the conventional style and irregular features about her! She -is the Biblical Judith, the creature with eyes burning like the sands in -the desert, over which the soldiers of Holophernes passed. “Who could -hate the Hebrews when they have such women?” I said with them. - -Five minutes afterwards pretty Madam Éthorel entered with her husband; -then—“naturally,” as Miraut said between his teeth, to make me -understand that he knew the secrets of this society—Crucé the collector; -then came Machault, a professional athlete, whom I have seen fence at -the School of Arms; then appeared a certain Baron Desforges, a man of -sixty, whose eye at once struck me as being almost too acute, and whose -colour was too red, like that of a man of the world grown old. The -conversation began to buzz, obligatory questions as to the weather and -health being mingled with previous scandals and recollections of the -day, which were very often full of ennui and simply mentioned for the -sake of something to say. I can still hear some of these phrases. - -“You don’t take enough walking exercise,” Desforges was saying to Mosé, -who had declared that he felt a little heavy after a meal. “People -digest with their legs, that is what Doctor Noirot is always dinning -into my ears.” - -“But the time?” the financier replied. - -“Try massage then,” Desforges went on. “I will send Noirot to you. -Massage is the essence of exercise.” - -“You did not buy these two candelabra?” Crucé was saying to Éthorel. “At -three thousand francs, my dear fellow, they were being given away.” - -“You were not skating this morning, Anne, dear,” Madam Mosé was saying -to Madam de Bonnivet; “it is a fine chance to take advantage of the -early winter. Before the first of January, too! Think of it! It does not -happen twice in a century. I looked for you there!” - -“So did I,” Madam Éthorel said. “You would have been amused at the sight -of that old fool Madam Hurtrel on the ice, running after young Liauran. -She was red in the face and perspiring, while he was carrying on with -Mabel Adrahan.” - -“It amuses you, madam. But if I said I pitied her?” Senneterre said. - -“Respect love! We know her,” Madam de Bonnivet interrupted with that -bitter laugh which I had noticed at the theatre. She was visibly in a -nervous state, which I explained to myself when the dinner was served -and Jacques had not arrived. I was soon to learn both the false excuse -and the real reason of his absence. During the first course the flowers -and silver upon the dinner-table directed the conversation to the -subject of the taste of the period and mistakes made on the stage. The -guests all combined to praise the skill of the late M. Perrin in the -putting on of modern comedies. The talk drifted to actual plays, and an -allusion being made to _La Duchesse Blue_, one of the guests, Machault, -I think it was, said— - -“Has its run ceased altogether? As I passed along the Boulevard I saw -there was a change of bill at the Vaudeville this evening. Do you know -the cause of it?” - -“Because Bressoré has a severe cold and is too unwell to act. I heard -that by accident at the Club,” Mosé said, “and the play rests upon his -shoulders. He is clever, but he is the only one in the company,” he went -on, and this proved that Madam de Bonnivet’s antipathy to Camille Favier -had not escaped the dark, observant eyes of the business man. - -“It appears to be contagious in the theatre,” said Bonnivet. “Molan -should have been here, but he excused himself at the last moment. He has -a slight attack himself.” - -As he said this he looked at his wife, who did not even deign to listen -to him. She was talking to Miraut, who was near her. Neither her -metallic voice nor her hard, clear eyes betrayed the least sign of -trouble, but the cruel curves she sometimes had at the corners of her -mouth made it more cruel, and a little throbbing of the nostrils, -imperceptible but to one of my profession or a jealous man, revealed -that the absence of Jacques was the cause of her nervousness. At the -same time I felt that Bonnivet was scrutinizing my face with the same -look which he gave to his wife, and three things became evident to me: -one, and the most terrible was that the husband was suspicious of the -relations between Queen Anne and my comrade; the second was that my -companion had seized the opportunity of the change of bill to provoke in -the coquette an access of spiteful jealousy by passing, or pretending to -pass, the evening with Camille Favier; the third was that this simple -ruse wounded the vanity of the pretty actress’ rival to the quick. These -three instinctive conclusions, two of which at least were fraught with -the most serious consequences, were sufficient to render the commonplace -dinner passionately interesting to me. - -I could not help concentrating my whole attention on Pierre de Bonnivet -and his wife. On the other hand, I feared that directly we left the -dinner-table they would try to make me talk, and I did not wish to -betray Molan either to her, or particularly to him. The easily distended -veins of his full-blooded forehead, his greenish eyes so quick to -display anger, and the coarse red hair, which grew right down his arms -to his fingers, were all signs of brutality which gave me the impression -that he was a redoubtable person. Tragic action would be as natural to -him as grievous timidity to me or fatuous insolence to Jacques. The -evening ought not to end without furnishing me with the proof that my -diverse intuitions had not deceived me. We had just left the -dinner-table for the smoking-room when Machault said to me as he took my -arm— - -“You see a good deal of Jacques Molan, don’t you, La Croix?” - -“We were at college together, and I see him sometimes still,” I replied -evasively. - -“Ah, well! If you see him in a day or two, warn him that Senneterre met -him to-night when on his way here. Consequently they know his cold and -headache are only an excuse. It is of no other importance, but with Anne -it is always better to be well informed.” - -I had no time to question the brave swordsman, who had smiled an -unaccountable smile as he uttered this enigmatic phrase, for just then -Pierre de Bonnivet came towards us with a box of cigars in one hand and -a box of cigarettes in the other. I took a Russian cigarette, while the -robust gladiator put into his mouth a veritable tree trunk, wrinkled and -black. Then before the coffee, espying upon the table a bottle of fine -champagne, he filled a little glass, which he proceeded to enjoy, saying -as he did so—- - -“This is an excellent appetizer with which to start the evening.” - -“Will you have, M. la Croix, a cup of coffee? No. A drop of Kummel or -Chartreuse?” Bonnivet asked. “Not even a thimbleful of cherry brandy?” - -“No liqueur or coffee this evening,” I said, and I added with a smile: -“I have not the stomach or the nerves of a Hercules.” - -“There is no need to be as strong as Machault to like alcohol. Take our -friend Molan, for instance,” the husband said, watching me as he -pronounced the name. Then after a short silence he said: “Do you know -what is really the matter with him?” - -“I don’t know,” I replied. “Perhaps he has overworked himself. He works -harder than he drinks.” - -“But he loves little Favier still more?” my questioner insisted, giving -me another keen glance. - -“He loves little Favier more still,” I replied in the same indifferent -tone. - -“Has this affair been going on for long?” the husband asked after a -little hesitation. - -“As long as _La Duchesse Blue_ has been running. It is a honeymoon in -its first quarter.” - -“But his indisposition this evening when she is not acting?” he asked me -without entirely formulating his question, though I completed it in my -reply, giving it a cynical form which relieved my discomfort. - -“Would it be an excuse to pass an evening with her and afterwards the -night? I don’t know, I am sure, but it is very likely.” - -I could see at these words, which I hope if Camille Favier ever reads -these pages she will forgive, the face of the jealous husband brighten. -Evidently the note of excuse sent by Molan at the last minute had not -seemed to him genuine. He had found out that Madam de Bonnivet was -annoyed at it, and asked himself the reason. Did he think that he had -stumbled upon, between his wife and Jacques, one of those momentary -quarrels which, more than constant attentions, denounce a love intrigue? -He suspected that I was in my comrade’s confidence. He thought I knew -the real reason of his absence, and his suspicion was soothed at the -sincerity of my voice. As jealous people, being all imagination, -mistrust themselves and reassure themselves at the same time, he assumed -his most charming manner to say to Baron Deforges, who came in, having -delayed a little while in joining us— - -“Ah, well, Frederick, were you pleased with the dinner?” - -“I have just called Asmé to congratulate him on the little timbales and -to make an observation about the _foie gras_,” the Baron replied. “I -shall not tell you what it was, but you shall judge from experience. He -is, as I have always said, what I call a real chef. But he is still -young.” - -“He will shape better,” said Bonnivet as he threw me a meaning look, -“with a master like you.” - -“He is the seventh who has passed through my hands,” Deforges said with -a shrug of the shoulders and in the most serious tones, “not one more, -since I have known what eating really is. The seventh, do you hear? Then -I pass them on to you and you spoil them by your praise. Chefs are like -other artists. They are not proof against the compliments of the -ignorant.” - -I had reckoned on going for a short time from the smoking-room to the -drawing-room and, after a short period of polite and general -conversation there, on leaving in the English fashion, taking advantage -of the return of the smokers or the arrival of fresh guests to do so. -When I reached the drawing-room there were only the two ladies who had -dined and Senneterre there. Such small parties being unfavourable to -private conversation, I had reason to hope that Madam de Bonnivet would -not have the opportunity of cornering and confessing me. I little knew -this capricious and authoritative woman who was also well acquainted -with her husband’s ways. She had realized that it would not do for her -to talk to me in Bonnivet’s presence. Directly I appeared she rose from -the couch where she was sitting by Madam Éthorel’s side facing Madam -Mosé, with Senneterre on a low chair at her feet holding her fan. She -came towards me and led the way into a second drawing-room which opened -out of the first, where she sat down upon a couch near me. - -“We can talk more quietly here,” she began. Then she sharply said: “Is -your portrait of Mademoiselle Favier far advanced?” She had a way of -questioning which betrayed the despotism of the rich and pretty woman -who regards the person to whom she is talking in the light of a servant -to amuse or inform her. Each time I come across this unconscious -insolence in a fashionable doll an irresistible desire seizes me to give -her a disagreeable answer. Jacques had without doubt speculated upon -this trait of my character in making me play the part of exciter, which, -however, I refused with such loyal energy to do. - -“The portrait of Mademoiselle Favier? Why, I have not even begun it,” I -replied. - -“Ah!” she said with a nasty smile, “has Molan changed his mind and -forbidden it? You are in love with the pretty little woman, M. la Croix, -confess it?” - -“In love with her?” I replied. “Not the least bit in the world.” - -“It looked like it the other day,” she said, “and Jacques Molan was, in -fact, a little bit jealous of you.” - -“All lovers are more or less jealous,” I interposed, and yielding to the -desire I felt to hurt her, I added: “He is very wrong; Camille Favier -loves him with all her heart, and she has a big heart.” - -“It is a great misfortune for her talent,” Madam de Bonnivet said, -knitting her blonde brows just enough to let me know that I had struck -home. - -“I cannot agree with you, madam,” I replied this time with conviction. -“Little Favier has not only adorable beauty, but she has a sort of -genius too, and a charming heart and mind.” - -“One would never suspect it from seeing her act,” she replied, “at -least, in my opinion. But if so, it is worse still. Happiness has never -yet inspired a writer. But I am sure this affair will not last long. -Molan will find out that she has deceived him with a side scene with a -member of the company and then——” - -“You are wrongly informed about this poor girl, madam,” I interrupted -more quickly than was absolutely polite. “She is very noble, very proud, -and quite incapable of a mean action.” - -“But that does not prevent her being kept by Molan,” she interrupted, -“if my information is accurate, and eating up his author’s rights to the -last sou.” - -“Kept!” I cried. “No, madam, your information is very inaccurate. If she -desired luxury she could have it. She has refused a house, horses, -dresses, jewels, and all the things which tempt one in her position, to -give herself where her heart is. She loves Jacques with a most sincere -and beautiful attachment.” - -“I pity her if you are right,” she said with a sneer; “for your friend -is not much good.” - -“He is my friend,” I replied with an aggressive dryness, “and I am -original enough to defend my friends.” - -“That is a reason why one should attack them all the more.” This pretty -woman’s fine face expressed, as she made this commonplace observation, -such detestable wickedness, and the conversation betrayed on her part -such odious meanness and hatred, that my antipathy for her increased to -hate, and I replied to her insolence by another— - -“In the world in which you live, perhaps, madam, but not in our world -where there are a few decent people.” - -She looked at me as I launched this impertinence, which was not even -clever, at her. I read in her blue eyes less anger than surprise. One of -the peculiar characteristics of these coquettish jades is to esteem -those who oppose them in some degree or manner. She smiled an almost -amiable smile. - -“Molan told me that you were original,” she replied. “But you know I am -somewhat original, too, and I think we should get on together.” - -Here was a sudden change of front in her conversation, and I was again -given an exhibition of that female intelligence which in the box had -enabled her to hit upon the words to please me. Now she talked to me of -my travels. She herself had visited Italy. Without doubt she had there -met some distinguished artist who had acted as her guide, for she -enunciated ideas which contrasted strangely with the mediocrity of her -previous conversation. Assuredly the ideas were not her own, but she -retained them and realized that now was her chance to place them. She -made in this way two or three ingenuous remarks upon Perugins and -Raphael, notably upon the illogicalness of the latter, in eliminating -from his Madonnas every Christian sentiment to give them too much -beauty, a paganism of health irreconcilable with the mystic beyond and -his dream. She had such a way of appearing to understand what she was -saying, that I did not think ridiculous the admiration with which the -ninny Senneterre, who had joined us, listened to her remarks. This -jealous fellow had not been able to prevent himself from interrupting -our _tête-à-tête_, and as Madam de Bonnivet, strange to say, did not -bully him, he began to lavish his benevolence upon me. He had his plan, -too, the final scene of his naïve thinking out being a Vaudeville scene -that evening when I experienced for a moment a little dramatic shudder. -He insisted, when I said good night, before eleven, on accompanying me, -and he began to sing the praises of Queen Anne as we walked along the -Champs Élysées. Then as we passed the Avenue d’Antin he asked me -carelessly— - -“Have you ever done any pistol shooting?” - -“Never,” I replied. - -“Bonnivet is a first-rate shot,” he went on, “quite first class. Go and -see his target cards some day. He has put ten shots in a space as large -as a 20 franc piece; it is quite a curiosity, I can assure you.” - -He left me to go along the Rue François I, where he lived, with this -sinister warning. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -“Ah! did he work the infallible pistol trick on you?” Jacques said with -a burst of his loudest laughter when we met the following day. “That is -very good. He looked you in the face to make you understand that if you -court Madam de Bonnivet, you run the risk of getting in your head one of -the bullets with which the husband every day salutes the sheet-iron man -at the range. He did better with me. He took me to see the targets.” - -This conversation took place at the breakfast-table, for Jacques had -called on the following morning as soon as his four pages were finished -to ask for the classic egg and cutlet, a thing he had never done before. -This curious haste proved to me how interested he was in the success of -his manœuvre in diplomatic gallantry. I had not received him very -cordially. - -“Tricks like that are not very attractive,” I said to him; “you force me -to accept an invitation to dinner which is odious to me, on purpose to -meet you there, and then you do not turn up.” - -“But you must admit that it was very jolly!” he replied in such a gay -tone that I had not the heart to be angry any more. After he had very -minutely questioned me as to the diverse attitudes of different persons, -concluding with the ridiculous warning of Senneterre the Jealous, he -said seriously— - -“You noticed nothing in particular then, even you who know how to see? -Yes, you painters do not understand, but you know how to see. Nothing in -the intercourse of Machault and Queen Anne, for instance?” - -“Stop,” I replied; “certainly when he warned me that Senneterre had met -you, Machault gave me a singular look. Why do you ask me that? Is he -paying court to her too?” - -“I think, if she has already risked a false step, it is with Machault.” - -“With Machault?” I cried. “With Machault, the drunken colossus, the -gladiator in black, the fencing machine, while she herself is such a -fine woman, though a little too angular for my taste, and so -aristocratic? It is not possible. The other day, too, you told me that -you thought she was true to her husband.” - -“Ah, my dear fellow!” he said with a nod, “you do not know that when one -wishes to find out of whom an ideal woman, a siren, a madonna, an angel, -is the mistress, one must first think of the most vulgar person of her -own circle. There has been a good deal of gossip about her, I know, and -she knows that I know. I have not concealed the fact from her. -Consequently, the presence of Machault last evening was designed to -produce upon me exactly the same effect which I produced upon her by my -absence. I took the initiative, and I was right. Besides,” he added with -almost hateful acrimony in his voice, “one of two things, either she has -already had lovers and she is a jade. In that case I should be the -greatest of fools if I did not have her in my turn. Or else she has not -had lovers and is a coquette who will not make me go the same way as the -others.” - -“If you are not wasting your time,” I replied to him, “I shall be very -surprised. I studied her yesterday, and as you admit the eagle eyes of -our profession, let me tell you that I have diagnosed in her the signs -of the most complete absence of temperament, which are a little throat, -small hips, skin without down, thin lips, the lower one receding a -little, hard and lean nostrils, and metallic voice. I would wager that -she has no palate, and that she does not know what she eats or drinks. -She is a creature all intellect without a shadow of sensuality.” - -“But these cold women have just as many intrigues as the others!” he -interrupted. “You do not know that class then? They give themselves, not -to surrender themselves, but to take others. When it is necessary for -them to grip a lover tightly, a lover they need, they do so with their -person the more easily since the pleasure of it is a matter of -indifference to them. They know that possession detaches some men and -attaches others. It is simply a question of persuading them that one is -of the kind who become attached in this way, when one is not. Then, too, -there are cold women who are hunters, and then! Sometimes I place Madam -de Bonnivet in the first group, sometimes in the second. I do not -pretend to solve the riddle of this sphinx. But failing the answer to -the riddle of this sphinx, I will have the sphinx in person, or my name -is not Jacques Molan. Then, as you have helped me and are just, you -shall have a reward. You will no longer reproach me with that dinner in -the Rue des Écuries d’Artois. You shall be paid for your unpleasant -task. What time is it? Half-past one. Prepare to see in ten minutes -Mademoiselle Camille Favier herself enter with her respectable mother to -arrange about the portrait. Is not that good of me? But I have been -better still, and I have not told her where you dined yesterday.” - -He had hardly told me of this visit, so disturbing to me, in his joking -way, when the servant said that two ladies were waiting for me in the -studio. God! how my heart beat when I was about to enter the presence of -the woman I had sworn to avoid! How my heart beats even now at my vivid -and precise recollection of this meeting long ago! I believe that I can -see the two of them, mother and daughter, in the crude light of that -bright January day which filled, by means of the large glass bay, the -studio with a cold pale light. Madam Favier, more placid and smiling -than ever, walked from canvas to canvas, looking at them with her great -laughing eyes. She would suddenly ask me what was the net cost of a -picture, and what did it fetch, with as much simplicity as if it were a -question of a dress or a curio. Camille sat down opposite a copy of -“L’Allégorie du Printemps,” which I had made in Florence so lovingly. In -the long and supple dancers of the divine Sandro, who lent with tender -grace their blonde and dreamy though bitter faces, the little Blue -Duchess could recognize her sisters. She did not see them, absorbed as -she was in a memory, the nature of which I could easily guess, seeing -that she had not acted the previous evening, and had found a way to -spend that free evening with Jacques, thanks to a complaisant cousin. It -hurt me to detect around her tender, almost blood-shot eyes a pearly -halo of lassitude, and on her mouth tremors which told of happiness. But -what made me feel worse still was that Jacques, directly he came in, -copied the photographs I had used to make my dream-picture of her—that -chimerical picture of my week of folly, which happily I had put aside -and well concealed; and at the moment Camille was greeting me with a -slightly embarrassed smile, he displayed those instructive pictures and -said maliciously— - -“You can see, mademoiselle, that if Vincent has not been to see you -again as he promised, he has not forgotten you.” - -“It was to better prepare the studies for my future picture,” I -stammered. “The great painter Lenbach does so.” - -“Who contradicted you?” Molan went on even more maliciously. - -“Oh! you have not picked out the best ones,” the mother interrupted as -she showed her daughter the photograph I loved best. “You see,” she -said, “that in spite of your prohibition, this picture which is such a -bad likeness of you is still being sold. Come, now, is it anything like -her? I ask you to decide the point, M. La Croix.” - -“I was three years younger,” Camille said, “and he did not know me -then.” Taking the photograph she looked at it in her turn. Then putting -it by the side of her face so that I could see the model and the -portrait at the same time, she asked me: “Have I changed very much?” - -Poor little Blue Duchess, the sincere lover of the least loving of my -friends, romantic child stranded by an ironical caprice of fate in the -profession most fatal to mystery, silence and solitude, when the pretty, -delicate flowers of your woman’s soul needed a warm atmosphere of -protective intimacy, say, did you suspect my emotion when I looked at -your face, paled by the pleasures of the previous evening, smiling at me -thus by the side of another face, the face of the innocent child you -were once, when I might have loved you as my betrothed wife? No, -certainly you did not. For you were good; and if you had guessed what I -suffered, you would not have imposed upon me this useless ordeal. You -would not on that visit have arranged with me the details of that series -of sittings which began the following day and were for me a strange and -sorrowful Calvary! Yes, however, perhaps you did guess, for there was -sadness and pity in your smile—sorrow for yourself and pity for me. You -saw so clearly from that moment that I bore an affection for you which -was too quickly awakened to be the reasonable and simple friendship of a -comrade! You saw it without wishing to admit it, for love is an egoist. -Yours had need of being related, to be encouraged in its hopes, -comforted in its doubts, and pitied in its grief. Who would have -rendered you the service of lending himself as a complaisant echo of -your passion like I did? If it cost me my rest for weeks and weeks; if -on your departure from my studio after each sitting, just as after your -first visit, I remained for hours struggling against the bitterness of -which I have not yet emptied my heart, you did not wish to know, and I -had not the strength to condemn you to do so. After all, you made me -feel, as Jacques used to say, and there will come a time perhaps when, -passing my memories in review, I shall bless you for the tears I shed, -sometimes as if I were no more than eighteen, on your account, who did -not see them. Had you seen them, you would have refused to believe in -them, to preserve the right to initiate me into the inner tragedy in -which you then lived, and which by a counter stroke, alas! was not -spared me. - -If I allowed these impressions to go on, I should fill the pages with -groans like this, and never reach the tragedy itself, or rather the -tragic comedy, in which I played the part of the ancient Chorus, the -ineffectual witness of catastrophies, who deplored them without -preventing them. Let us employ the only remedy for this useless elegy. -Let us note the little facts clearly. I have mentioned that this visit -of mother and daughter had as its object the arrangement of a series of -sittings. I have also mentioned that the first of these sittings was -placed for the following day. - -On the following day Camille arrived, not accompanied by her mother, but -alone. It was so almost always during the four weeks which this painting -lasted, but during the whole of this time the work did not succeed in -interesting the artist in me, for my attention was too much absorbed by -the adorable child’s confidences, confidences which were ceaselessly -interrupted, repeated and prolonged by the interruptions till the -details were multiplied and complicated to infinity. Yes, many little -facts come into my mind in trying to recall these private sittings which -were always somewhat bitter to me. This liberty proved to me how many -favourable opportunities her intrigue with Jacques had obtained. Too -many little scenes recur to me, and too many multiple and over-lapping -impressions which my memory is apt to confuse. It is like a tangled -skein of thread I am trying in vain to unravel. Let us see if I can -reduce them to some kind of order in classifying them. - -These recollections, which are so numerous and so similar that they -become mixed, are distributed, when I reflect, into three distinct -groups; and these groups mark the stages of this purely moral drama, in -which Camille, Jacques and Madam de Bonnivet were engaged, in its -progress to a real and terrible drama. When I reflect again, it was the -difference between these three groups of emotions which justified me in -not making a success of this portrait. Had I been an artist who was an -imperturbable master of execution, in place of being what I am, half an -amateur, always uncertain, and a sort of “Adolphe” of the brush, all -intention and touches, all scratching out and alteration, I should not -have been able to execute a unique canvas under such conditions. It was -not a woman I had before me during these too long and too short -sittings, it was three women. - -One after the other I will resuscitate these three women, I will make -them pose before my eyes, according to the taste of my memory, as if the -irreparable, and such an irreparable, were not between us! One after the -other they come back to sit in this studio where I am writing these -lines. One after the other I listen to them telling me, the first her -joy, the second her sorrow, and the third the fury of her jealousy and -the fever of her indignation; and yet to-day I do not know before which -of the three women, and during which of the three periods I suffered the -most, my suffering being the greater because I was obliged to be silent; -and behind each of the confidences little Favier gave me, whether she -were happy, melancholy, or angry, I could see the hard silhouette of the -elegant rival, to whose caprices this joy, sorrow or anger were -subordinated. Oh, God! what punishment for hybrid sentiments, those -sentiments which have not the courage to go to the end in the logic of -sacrifice or gratification, I experienced during those sittings! But -still I would like to begin them again. I am writing of misery again and -composing more elegies. Let me get on with the facts, facts, facts! - -The first period, that of joy, was not of long duration. The scene which -marked its culminating point took place on the fourth of these sittings. -The scene, though a fine expression, merely consisted of a conversation -without any other incident than Camille’s entry into the studio with a -bunch of roses—large, heavy roses of all shades—some pale with the dewy -pallor of her face, others blonde and almost of the same golden tint as -her beautiful hair, others as red as her pretty mouth with its lower lip -so tightly rolled, others dark, which by contrast appeared to light up -her bloodless colour that morning. The question was, which of these -flowers I should choose for her to hold in her hand. I wished to paint -her in an absolute unity of tone, like Gainsborough’s blue boy. She had -to stand wearing a dress of blue gauze, that of her part, with blue silk -mittens, blue velvet at the neck, blue ribbons at the sleeves, her feet -in blue satin shoes, with no jewels but sapphires and turquoises on a -ground of peacock blue velvetine, with no head-dress but the blonde -cloud of her fine hair, with the back of one of her hands resting upon -her supple hip, while she offered a rose with her other hand. - -“It is my youth that I will offer Jacques,” she said to me that morning -while we studied the pose together; “my twenty-two years and my -happiness. I am so happy now!” - -“You don’t experience any more evil temptations, then?” I asked. - -“Do you remember?” she replied, laughing and blushing at the same time. -“No, I don’t feel them now. I turned Tournade out of my dressing-room, -and pretty quickly, I can assure you. But do you know what pleases me -most? I never see that ugly woman now; you remember, Madam de Bonnivet. -She does not come to the theatre, and the other day Jacques ought to -have dined with her, but he did not go. I am quite sure of that, for he -wrote his letter of excuse in my presence. It was the evening Bressoré -could not act: there was a change of bill and I was free for the -evening. I wanted so badly to ask him if we could spend it together, but -I did not dare. He suggested it himself, and now every day I have a -fresh proof of his tenderness. He is coming for me presently to take me -to lunch. Ah! how I love him, how I love him! How proud I am of loving -him!” - -What answer could I make to such phrases, and what could I do but allow -her to remain enraptured by this illusion as she was enraptured by the -scent of the roses which she inhaled, closing as she did so her clear -azure eyes—another note of blue in the harmony which I sought? What -could I do but suffer in silence at the idea that this recrudescence of -tenderness in the sensual and complex Molan was, without doubt, a trick. -Some harshness on the other woman’s part was certainly the cause of it. -Camille took for the marks of passionate ardour the fever of excitation -into which Madam de Bonnivet had thrown Jacques without gratifying it. -When a woman has, as the pretty actress so nicely put it, her twenty -years of age and her youth to offer, she cannot guess that in her arms -her lover is thinking of another woman, and exalting his senses by her -image! That morning I kept silent as to what I knew. To make her laugh -and keep myself from weeping, I told her the story of a real duchess of -the eighteenth century, who wished to give her miniature to her lover -before he took the field with the troops. She went to the painter with -her eyes so fatigued by the tender folly of her good-bye that the -painter declared he would not continue the portrait if she did not -become more virtuous, for her beauty had changed so. - -“Ah!” the duchess said as she put her arms round her lover’s neck in the -painter’s presence, “if that is the case, then life is too short to have -one’s portrait painted.” - -“Ah! how true what he has just been saying is, Jacques!” Camille cried -as she went to meet Jacques who came in at that moment. I can see her -now leaning her loving head upon the knave’s shoulder, the latter being -condescending, indulgent, almost tender, because I was there to assist -at this foolish explosion of affection. This picture is a very good -résumé of the first period which might be entitled: Camille happy! - -Camille sad! That was title of the second period which began almost -immediately and lasted much longer. The scene which sums up the period -in my memory is one quite unlike that of the roses, the scent of which -she inhaled with such confident ecstasy, and that of the kiss she gave -Jacques with such charming shamelessness. This time it was about the -eleventh or twelfth sitting. I had noticed for some days that my model’s -expression had changed. I had not dared to question her, for I was just -as much afraid to learn that Jacques treated her well as that he treated -her badly. That morning she was to come at half-past ten, and it was not -ten yet. I was engaged in looking through a portfolio of drawings after -the old Florentine masters, without succeeding in engrossing myself in -their study. That is what takes the place of opium with me in my bad -moments. Usually merely looking at these sketches recalls to me the -frescoes of Ghirlandajo, of Benozzo, of Fra Filippo Lippi, of -Signorelli, and many others; I find intact in me that fervour for the -ideal which made me almost mad in my youth, when I went from little town -to little town, from church to church, and from cloister to cloister. - -In those days a half-effaced silhouette of the Madonna, hardly visible -upon a bit of wall eaten up by the sun, was enough to make me happy for -an afternoon. The profiles of virgins dreamed by the old Tuscans, the -bent figures of their young lords in their puffy doublets, the minute -horizons in their vast landscapes, with battlements and campaniles upon -the eminences, roads bordered by cypress trees and valleys glistening -with running water—all this charm of primitive art was there imprisoned -in this portfolio of sketches and ready to emerge from it to charm my -fantasy. But my imagination was elsewhere, occupied with this problem in -æsthetics very far distant from the frescoes and convents of Pisa or -Sienne. “Camille was very sad again yesterday. Has the absurd Jacques -resumed with the absurd Madam de Bonnivet?” That was what I was asking -myself, instead of by the help of my sketches revisiting Italy, dear -divine Italy, the land of beauty. - -The reply to my question as to the cause of Camille’s sadness was given -me by Molan himself. I had not had any private conversation with him -since our chance breakfast on the day previous to the first sitting. I -did not expect to see him enter my studio that morning more than any -other morning, knowing his rule to write four pages before midday, and -the vigour with which this methodical purveyor of literature conformed -to it. So when his voice disturbed me I was for a moment really -apprehensive. The servant had opened the door without me hearing him, -reclining as I was upon a divan turning over the portfolio of sketches -as if I were rendered unconscious by my excess of anxiety. I had no time -to form an hypothesis in my own mind. My unexpected visitor had realized -my astonishment from my face, and he anticipated my questions by saying— - -“Yes, here I am! You did not expect me, did you? Make your mind easy, I -am not come to inform you that Camille has asphyxiated herself with a -coke fire of the latest fashion, nor that she has thrown herself into -the Seine because of my bad conduct. By the way, the portrait is not a -bad one. You have made progress, much progress, with it. But that is not -the reason of my visit. Camille will be here directly, and I want you to -tell her that I dined with you last evening, and that we did not -separate till one o’clock this morning!” - -“You have conceived the brilliant idea of involving me in your lies,” I -replied irritably “I thought I told you the part did not suit me.” - -“I know,” he said in a half apologetic tone obviously destined to -wheedle me, “and I understand your scruples so thoroughly that I have -left you in peace all this time. But matters progress in the other -direction, and if you had been able to assist me, Bonnivet would no -longer pass under the Arc de Triomphe. Excuse the pleasantry worthy of -the late Paul de Kock. But this time it is not on my account, but for -Camille’s sake; I want to spare her an unnecessary sorrow. Have you -noticed how sad she has been lately?” - -“Yes, and thought it was a sorrow of your making.” - -“You are turning to psychology,” he replied not without irony. “It is -very much out of fashion, I warn you. But don’t let us exchange -epigrams,” he went on seriously. “The little one will be here to pose -directly, and if I met her we should be lost. I will put you in -possession of the facts in five minutes. I must first tell you that she -is again on the track of my flirtation with Queen Anne, on whom, in -parenthesis, you have not called and left your card. By the way, give me -one and I will leave it for you on my next visit. As the flirtation is -at the moment very accentuated, Camille is very, very jealous and very -distrustful. In short, yesterday there was the inverse of the other -comedy. You recall the dinner trick, don’t you? I received about four -o’clock two notes, one from Madam de B—— signifying that ... But the -contents of this note would make you jump if I told them to you. In -reality you are very naïve and still believe in a woman’s modesty. -Confine yourself to the knowledge that in her husband’s absence—he has -been called into the country to see a sick relative—Queen Anne had -arranged to dine and spend the evening with me. The other note was from -Camille, to tell me that in the absence of her mother, who was also -called into the country by a sick relative, knowing that I was -disengaged for the evening, she had arranged for us to dine and return -home together after _La Duchesse Curtain_. - -“So you naturally preferred Madam de B——, and told Camille that you were -dining with me?” - -“I have not told you everything,” he said. “I thought it better to -receive the note too late. For I might have gone out at four o’clock and -not have returned to dinner? She will be here directly. Be careful not -to mention my visit this morning. Say incidentally, without appearing to -intend to do so, that you had some friends to dinner yesterday, and that -I was among them. She believes you. When she reaches home she will find -a wire from 'yours truly’ confirming the story, and the trick is done, -unless Senneterre——” - -“What has Senneterre to do with it?” I asked. - -“I told you that he was Queen Anne’s platonic lover, and you observed it -yourself; he is platonic, and as jealous as if he had the right to be -so. Consequently he detests me. He goes still further and watches me. -The idea has occurred to him to join hands with Camille. He had the -audacity to ask me, in an off-hand way, to introduce him, and four or -five times afterwards I found him in her dressing-room. Has she not -mentioned it to you? No. He is quite likely to have told her, before -last evening, as if by accident, that Bonnivet was leaving Paris with -the sole object of letting her loose at me and of putting a spoke in the -wheel of the carriage in which Queen Anne has at last consented to ride. -Do not be too scandalized, we have only got as far as the carriage. -There is no question, too, between us of what some women of the world -call so quaintly, 'the little crime.’ But it is a quarter past ten and I -must go. Drop me a line this afternoon.” - -“What about this morning’s four pages?” I asked as I accompanied him to -the door. - -“I have given myself a holiday,” he replied; “my two-act comedy is -finished, and if I bring off this coup I shall give myself quite ten -days’ holiday. What do you think of my luck? How fortunate that this -adventure with Queen Anne should have happened this month, between two -periods of work?” - -This audacious person was quite right to talk of his luck. Had he been a -moment later in going out he would have met his poor mistress on my -staircase. Camille, who was usually a little later than half-past ten in -arriving, was this morning early. The old Breton clock, to whose -monotonous voice I had so long listened in my studio like a constant and -never-heeded warning not to waste work-time in reverie, made the time -twenty-five minutes past ten. When the charming girl appeared I could -see at a glance that she was again experiencing an acute crisis of -sorrow. Insomnia had encircled her eyes with bluish rings. Fever had -cracked and dried up her lips, which were generally so fresh, young and -full. A sombre flame burned in the depths of her eyes. Insomnia had made -her cheeks livid, and with her fingers she was mechanically twisting a -little cambric handkerchief with red flowers on it from which her teeth -had torn all shape. I had before me the living image of jealousy and -despair. What a contrast with the victorious smile I had just seen -hovering around the lips and in the eyes of the man who had caused that -pain and thought as much of it as of his first article! I realized once -more that morning how easily pity leads to lies. The unhappy creature -had hardly taken off her hat and cloak before I began to chide her in -our usual friendly joking tone. - -“I don’t think we shall do any work to-day,” I said to her, “little Blue -Duchess, and I am much afraid it will not be for the same motive which -made the other Duchess say, a hundred years ago, that life is too short -to have one’s portrait painted; but I will say it is too short for the -troubles you are making for yourself. You have been crying, confess?” - -“No,” she replied evasively. “But I did not close my eyes all night. I -did not even go to bed.” - -“Jacques will scold you when I tell him of your conduct, and I warn you -that I shall report it.” - -“Jacques,” she said, knitting the blonde bar of her pretty lashes. “He -looks after me well, does Jacques,” and she shrugged her shoulders as -she repeated: “He looks after me well!” - -“You are again unjust,” I said with my heart pierced by remorse at my -own tender hypocrisy. “You ought to have heard him talk about you last -evening after dinner!” - -“Last evening?” she replied, raising her head and her drooping shoulders -with a movement which shamed me. It betrayed such passionate gratitude. -“Did you see Jacques last evening then?” - -“He stopped to dinner,” I said, “and we separated at an impossible hour -after midnight.” - -“Is that true?” she asked in an almost raucous voice; and she -supplicatingly said: “Tell me that it is true and I will believe you. -But don’t lie to me. From you it would be too horrible.” She seized my -hand in hers as she said: “Do not be offended. I know that you would not -lend yourself to deceive me and that you are my friend. I will explain -it to you now how I heard that Bonnivet, you know, the husband of that -horrible woman, was away. Then I got the idea into my head that they -would take advantage of his absence, Jacques and her, to spend the -evening together; I freed myself by lying to my mother, the first time I -have done so, and I wrote a note to him asking him to dine with me. I -was well punished for my two lies. He did not reply. Repeat to me that I -was foolish, that he was with you last evening, not with her. O God! let -me weep. It does me so much good. Oh, thank God he was not with her, not -with her!” - -As she talked to me like this every word entered my conscience like the -most cruel reproach. She then burst into tears, and the tears which -flowed down her thin cheeks were long, abundant tears which she wiped -with her poor little handkerchief on which the edges of her teeth had -left traces of her nervousness and anguish. I experienced, as I watched -her genuine tears flow, poignant remorse for my falseness. It was no -longer possible for me to go back on what I had said, and ninety-nine -men out of a hundred in acting as I had done would have believed that -they were doing right. I myself had enough evidence to realize that this -passage from pity to lies, which had been so natural to me, constituted -a real crime in the presence of such profound passion. The heart which -loves and suffers has a right to know the entire truth whatever it may -be. The thankful smiles which Camille gave me through her tears were -almost physically intolerable to me. Besides, one does not deceive for -long the lucidity of justified jealousy. Can it be blinded even for a -minute? It is soothed by being misled as regards the facts. What are -facts? When a woman feels herself to be loved even the most convincing -count for nothing. When a woman feels, as Camille did, treachery -hovering around her in the atmosphere, illusion is no sooner produced on -one point than lucidity awakens on another. The person goes on searching -in the dark for a proof which is always forthcoming, very often by a -chance which is all the more grievous as it is not considered. No. If it -were to begin over again at the risk of playing in my own eyes the -obvious part of the cruel wretch, I would not lend myself to that -cowardly lying charity to which I leant myself that morning. The only -result of it was to render more painful the scene, to the recital of -which I have now come, the scene which marks the definite entrance into -the third period, that of furious certainty and exasperated despair. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -Three more weeks had passed, and the never-ending picture had undergone -so many touches that it was a little less advanced than before. It is -the certain sign that an artistic creation will not result: work -destroys it instead of improving it, and it is a proof, too, that we do -not accomplish works worthy of the name, they are made in us, without -effort, without will, almost unknown to us. The sittings, too, became -more and more irregular. Camille began to rehearse the piece to follow -_La Duchesse Blue_, and sometimes from one excuse, sometimes another, -one day because she was fatigued, another because she was studying her -part, she found a way of putting off half her visits to the studio. When -she did sit it was under very different conditions to the first -sittings. Her _tête-à-tête_ with me had been a necessity to her at the -time of her sweet confidences and even at the time of her tender uneasy -complaints. A fear came to her now that her jealousy of her rival would -endow her with an acute character of suspicious inquiry. - -Not once during the three weeks, the anxious expectancy of which I am -summarizing here, did she come alone to the studio. Sometimes her -mother, sometimes her cousin, sometimes a companion accompanied her. I -should have known nothing of her but for guessing at her troubles from -the very pronounced alteration in her face and her increasing -nervousness on the one hand, and for having, on the other hand, three -conversations with Jacques which were very brief but well calculated to -edify me as to the cause of the poor Blue Duchess’ terrible trouble. - -“Don’t talk to me of her,” he said on the first occasion with angry -harshness; “I should be unjust, for she loves me after all. But what a -character she has! what a character!” - -“Ah! so she still continues to play to you her comedy of the beautiful -soul unappreciated,” he jeered on the second occasion. “Come, don’t let -us talk about her any more.” - -On the last occasion he said violently: “As you are so interested in -her, I am going to give you a commission. If she wants to reach the -stage when I shall not recognize her if I meet her, you can tell her she -is well on the way to it. If I did not need her for my new comedy I -should not do so now.” - -On neither of these three occasions had I insisted on knowing more. His -harshness, irony and violence made me a prey to a very strange fear. I -apprehended with real anguish the moment when he would say in his own -way. “It is all over. Madam de Bonnivet is my mistress.” Under any -circumstances it is saddening to receive such confidences. At least I -have always felt it so. It is so repugnant to me as to almost become -painful. Is it a result of the prudery with which Jacques reproached me? -Is it a persistent prejudice, the remains of a conventional imposition -before the woman’s modesty, as he also pretended? - -I don’t think I am either prude or dupe. I see rather, in this aversion -for certain confessions which no longer allow any doubt as to certain -faults, first of all an excess of jealousy—why not?—and then the drawing -back before brutal reality which is in me a malady. Actually it is -without a doubt a relic of respectable and pious youth, and the evidence -that a woman who has been well brought up, who is married, is a mother, -and holds a position, has degraded herself to the physical filth of a -gallant adventure is intolerable to me. In its way this apprehension was -the more illogical and foolish as my comrade’s indiscretion had edified -me as regards the flirting and coquetry of which Madam de Bonnivet was -capable. Between coquetry, even foolishly light, and precision of the -last detail there is an abyss. In conclusion, if ever Jacques came to -pronounce to me that cruel phrase: “It is all over. Madam de Bonnivet is -my mistress,” I should have to see Camille with that phrase in my -memory, and then the reply to her questions would become to me a real -penance. To know nothing, on the other hand, was to retain the right to -reply to the poor actress without lying to her. - -This voluntary ignorance did not prevent me from realizing that the -whole of Camille’s drama of sentiment was acted on this single point: on -the degree of intimacy established between Molan and Queen Anne depended -the sad remnant of happiness, the last charity of love which the poor -child still enjoyed. So although I tried not to find out anything -definite as to the result of the intrigue between Jacques and Madam de -Bonnivet, I did nothing but think of it, multiplying the hypotheses for -and against the latter’s absolute downfall. Alas! they were almost all -for it. How was I to wait for the revelation which put an end to my -uncertainty in a startling and entirely unexpected way? - -It was towards the close of a February afternoon. Camille had missed -three set appointments without sending me a word of apology. I had spent -several hours, not in my studio, but in a little room adjoining it which -I adorned with the title of library. I keep there a number of books -which a painter, caring for his art alone, ought not to have. Why is it -that a poet and a novelist, even the most plastic, can teach an artist -who must live by his eyes and the reproduction of forms? It is true I -was not engaged in reading but in dreaming, glasses in hand, before the -half-burnt fire. The lamp, which had been brought in by a servant, lit -up half the room. I abandoned myself to that nervous languor which -resolves itself into, at such an hour, in such a season and such a -light, a half unconscious semi-intoxication. Anything accidental in us -is removed at such times. We seem to touch the bottom of our fund of -sensibility, the nerve itself of the internal organ through which we -suffer and enjoy, and the pulp which composes our being. - -I felt in the twilight that I loved Camille as I imagine one must love -after death, if anything of our poor heart survives in the great mute -darkness. I told myself that I ought to go and see her, that there was -in the excess of my discretion apparent indifference. I evoked her and -spoke to her, telling her what I had never told her, and what I should -not dare to tell her. It was at the moment, when this opium of my -dream-passion most deeply engulfed me, that I was snatched with a start -from my dream by the sudden arrival of her who was its chief character. -My servant, whom I had told that I could see no one, entered the room to -tell me, with an air of embarrassment, that Mademoiselle Favier was -asking for me, that he had answered her according to his instructions, -and that she had sat down in the anteroom, declaring that she would not -go without seeing me. - -“Is she alone?” I asked. - -“Quite alone,” he answered with the familiarity of a bachelor’s servant -who has been in the same situation for twenty years—he saw my father die -and I am quite familiar with him. “I must tell you though, sir, that she -seems to be in great trouble. She is as white as a sheet; her voice is -changed, broken, and choked. One would think she cannot talk. It is a -great shame, considering how young and pretty she is!” - -“Ah, well, show her in,” I said, “but no one else, you understand.” - -“Even if M. Molan comes to see you too, sir?” he inquired. - -“Even if M. Molan calls,” I replied. - -The good fellow smiled the smile of an accomplice, which on any other -occasion I should have interpreted as a proof that he had guessed the -ill-concealed secret of my feelings. I did not have time to reflect upon -his greater or less penetration. Camille was already in the studio, and -the image of despair was before me, a despair verging on madness. I said -to her as I made her sit down: “Whatever is the matter?” and sat down -myself. She signed to me to ask her no questions, as it was impossible -for her to reply. She put her hand upon her breast and closed her eyes, -as if internal anguish there in her breast was inflicting upon her -suffering greater than she could bear. For a moment I thought she was -about to expire, so frightful was the convulsive pallor of her face. -When her eyes opened I could see that no tear moistened her blue eyes, -eyes which were now quite sombre. The flame of the most savage passion -burned in them. Then in a raucous and almost bass voice, as if a hand -had clutched her throat, she said to me as she pressed her fingers on -her forehead in bewilderment— - -“There is a God, as I have found you. If you had not been at home I -think I should have lost my reason. Give me your hand, I want to clasp -it, to feel that I am not dreaming, that you are there, a friend. My -sufferings are so great.” - -“Yes, a friend,” I replied, trying to calm her, “a true friend ready to -help you, to listen to you, to advise you, and to prevent you, too, from -giving way to your fancies.” - -“Do not speak like that,” she interrupted, freeing her hand as she drew -back with almost hateful aversion, “or else I shall think you are in the -plot to lie to me. No. This man deceives you as he has me. You believe -in him as I have done. He would be ashamed to show himself in his true -colours before the honourable man you are. Listen.” She seized my arm -again and came so near me that I could feel the feverish heat of her -rapid breath. “Do you know where I, Camille Favier, have come from; I, -the recognized mistress of Jacques? I have come from a chamber where -that wretch, Madam de Bonnivet, has given herself to him, where the bed -is still in disorder and warm from their two bodies. Oh, what a hideous -thing it is!” - -“Impossible!” I murmured, overwhelmed with fright at the words I had -just listened to and the tone in which they were spoken. “You have been -the dupe of an anonymous letter or a fancied resemblance.” - -“Listen again,” she went on almost tragically, and her fingers bit into -my flesh, so furious was their grasp. “For a week I have had no doubt as -to the relations between Jacques and this woman. Suddenly he had become -tender to me with that tenderness which a mistress never mistakes. He -was humouring me. There was a certain expression in his eyes when he -looked at me. I would have liked to snatch away that look to read what -was behind it. Then I found around his eyes that voluptuous hollow I -knew in him too well. I recognized in his whole being that exhausted -languor which he used to have in the days gone by when we loved -passionately, and he avoided our appointments. He always had an excuse -to change and postpone them. You see, I am talking to you as I feel. It -is brutal, but what I am telling you is true, as I have always told the -truth to him and to you. It was I, you understand, who asked for these -appointments, I who did the hunting, while he refused me and escaped -from me. Is any other proof of a lover’s deception necessary? But this -week I began again to doubt. I received a visit from this woman’s -husband. She had the audacity to send him to me! He came with Senneterre -to ask me to act at a grand affair they are having next Monday.” - -“I have an invitation to it,” I interrupted, suddenly recollecting that -I had received an invitation for it. “I was astonished at it, but I -understand now. It was an account of you.” - -“Ah, well! you will not see me there,” she replied in a tone which froze -my heart, it was so ferocious, “and I have an idea that this function -will not take place.” Then with rising anger she said: “Now, see how -innocent I am still! When the fool of a husband asked me that, and I -said 'yes,’ seeing that Jacques displayed no emotion, it seemed to me -impossible that this woman could really be his mistress. I did not -believe it of her, nor did I believe that he was her lover. I knew she -was a famous coquette, and you remember how I judged him? But this was -on her part such insolent audacity, and on his shameful cowardice! No. -Had you come yourself, even this morning, to tell me that she was his -mistress, I should not have believed it.” - -She was so agonized at what she was preparing to tell that she had to -stop again. Her hands, which had let go of me again, trembled and her -eyes closed from her excessive suffering. - -“And now?” I said to her. - -“Now?” She burst into a nervous laugh. “Now I know of what they are -capable, he in particular. She is a woman of the world who has lovers. -But for him to have done what he has done! Oh, the wretch, the wicked -monster! I am going mad as I talk to you. But listen, listen,” she -repeated in a frenzy, as if she feared I should interrupt her story. -“To-day at two o’clock there was to have been a rehearsal of the new -comedy by Dorsenne at the theatre. He is altering an act and the -rehearsal was countermanded. I did not hear of it till I got to the -theatre. For that reason I found myself about two o’clock in the Rue de -la Chausée d’Antin with the afternoon before me. I had one or two calls -to make in the neighbourhood. I started, and then some clumsy person -trod on my skirt, tearing a flounce almost off. Look.” She showed me -that a large piece of the bottom of her skirt was torn. “It happened at -the top of the Rue de Clichy near the Rue Nouvelle.” - -She had looked at me as she pronounced and emphasized these last few -words, as if they ought to awaken in me an association of ideas. She saw -that I made no sign. A look of astonishment passed over her face and she -continued— - -“Does that name tell you nothing? I thought that Jacques, who confides -in you, would have told you that as well. Well”—she dropped her voice -still lower, “that is where we have our place of meeting. When he became -my lover, I should so much have liked to have belonged to him at his own -place, among the objects in the midst of which he lived, so that at -every minute, every second, these mute witnesses of our happiness would -recall me to his memory! He did not wish it to be so. I understand the -reason to-day; he was already thinking of the rupture. At that time I -believed everything he told me, and did everything he asked me to do. He -assured me that the rooms in the Rue Nouvelle had been fitted up by him -for me alone, and that he had put there the old furniture from the room -in which he wrote his early books: the room he lived in before moving to -the Place Delaborde. How stupid I was! How stupid I was! But it is -abominable to lie to a poor girl who has only her heart, who surrenders -it entirely as well as her person and would despise herself for any -distrust as if it were a crime! Ah! it is very easy to deceive any one -who surrenders herself like that.” - -“But are you sure he deceived you?” I asked. - -“Am I sure of it? You too—-” she replied in tones of passionate irony. -“Besides, I defy you to defend him when you hear the whole story. I was, -as I have just told you, near the Rue Nouvelle with my dress torn. I -must add, too, that in my foolishness I had left all sorts of little -things belonging to me in the rooms there, even needles and silk. It had -been one of my dreams, too, that this place might become a beloved -refuge for both of us, where Jacques would work at some beautiful -love-drama, written near me and for me, while I should be there to -employ myself—as his wife! It occurred to me to go there and mend my -torn flounce. I want you to believe me when I swear to you that there -was no idea of spying mixed up in my plan.” - -“I know it,” I replied to her, and to spare her the details of a -confidence which I saw caused her great physical suffering, I asked her: -“And you found the room in disorder as you told me?” - -“It was more terrible,” she said, and then had to remain silent for a -second to gain strength to continue: “The way in which these apartments -had been selected ought long ago to have told me that Jacques used them -for others as well as me. They are in a large double house, the rooms -face the street and are far enough from the porter’s lodge for any one -to ascend the staircase without being seen. What would be the use of all -these precautions if I were the only person to go there? Am I not free? -Am I afraid of any one but mother seeing me enter? Then there was the -porter’s glances, his indefinable expression of politeness and irony, -and his servility to Jacques, all of which would have proved to any one -else that the rooms had been for years in his occupation. I can see it -so clearly while I am talking to you! I cannot realize how I was so long -deceived! But I am losing myself, ideas keep rushing into my head. I had -got as far as the Rue Nouvelle with my dress torn. I had no key. Jacques -had never given it to me in spite of my requests. What another sign, -too! I knew that the porter kept one key so that he and his wife might -look after the place. An inside bolt allowed, when once a person was -inside, of the door being fastened against any intruder, so that very -often Jacques did not trouble to take the second key which was kept in -one of his drawers, and you may imagine I went to the porter’s lodge as -little as possible. I preferred, when I followed Jacques there, to go -straight upstairs and ring. Without these details what happened to me -would be unintelligible to you though it is so simple. This time I went -to the lodge for the key. There was no one there. The porter and his -wife were probably busy elsewhere, and the last person who went out had -neglected to shut the door. I saw our key in its usual place and took it -without the least scruple, and making as I did so a little motion of joy -at avoiding the porter. I must repeat—I swear it to you—that I was -absolutely ignorant of the incident I was about to encounter. I entered -the rooms with a certain feeling of melancholy, as you may imagine! It -was a fortnight since I had been there with Jacques. The windows were -closed. The little drawing-room with its tasteful tapestry and furniture -was still the same, and so was the bedroom with its red furniture. I -found out, on looking in a drawer where I had put my work-basket with my -odds and ends, that it was no longer there, and I was somewhat -astonished. But there was still a dressing-room and a little room which -we sometimes used as a dining-room. I thought that perhaps the porter, -when cleaning, had moved the things into the little room and forgotten -to replace them. I looked there, found the work-basket, and began to -mend my skirt. I took it off to do it more quickly. Suddenly I seemed to -hear the opening of doors. I had taken the key out of the lock without -shooting the bolt. My first thought was that Jacques was the unexpected -visitor. Had he not told me, and I had believed him, as usual, that he -sometimes came there to work out of remembrance of me and to assure -himself more solitude? I had not time to give myself up to the sweet -emotion this thought awakened in my heart. I could recognize two voices, -his and the other woman’s.” - -“The voice of Madam de Bonnivet?” I asked as she remained silent after -the last few words, which were hardly audible. I was as much moved by -her story as she was herself. She bent her head to signify “yes” and -maintained her silence, so I dare not insist. The tragedy of the -situation, the facts of which she had placed before me so simply, -crushed me. She went on— - -“I cannot describe to you what passed in me when I heard this woman, -who, thinking herself alone with her lover, was laughing loudly and -talking familiarly to him. I felt a sharp pain, as if the keen point of -a knife had wounded me in the inmost part of my being, and I began to -tremble in the whole of my body on the chair upon which I was sitting. -But even now at the thought, look at my hands! I desired to get up, to -go to them, and to drive them away, but I could not. I could not even -cry out. It seemed to me as if my life suddenly stood still in me. I -heard and listened. It was a pain greater than death, and I really -thought I should die where I sat! But here I am, and do you know the -reason? In that small room where I stayed like that without moving, -after the first moment of fearful pain had passed, I was overcome by -disgust, by inexpressible repugnance and horror which was absolutely -nauseating. Without a doubt if I had distinctly heard the words of this -man and woman the need of immediate vengeance would have been too strong -for me; but the indistinct, confused murmur, consisting of words I could -hear and words I could not hear, combined with the picture of what I -guessed was taking place on the other side of the wall, besides the -unutterable suffering it caused me, gave me an impression of something -very dirty, very ignoble, very disgusting, and very abject. There was -one phrase in particular, and such a phrase which made me feel that I -despised Jacques more than I loved him, and at the same time—how strange -the heart is!—I could only grasp the idea that if I entered the room he -would think that I came there to spy upon him. That pride in my feelings -ended by dominating everything else. I remained motionless in this small -room for perhaps an hour. Then they departed and I went into the room -they had just left. The bed was in disorder, but the pillows and -bedclothes were the same. Ah,” she groaned, uttering a cry which rent my -heart, and pressing her fingers into her eyes as if to crush the -eyeballs and with them a horrible vision of other infamous details which -she would not, could not mention then she cried: “Save me from myself, -Vincent. My friend, my only friend, do not leave me; I believe my head -will burst and I shall go mad! Oh, that bed! that bed! our bed!” - -She got up as she said these words, rushed towards me and buried her -head against my shoulder, seizing me with her hands in an agony of -supreme grief. Her face contracted and turned up in a spasm of agony, -and I had only just time to catch her. She fell unconscious into my -arms. - -Without doubt this unconsciousness saved her, with the help of the -torrent of tears which she shed when she recovered her senses. I saw her -reawaken to life and realize her misery. Her confidences and the period -of unconsciousness which followed them had moved me so deeply that I -could find nothing to say except those commonplace words used to comfort -a suffering person; and there is such difficulty in making use even of -those when one takes into account the legitimate reasons the person has -for suffering. Camille did not allow me to exhaust myself for long in -these useless consolations. - -“I know that you love me,” she said with an attempt at a broken-hearted -smile, which even now when I think of it makes me ill, “and I know, too, -that you sincerely pity me. But you must let me weep, you know. With -these tears it seems to me that my folly departs. I would like only one -promise from you, a real man’s promise, your word of honour that you say -'yes’ to the request I am going to make you.” - -“You believe in my friendship,” I said to her. “You know that I will -obey all your designs, whatever they may be.” - -“That is not sufficient,” she said at my evasive reply, behind which, -seeing her so excited, I had sheltered a last remnant of prudence. What -was she going to ask me? And she insisted: “It is your word of honour I -want.” - -“You have it,” I told her, overcome by the sad supplication in her dear -blue eyes from which the tears still flowed. - -“Thank you,” she said as she pressed my hand, and she added: “I want to -be sure that you will not say anything to Jacques of what I have told -you?” - -“I give you my word of honour,” I replied; “but you yourself will not be -able to tell him.” - -“I?” she replied, shaking her head with grim pride. “I shall tell him -nothing. I do not wish him to suspect me of spying upon him. I will -quarrel with him without giving a reason. I shall have courage against -my love now from disgust. I shall only have to recall what I have seen -and heard.” - -After her departure my heart-broken pity for her changed into increasing -uneasiness. Was I to keep my word to the poor girl and not warn Molan? I -knew too well the value of lovers’ oaths to believe that, after -assisting in concealment at this rendezvous between her lover and her -rival, she would keep to her resolution of a silent rupture without -vengeance. It is in vain for a woman to try and bear in her heart that -sentimental pride, of which she had given proof in a very unlikely -fashion by remaining in her hiding-place; she is still a woman, and -sooner or later the pressure of her instinct will overcome her reason -and dignity. If a fresh attack of grief overwhelmed the outraged -mistress, would she not, when a prey to the delirium of jealousy, write -the truth to her rival’s husband? The look came to my mind which -Bonnivet had given at his table the woman who bore his name and who was -now the mistress of Jacques. How was it that this coquette, so obviously -gaunt, so profoundly ironical, and so little impulsive, had given -herself thus? - -Curiosity to learn the details of this culpable adventure did not enter -into the temptation which seized me directly Camille had gone to go and -see my friend. At least I could warn him against danger and a surprise -likely to be tragic. I, however, resisted this desire, which was almost -a need, of warning him through a point of honour which I have never yet -failed to keep. That is the result of being the son of a Puritan. My -father’s words always came into my mind at times like this: “A promise -is not to be interpreted but to be kept.” - -I have this principle in my blood and marrow. I cannot recall -circumstances when to keep a promise has cost me such an effort. - -To remain faithful to my oath, I forbade myself going to see Jacques. He -came to see me on the day following the day I had received his mistress’ -confidences which were so hard for me to keep. He had the previous -evening been to the theatre to see Camille. He had not been able to talk -to her because of her mother’s presence. This presence, which was -obviously at the daughter’s desire, had astonished him a little; then he -thought he noticed in the latter’s eyes and also in her acting something -strange, a sort of unhealthy excitement. As often happens when a person -has not a clear conscience, this something had sufficed to make him -uneasy. He therefore, had come to the studio with the vague hope of -meeting Camille and the certain object of making me talk. His epigrams -upon my part as eternal confidant were well justified. It is true that a -very simple pretext offered an explanation of his visit. - -“I have had an invitation sent you for Madam de Bonnivet’s evening -party,” he stated after our greetings; “you will go, won’t you? Shall we -dine together that evening? Has Camille told you that she is acting -there?” - -“Yes,” I replied, “and I thought the idea was in somewhat doubtful -taste.” - -“It was not my idea,” he said with a laugh; “I am a little afraid of -complications, and I avoid useless ones as much as possible. There are -already too many unavoidable ones. Senneterre and Bonnivet arranged the -party, one advising the other. They want to know the truth of my -courting Queen Anne. Seeing that Camille is my mistress, they think that -if Madam de Bonnivet is really her rival, the two women must detest each -other. You follow their reasoning? In that case Madam de Bonnivet would -refuse to have Camille there and Camille would refuse to go. I should -also decline the invitation to avoid any meeting between the two women. -But I accepted and so did Camille. Madam de Bonnivet placed no obstacle -in the way. I should like you to have seen the stupor, and then the joy, -first of Senneterre and then of Bonnivet. Ah! they are observers, -analysts, and psychologists, like Larcher or Dorsenne.” After this irony -he added: “I have not seen Camille for some days. How is the portrait -progressing?” - -“You can judge for yourself,” I hastened to say, only too happy to seize -this pretext to avoid his questions, and I turned to show him the tall -canvas upon which was drawn the slender silhouette of the Blue Duchess -offering her flower—offering her flower to him who hardly looked at her. -Has he ever given five minutes’ attention to the artistic efforts of a -comrade? That day at least he had as an excuse his little inquiry to -make, and thus his critical situation between his two mistresses -rendered urgent. I was not offended when he continued, without the least -gleam of interest lighting up the glance, almost a wandering one, which -he fixed upon the picture. - -“Is she still jealous of Madam de Bonnivet?” he asked. - -“We have hardly mentioned that subject,” I replied with a blush at my -impudent untruth. - -“Well, so much the better,” he went on without insisting. “She would -choose her time very badly. I must tell you that Queen Anne and I have -recognized that we have made a misdeal and have given up the game. Yes, -we are in a state of armed peace. We have measured our weapons and -concluded an armistice. It was written that I should not seduce her and -that she should not seduce me. We are good friends now, and I think we -shall remain so. I like it better that way, it is more comfortable.” - -He looked at me, as he delivered this speech in a hesitating way, with a -keen perspicacity before which I did not flinch. If my face expressed -astonishment, it was at his assurance in the comedy. He no doubt -attributed it to my surprise at his fresh relations with her whom he -continued to call Queen Anne, and whom I knew deserved to be brutally -called Anne the Courtesan. I realize to-day that in observing this -strange discretion about his triumph he did not yield to a simple -prudent calculation. Without a doubt he was prudent, but he also counted -on my thinking him sincere, and putting more energy into destroying my -model’s ever-recurring suspicions. There was, too, in this discretion -succeeding the cynicism of his former confidences a singular turn in his -self-conceit, which is more obvious now at a distance of time. - -I have often noticed in the person whom women call in their slang “the -man who talks” this anomaly. It is quite apparent. He tells you one by -one, embellishing them where necessary, the least important -preliminaries of an adventure with a person whose most trifling -imprudence ought to be sacred to him. Then when he sees that you are -quite convinced that he is going to become that woman’s lover, he -defends himself at the last stage with a defence which compromises her -as much as a positive avowal. This final silence prevents him from -judging himself too severely. The same vanity which made him talkative -before makes him silent afterwards. Vanity or remorse, calculation or a -last remnant of honour, whatever was the cause of this sudden -interruption in Jacques’ confidences, it is certain that on this -occasion he did not depart from his correct attitude of discretion. It -made my discretion seem the less meritorious. But suddenly events were -precipitated with the frightful rapidity of catastrophies in which -discussions and half-confidences have no place. I should like to narrate -this _dénouement_, not such as I saw it, but such as it was told to me. -God! if I could reproduce for this story the natural and violent -eloquence with which little Favier used to retrace these tragic scenes, -this clumsy narrative would live and become tinted with passion’s warm -tinge. Why did I not at once put it on paper in the form of notes, these -burning avowals which so long pursued me? - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -There is always a silent corner in a woman’s most sincere confession. -There was one in Camille’s. In telling me, with the pauses of jealousy -maddened by its certainty, of the dramatic discovery at the rooms in the -Rue Nouvelle she had not revealed the whole truth to me. She had already -resolved on an audacious plan for vengeance even at the time she -affirmed that she would not revenge herself. She confessed to me later -that she was afraid of my advice and reproaches. Among the phrases -audible through the thin partition which separated her from the bed -where her rival gave herself to their joint lover, she had seized upon a -few words more important to her than the rest. It was the day and hour -of their next meeting. This slender Madam de Bonnivet, in whom I had -diagnosed signs of the most immovable coldness—a detail which in -parenthesis Molan later on brutally confirmed—was like most women of -this kind, a seeker after sensations. At each fresh intrigue those -depraved women without temperaments persist in the hope that this time -they will experience that much-desired ecstasy of love which has always -shunned them. - -I have learned since that it was she who, in spite of the danger, or -rather because of the danger, had multiplied the meetings each of which -risked a tragic termination. Camille had ascertained the secret of the -real relations between the two lovers one Tuesday, and on the Friday, -three days later, they were to meet at the same place. Knowing the exact -moment of the appointment a mad resolution took possession of the -suffering mind of the poor Blue Duchess: to wait for her rival at the -door of the house, to approach her as she got out of her cab and spit -out into her face her hatred and contempt there on the pavement in the -street. At the thought of the arrogant Madam de Bonnivet trembling -before her like a thief caught in the act, the outraged actress -experienced a tremor of satisfied revenge. Her vengeance would be more -complete still. The infamous trap into which Jacques and Madam de -Bonnivet had lured her, the abominable invitation to perform at her -rival’s evening party to reassure the husband, would be of use to her. -Out of prudence and with the idea of not compromising herself with her -husband, Madam de Bonnivet must give her that evening in spite of -everything. She, Camille, would appear there! She would see the woman -who had stolen her lover tremble before her gaze, the lover himself pale -with terror lest she should make a scene, and the fear of the guilty -couple was in advance of those atrocious pleasures which hatred conjures -up in the mind. - -The three days which separated her from this Friday passed for Camille -in increasing expectancy. I did not see her during that time, for she -took a jealous care in avoiding me, for fear I should derange her plan. -But she told me afterwards that never since the beginning of her liaison -with Jacques had she felt such a fever of impatience. She passed the -night from Thursday to Friday like a mad woman, and when she left the -Rue de la Barouillére to go to the Rue Nouvelle, she had neither slept -nor eaten for thirty-six hours. At half-past three she was on the -pavement in front of the windows of the rooms walking up and down -wrapped in her cloak and unrecognizable through her double veil, never -losing sight of the door through which her rival must go. There was at -the corner of the Rue de Clichy a cabstand which she fixed as the -boundary of her promenade. Each time she passed she noticed the clock on -the cabstand. First it was twenty minutes to four, and more than twenty -minutes to wait. Then it was ten minutes to four, and she had ten -minutes to wait. Four o’clock struck. They were late. At twenty minutes -past four neither Jacques nor Madam de Bonnivet had appeared. What had -happened? - -In face of this delay, the more inexplicable as, in the case of a woman -of position like the one for whom revenge was watching, her moments of -leisure are few, it seemed obvious to Camille that the lovers had -altered the time and place of the appointment, and the idea maddened -her. They had seen one another so often since she had listened to their -caresses and familiarity so close to her. Who knows? Perhaps the porter -had noticed her when she went out the other day, although she had taken -advantage of a moment when he was absent from the lodge and talking in -the courtyard to replace the key. Perhaps he had warned Jacques of the -visit! - -It was half-past four, and still no one had appeared. Camille was at -last convinced that to remain longer watching was useless, all the more -since, as happens at this time in a cold February day, a bitter fog had -come down mixed with sleet, which made her shiver. She cast a desperate -glance at the impenetrable windows with their closed shutters from which -no gleam of light came, and was preparing to depart, when in searching -the short street with her eyes for the last time she saw a carriage stop -opposite the cabstand and a face look out of it which gave her one of -those attacks of terror which dissolve the forces of the body and soul: -it was the face of Pierre de Bonnivet! - -Yes, it was indeed the husband of Molan’s mistress, no longer in his -laughable function as the shy and intimidated husband of a woman of the -world who endured the coquetry of the woman who bore his name, -submitting to it to profit by it. It was the assassin in his -hiding-place, the assassin in whom jealousy had suddenly awakened the -primitive male, the murderous brute, and whose eyes, nostrils, mouth -announced his desire to kill whatever happened. He was there scanning -the street with savage glances. The half turned-up otter-skin collar of -his overcoat gave to his red hair and high colour a more sinister look, -and the bare ungloved hand with which he lifted the curtain of the -window to enable him to see better seemed ready to grasp the weapon -which should avenge his honour at once on that pavement, without any -more thought of the world and of scandal than if Paris were still the -primeval forest of 3,000 years before, where prehistoric men fought with -stone axes for possession of a female clad in skins. - -How had the jealous husband discovered the retreat where Queen Anne and -Jacques took shelter during their brief intrigue? Neither Camille, I, -nor Jacques himself have ever known. An anonymous letter had informed -him; but by whom was it written? Molan had at his heels a mob of the -envious; Madam de Bonnivet was in the same position, even without -reckoning her more or less disappointed suitors. Perhaps Bonnivet had -simply recourse to the vulgar but sure method of espionage. It is quite -certain that the porter had been questioned, and but for the fact that -he was a good fellow, who had been well supplied with theatre tickets by -his lodger, and was proud of the latter’s fame as an author, the rooms -which had seen the poor Blue Duchess so happy and so miserable in turn -without doubt would have served as the theatre for a sanguinary -dénouement. It was indeed the desire for a tragic vengeance which -Camille Favier saw upon the face, in the nostrils, around the mouth, and -in the eyes of the man’s face she had seen at the carriage window in the -dim light furnished by a gas jet in the darkness, looking for a proof of -his dishonour, and decided upon immediate vengeance. It is very likely, -too, that he had noticed the young woman. But he had only met her once -off the stage, and the high collar of her coat, a fur boa wound several -times round her neck, a hat worn over her eyes and a double veil made -Camille into an indecisive figure, a vague and indistinctive silhouette. -Bonnivet without doubt saw in her, if his fixed plan allowed him to -reason at all, a wanderer of the prostitute class exercising her -miserable trade as the darkness came on. Then he took no further notice -of her. - -As for the charming and noble girl who was so magnanimous by nature that -it seemed a pity that she should have experienced such depraving -adventures, she had no sooner recognized Bonnivet than her first spite, -her furious jealousy, the legitimate sorrow of her wounded passion and -her appetite for revenge all combined into one feeling. She realized -nothing but the danger Jacques was in, and the necessity of warning him, -not to-morrow, or that evening, but at once. A few minutes before she -had made up her mind that the lovers had postponed their appointment -till another day. - -An idea suddenly pierced her heart like a red-hot iron; suppose they had -only postponed the appointment till five o’clock? Suppose at that moment -they were preparing to set out for this street, at the top of which this -sinister watcher was waiting? The thought that, after all, that was -possible at once transformed itself, as often happens when the -imagination works around the danger to a person beloved, into a -certainty. She could distinctly see Jacques walking towards this -ambuscade. The resolution to stop him at once without a second’s delay -possessed her with irresistible force. What could she do but hasten to -the Place Delaborde, where she had a last chance of meeting Molan? She -was afraid she would be noticed by Bonnivet, or he might hear her voice, -if she took one of the cabs on the rank, so she hurried along the Rue de -Clichy like a mad woman, calling cab after cab, and feeling, when at -last she took her seat in an empty one, the horrible attack of a fresh -hypothesis which almost made her faint. Supposing the two lovers had, on -the other hand, put forward the time of their meeting and were in the -rooms, while the husband warned by a paid or gratuitous spy was waiting -for them? Camille could see them once more in her imagination, with the -same inability to distinguish the possible from the real. Yes, she could -see them, quite sure of their privacy, taking advantage of the gathering -darkness to emerge arm in arm, and she could see Bonnivet rush and -then.... This unknown conclusion varied between sudden murder and a -terrible duel. - -The unfortunate creature had hardly conceived this second hypothesis, -when a tremor shook her to her very marrow. Her cab had set off at a -fast trot in the direction of the Place Delaborde. What could she do -then? In these instants when not only seconds, but halves and quarters -of a second are counted, does real sentiment possess a mysterious double -sight which decides persons with more certainty than any calculation or -reasoning could do? Or are there, as Jacques Molan loved to say, -destinies protected by singular favour of circumstance, which have -constantly good luck, just as others constantly have bad luck? Still -Camille, between two possibilities, chose by instinct that which turned -out to be the true one. - -At the precise moment that the cab turned into the Place de la Trinité -she directed the driver to turn back to the Rue Nouvelle. Why? She could -not have told. She stopped the cab and paid her fare at the top of this -street. Her plan was made and she put it into execution with that -courageous decision which danger sometimes inspires in souls like hers, -passive on their own behalf, but all flame and energy in defence of -their love. She could see that Bonnivet’s carriage was still in the same -place. Her umbrella up to protect her from the sleet was sure to hide -her face as she walked bravely along past the carriage and reached the -house, the door of which the jealous husband was watching. Her doubts -were removed, for a stream of light through the cracks of the shutters -denoted some one’s presence in the rooms. She went in without hesitation -and walked straight to the porter, who saluted her in an embarrassed -way. - -“I can assure you, mademoiselle, that M. Molan is not here,” he replied -when she insisted, after his first denial. - -“I tell you he is here with a lady,” she replied. “I saw the light -through the windows.” Then sharply with the inexpressible authority -which emanates from a person really in despair she said: “Wretch, you -will repent for the rest of your life of not answering me frankly now. -Stop,” she added, taking the astonished porter’s arm and pulling him out -of the lodge. “Look in that carriage at the corner of the street on the -right and take care you are not seen. You will see some one watching the -house. He is the woman’s husband. If you want blood here directly when -she leaves, all you have to do is to prevent me going up to warn them. -Good God, what are you afraid of? Search me if you want to make sure I -have no weapon and would not harm them. My lover deceives me, I know, -but I love him; do you hear? I love him, and I wish to save him. Cannot -you see that I am not lying to you?” - -Dominated by a will stretched to its uttermost, the man allowed himself -to be pulled to the door. Luck, that blind and inexplicable chance which -is our salvation and destruction in similar crises, sometimes by the -most insignificant of coincidences, that luck whose constant favour to -the audacious Jacques I mentioned, willed that at the moment when the -porter looked towards the carriage Bonnivet leaned out a little. The man -turned to Camille Favier with an agitated look. - -“I can see him,” he cried; “it is the gentleman who the day before -yesterday asked me some questions about the occupants of the house. He -asked me if a M. Molan lived here, and when I replied 'No’ according to -orders, he took a pocket-book from his pocket. 'What do you take me -for?’ I asked him. I ought to have given the rascal a good hiding. Wait -while I go and ask him if he has authority from the police to watch -houses.” - -“He will answer you that the street is common property, which is quite -true,” said Camille, whose coolness had returned with the danger. Was it -the inspiration of love? Was it a vague remembrance of the usual -happenings on the stage? For our profession acts in us like automatic -mechanism in the confusion of necessity. A plan formed itself in her -imagination in which the honest porter would take a part, she knew, for -Molan knew the way to make himself liked. “You will not prevent that man -from staying there,” she went on, “you will only make him think there is -something it is necessary to hide. He will make no mistake as to what -that something is. Before coming here he must have received positive -information. You want to help me to save your master, don’t you? Obey -me.” - -“You are right, mademoiselle,” the porter answered, changing his tone; -“if I go and make a scene with him he will understand, and if it is his -wife, he has the right not to want to be what he is. I meant to have -warned M. Jacques when he went upstairs that I had been questioned, but -he came with that lady.” - -“I will warn him,” Camille said, “I undertake to do so. Now go and call -a cab, but do not bring it into the courtyard, and leave me to act. I -swear I will save him.” - -She ran upstairs while the porter called a cab as she had ordered him. -The simple object, if there must be a drama, of doing everything to -prevent it taking place in his house, had made him as docile as if -Camille had been the owner of the house, that incarnation of omnipotence -to the Paris porter. When the plucky girl reached the landing before -that door she had opened so many times with such sweet emotion, she had, -in spite of the imminent danger, a moment’s weakness. The woman in her -in a momentary flash revolted against the devotion love had suggested in -such a rapid, almost animal, way, just as she would have jumped into the -water to save Jacques if she had seen him drowning. Alas! she was not -saving him alone! The image of her rival rose in front of her with that -almost unbearable clearness of vision which accompanies the bitter -attacks of the jealousy which knows it is not mistaken. Vengeance was -there, however, so certain, so complete, so immediate and impersonal! It -was sufficient to allow events to take their course down the slope upon -which they had started. - -When the poor child afterwards told me the details of this terrible day -she did not make herself better than she really was. She confessed to me -that the temptation was so strong that she had to act with frenzy and -fury to put something irreparable between herself that moment, so she -began to ring the bell at the door, first of all once, then twice, then -three times, then ten times, with that prolonged ring which gives an -accent of mad insistence to the bell. She could see in her mind as -clearly as if she were in the room the two lovers, attracted by the -bell, first laughing at the thought that it was an inopportune visitor, -then exchanging glances in silence, Madam de Bonnivet in affright, and -Jacques trying to reassure her, as they both got up. How she would have -liked to have shouted “quick, quick!” Then she began to knock repeatedly -at the door with her clenched fist. Afterwards she listened. It seemed -to her, for the over-excitement of her anguish doubled the power of her -senses, that she could distinguish a noise, a creaking of the floor -beneath a stealthy step on the other side of the still closed door; and -applying her mouth to the crack of the door to make sure of being heard— - -“It is I, Jacques,” she cried, “It is I, Camille. Open the door, I beg -of you, your life is in danger. Open the door, Pierre de Bonnivet is in -the street.” - -There was no reply. She was silent, listening once more and asking -herself whether she were mistaken in thinking she heard a footstep. Then -still more maddened, she began again to ring the bell at the risk of -attracting the attention of some other resident in the house; she -knocked at the door and called out: “Jacques, Jacques, open the door!” -and she repeated: “Pierre de Bonnivet is below!” There was still no -reply. In her paroxysm of fear a new idea occurred to her. She went down -to the porter, who had come back with the cab, and who was now -distracted and moaning in naïve egoism. - -“This comes of being too good. If anything happens we shall get -discharged. Where shall we go then? Where shall we get another place?” - -“Give me pencil and paper,” she said, “and see if the watcher is still -there.” - -“He is still there,” the porter answered, and seeing Camille fold the -paper on which she had feverishly scribbled a few lines, “I see,” he -said, “you are going to slip the note under the door. But that won’t get -the lady out. If I had a row with the fellow, we should both be locked -up, and while explanations were taking place she could escape and there -would be no scandal in the house.” - -“That would be one way,” Camille replied, though she could not, in spite -of the gravity of the danger, help smiling at the idea of a struggle -between the man of the people and the elegant sportsman Pierre de -Bonnivet; “but I think mine is the better plan.” - -She rushed up the staircase once more, and after ringing the bell as -loudly as before, she slipped under the door, as the porter had guessed, -the bit of paper on which she had written: “Jacques, I want to save you. -At least believe in the love you have betrayed. What more can I say? -Open the door. I swear to you that B—— is at the corner of the street -watching for you. If you look to the right you will see his carriage, -and I swear to you, too, that I will save you.” - -What a note, and how I preserve it, having obtained it from Jacques -himself, as a monument of harrowing tenderness! It is impossible for me -to transcribe it without shedding tears. The sublime lover had -calculated that sooner or later Jacques would have to come to the door -to go out. She also told herself that she would stand against the -staircase wall till, after reading her supplication, he opened the door. -With what a beating heart she watched her white note immediately -disappear! A hand drew it inside. She could hear the rustle of the paper -as the hand unfolded it and the noise of a window opening. Jacques was -looking into the street, as she had told him to do, to verify for -himself, in spite of the increasing darkness, the accuracy of the -information contained in the strange missive. To the poor Duchess, -although she had indicated the method of verification, this proof of -distrust at that moment was really like the probing of a wound, the most -painful spot in a painful wound! She had no time to think of this fresh -humiliation. The door opened at last and the two lovers were in the -anteroom facing one another: Camille a prey to her exaltation of -sacrifice and martyrdom so strangely mingled with contempt and almost -hatred; he pale and haggard, and looking untidy from his hasty toilet. - -“Come,” he began in a low voice, “what is it? You know if you are lying, -and have come to make a scene.” - -“Be quiet, wretch!” she replied without deigning to lower her voice; “if -I were a woman to make scenes, should I have neglected the opportunity -when you came here with her last Tuesday at three o’clock? Yes, I was in -that room, there behind the alcove, and I heard everything; do you -understand? everything, I did not come out and I let you go. There is no -question of that. The husband of that woman is at the corner of the -street watching for you. You looked out of the window and saw the -carriage. I don’t want him to kill you in spite of what you have done to -me. I love you too well. That is the reason I am here.” - -Molan had watched this strange girl’s face while she talked. Suspicious -though he was, that being the punishment of men who have lied to women -too often, he realized that Camille was speaking the truth. Then he made -a generous movement, his first. If he is an egoist, comedian, and a -knave, he does not lack courage. He has several times, because of -slanderous articles, fought very unnecessarily and very bravely. Perhaps -too, for the idea of playing to the gallery is never absent from certain -minds even in solemn moments, he was thinking of the report of the -drama, if drama there was, which the newspapers would publish far and -wide. A few words he said to me later make one think so: “You must admit -that I missed a magnificent advertisement!” But who can tell what the -thought at the back of his head was, and perhaps after all those words -were only the after-thought of a man of his kind to conceal his rare -natural outbursts. Still, adjusting his jacket and taking his hat from a -peg in the anteroom, he answered in a loud voice— - -“I believe you and thank you. It is enough. I know now what I have to -do.” - -“Do you mean to go down?” she said. “You are going to meet danger? Will -that save you, answer me, when you go and ask that man—what? What he is -doing there? It would be sacrificing this woman, and you have no right -to do so. If Bonnivet himself followed you, he saw a woman enter. If he -had you followed, he knows that a woman is here. He must see a woman -leave with you in a cab and conceal herself. He must follow the cab and -leave this street clear for her to escape during that time. Ah, well! -you must go out with me. There is a cab waiting. I have had it fetched. -We will get into it; do not refuse and do not argue. Bonnivet will see -us do so and will follow us in his carriage. He will expect to surprise -you with her; he will surprise you with me, and you will be saved.” She -took him in her arms unconsciously, then pushed him violently away from -her and went on in a low voice: “We are almost the same height, go and -ask for her cloak. She will take mine and go five minutes after us, -after she has seen her husband’s carriage go. Wish her good-bye, and be -sure she does not come to thank me. If I saw her I might not be able to -control myself.” - -She took off her long black cloak as she spoke and handed it to Jacques, -who received it without a word. Certain women’s sacrifices have a -magnificent simplicity which crushes the man who receives them. He can -only accept them and be ashamed. Besides there was no time to hesitate. -Necessity was there, implacable and inevitable. Jacques went into the -drawing-room into which the anteroom opened, while Camille remained -standing against the wall in the outer room. “I had a knife in my -heart,” she told me afterwards, “and also a savage joy at the idea that -I was overwhelming her by what I was doing; it was a sorrowful joy. I -also loved him again, and I have never loved him so much as at that -moment. I realized how pleasant it is to die for some one! At the same -time I was obliged to master myself to prevent entering and insulting -this wretch, tearing her chemise and striking her with my hands. Oh, -God, what moments they were!” - -While this miracle of love was taking place in the commonplace -surroundings of this abode of love, the darkness had come. The street -noises penetrated into this anteroom with a sort of sinister far-away -sound, and the poor actress could hear a whispering quite close to her, -the discussion taking place in the other room between the traitor for -whom her devotion was meant and the accomplice in his treachery. At last -the door opened and Jacques reappeared. He had his hat on his head and -his fur collar turned up to conceal half his face. He had in his hand -Madam de Bonnivet’s astrakhan jacket which Camille put on with a -shudder. It was a little too large for her at the breast. “I thought she -must be more beautiful than I am in spite of her slender appearance,” -she said to me when telling me of this very feminine impression, and it -was another puncture in her wound. - -“Come,” Jacques went on after a period of silence. He watched her put on -the jacket with an expression in which appeared the last gleam of that -distrust, the first sign of which had been the opening of the window -after the note to make sure that Bonnivet was really there. They -descended the staircase without exchanging a word. At the lodge, while -Jacques was telling the porter to call another cab as soon as the first -had gone, Camille fastened her double veil over her face and slipped -into the cab, hiding her face with a muff which she showed to Jacques -once the door was shut. - -“It is my poor plush muff,” she said jokingly to make his courage return -by this proof of her coolness. “It does not go very well with this -millionairess’ jacket. But at this distance and this time in the evening -it will not be noticeable. Look through the window at the back of the -cab and see whether the carriage at the corner of the street is -following us.” - -“He is following us,” Jacques said. - -“Then you are saved,” she replied. She pressed his hand passionately, in -her clasp allaying the anxiety of the cruel moments which she had been -through and burst into tears. He could still find no words to thank her, -and to relieve his embarrassment he tried, as he had often done when -they were in a cab together, and had had a quarrel, to put his arm round -the young woman’s waist, draw her towards him and snatch a kiss. His -movement brought back her furious hatred and jealousy, and repulsing him -fiercely she said— - -“No, never, never again.” - -“My poor Mila,” he said, calling her by a pet name he used in moments of -passion. - -“Don’t call me that,” she interrupted, “the woman of whom you are -talking is dead, you have killed her.” - -“But you love me,” he insisted. “Ah! how you love me to have done what -you did just now!” - -It was her turn to make him no answer. The cab reached the top of the -Rue de Babylone without the two lovers exchanging any other words than -this question which Camille asked from time to time: “Are we still being -followed?” and Jacques’ reply: “Yes.” - -This furious pursuit by the jealous husband displayed such an evident -resolve for vengeance that the actress and her companion felt again the -anguish they had already experienced—she when she recognized the face of -the watcher at the window of the stationary carriage, he when the sound -of the bell surprised him in Madam de Bonnivet’s arms. Would the husband -be duped by the plan Camille had thought out? The fact of his waiting -till their cab stopped to approach the two fugitives testified to his -uncertainty, or else, sure of not losing sight of the cab, he preferred -to have an explanation with the man whom he believed to be his wife’s -lover in a more out-of-the-way place, where he would alight. At last -Camille recognized the church of Saint François Xavier which reared its -two slender towers through the mist. - -“Here is a good place to stop,” she said as she tapped for the driver to -do so. “You will see the other carriage stop too and Bonnivet get out. -He will rush towards us, and then we shall need all our coolness. Let me -get out first, and if he asks why we conceal ourselves like this, talk -of mother.” - -It was one of those rapid scenes, which the actors themselves, when they -recall them, think they have dreamt, and do not know whether they have -experienced a sensation of tragedy or comedy. Life is like that, -oscillating from one to the other of these two poles with an -instantaneousness which has never been expressed, I think, by any writer -and never will be. The change is too sudden. At the moment Camille set -foot upon the pavement at the foot of the church steps, she saw Pierre -de Bonnivet suddenly rise up before her; he took her arm and suddenly -recognized her. - -“Mademoiselle Favier!” he cried. Then he stopped, quite out of -countenance, while Camille in terror cowered against Molan who had by -this time also got out of the cab, and who, as if surprised at -recognizing the man who had rushed toward his mistress, cried in a voice -in which there was a tremor— - -“Why, it is M. de Bonnivet!” - -“Good gracious, mademoiselle,” Queen Anne’s husband stammered after a -moment’s dead silence, “I must have seemed very strange to you just now, -but I thought I recognized some one else.” In his hesitation a sudden, -immense and unhoped-for joy quivered. The jealous husband had a proof -that his suspicions were false. “I thought I recognized the friend of a -friend of mine, and in Molan the friend himself. You will excuse me, -will you not? What would have been a joke to her becomes to a person -like yourself, whom I admire so much, and with whom I am so little -acquainted, an unpardonable familiarity.” - -“You are quite forgiven,” said Camille with a laugh, adding with as much -presence of mind as if she had pronounced the phrase on the Vaudeville -stage in the course of an imaginary crisis, instead of finding herself -face to face with a real danger: “I live quite close here. I asked the -famous author to see me home after rehearsal, and I had scruples about -letting him return alone and on foot to civilization. I am going to get -into my cab and leave you my cavalier to accompany you, M. de Bonnivet. -Molan will explain to you that a woman can be an actress and a simple -ordinary woman as well, very simple and very ordinary. Good-bye, Molan; -good-bye, sir.” - -She bowed her pretty head coquettishly, enveloping the two men in her -lovely smile, and made towards the left side of the church where the -sacristy was, while Jacques said to Bonnivet putting his finger to his -lips— - -“Because of her mother, you know.” - -“I understand, you bad boy,” the other man replied with a hearty laugh. -He continued to feel that gaiety of deliverance, so sweet as to be -almost intoxicating, on emerging from a torturing crisis like the one he -had just been through. He could have kissed where he stood the lover of -his wife, whom he had all day been planning to kill, and he pushed him -into his carriage, which was splashed with mud right up to the box -through this fierce pursuit across Paris, saying as he did so: “Where -shall I drop you? You know your Mademoiselle Favier is quite charming, -with such distinction of manner too! She had such a way, too, of -justifying her drive with you! Mind, I am asking no questions. I will -apologize again to her when she is acting at my house. You might do so, -too, for me, if you don’t mind! A likeness, you know, and at that hour a -mistake is so easily made.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -The emotion experienced by Camille during this dramatic adventure, -suddenly determined upon, thanks to her presence of mind, in a -theatrical catastrophe, had been so strong that directly she was out of -sight of the two men she felt like fainting. All she could do was to get -into a cab and drive to the Rue de la Barouillére. There a real attack -of nervous fever prostrated her and made her go to bed. So it was not -from her that I learned this episode in which she played a part so -naturally, spontaneously, magnanimously, and generously. It was a noble -part which suited the noble heart revealed by her beautiful blue eyes, -by her proud mouth, and by her well bred and charming personality! -Otherwise, had she been well enough to get out, on the day following -this dreadful day she would have hastened to me to complete her -sorrowful confidence of her first surprise by her second confidence of -her heroic sacrifice for her most unworthy lover. But persons capable of -acting as she had acted do not boast. - -It was Molan himself who first told me the details of these almost -incredible scenes—at least those he knew, Camille herself having since -completed them. The subtle feline person had two reasons for making me -acquainted with this adventure, in which he still played a flattering -part—current morality being taken for granted—of a man loved to -distraction by one of the most elegant and courted women in Paris, and -to martyrdom by one of the prettiest actresses not only in Paris but in -Europe. The first of these two reasons was his natural fatuity, and the -second his interest. He was afraid that after such an experience the -devotion of the Blue Duchess would shrink from another ordeal, that of -acting a comedy at the house of the rival she had saved. Now he -considered, not without good reason, that Camille’s presence at Madam de -Bonnivet’s party was the indispensable conclusion of the scene in the -Place Saint François Xavier. The husband’s suspicions must have been -strongly aroused to have gone to the extremity of espionage, and there -was no answer to this phrase with which Molan completed his disclosure. - -“As long as Bonnivet does not see these two women face to face, his -suspicion may be again aroused, and suspicion is like apoplexy, the -first attack can be cured but there is no remedy for the second.” - -His theory was right. But while he retailed it to me, as a conclusion, -my thoughts were only for the real drama he had just narrated. I can -still hear myself crying, “Oh, the wretches!” When he described to me -Camille in the anteroom of the suite of rooms, while Madam de Bonnivet -was listening to her repeated ringing of the bell, pale with terror, I -can realize to-day that this story of Jacques’ was most indelicate on -his part, for he must needs begin by this phrase. “First of all I will -tell you the whole truth. I am Madam de Bonnivet’s lover.” I was no -longer astonished at my colleague’s cynicism. When he had finished, the -misery of this adventure overwhelmed me with sorrow, and there were -tears in my voice when I asked him— - -“And after that you want Camille to act at that woman’s house?” - -“She must,” he replied, “and I am relying upon you to ask her.” - -“Upon me,” I cried, “you must be mad.” - -“Not a bit,” he went on. “It is very simple. While listening to you she -will only think of the risk I have run and say 'yes.’ That is the a. b. -c. of jealousy.” - -“But if she refuses. You seem to think she has no malice against you.” - -“Not a bit,” he replied with his frightful smile; “either I am quite -ignorant of the human heart, or else she has never loved me so much, -since I have never treated her so badly.” - -“If she does not tell me the story you have just told me, how am I to -turn the conversation?” - -“She will tell you; then be the first to begin. Confess that I have told -you in the madness of my emotion and remorse. It will not be a lie, for -it is a fact that in the cab yesterday while I looked at Camille sitting -in her corner with fixed gaze and excited face, I would have given -everything to love her at that moment as she loved me. Explain that I -was not thinking of the other woman. I called upon the latter to-day. -What a woman, my dear friend, and how the crack of the whip of danger -made her vibrate! I found her with her husband after breakfast, and he -left us together after a quarter of an hour’s affectionate talk, which -proves that his suspicion is at any rate a little allayed. That man does -not know how to pretend. Lately he has hardly shaken hands with me. We -did not abuse his complaisance and we were right, for I met him -returning home, as I was leaving twenty minutes later, to find out how -long my visit had lasted. There was just time for Anne to give me the -two or three most indispensable items of information. You admire -Camille’s courage, don’t you? But what will you say to the presence of -mind of this great lady who was indeed risking something, her life -perhaps, her honour without a doubt, her position and everything which -constitutes her reasons for existence. Do you know where she went when -she was able to escape. She drove straight to a furrier’s, where she -purchased an astrakhan jacket as like the other one as possible. She had -no money to pay for it and did not like to leave her name. The idea -struck her to go to her jeweller and borrow the money. She pretended -that she had lost her purse, and then returned to the furrier’s to pay -for her jacket, picked up her own carriage, which, she had left at a -friend’s house and ordered to meet her outside the shops near the -Louvre, and reappeared at home dressed as she was when she went out. -These are the true details. Would you believe them? Her visit to the -jeweller’s and furrier’s moved me very much. How frightened she must -have been at risking them. Now all she has to do is to tell her maid a -lie to account for the difference of jackets. A mistake after calling or -trying on, that is all. But every fresh little lie is a new landmark if -the husband pursues his inquiries. This man would shrink from -questioning the servants. That is what saved us this time. He will have -had me followed, not his wife, but I was imprudent enough to accompany -her to the rooms. My luck makes me frightened,” he added seriously, -after being silent for a time. - -“Yesterday’s discovery has, all the same, not destroyed Bonnivet’s -jealousy, I repeat, since he returned home during my visit, and if -Camille does not keep her promise his suspicion may be aroused again.” - -“But with this distrust and the knowledge he possesses of your rooms,” I -said, “your appointments will not be very easy to make.” - -“It is for that reason that Madam de Bonnivet will not fail to keep one -now. She is a curious and bored woman, and her commonplace adventure -with me has at last given her the tremor,” he added smilingly. “Ah, ah, -she is of the same nature as the divine marquis to some extent. But you -don’t understand these things at all, my dear boy. As for the address of -the rooms, the fact that Bonnivet knows it will make no difference. -Having seen me leave there with Camille, he will never believe me -capable of taking the other one to the Rue Nouvelle.” - -“You will go on then without any fear?” - -“Yes. I was frightened yesterday when I heard the ringing and knocking -at the door, and I repeat that I am sometimes afraid of my luck. It is -as stupid as believing in the evil eye, but the feeling, is stronger -than I am.” - -“There is no doubt that in Camille,” I replied, “you have met the only -woman in Paris capable of such an action. If you had even a little bit -of heart, you would spend your life in making her pardon your infamy.” - -“My dear boy,” he interrupted, “then you will never understand that she -only loves me like that because she understands that I do not love her. -Then,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “without doubt it is a -question of personality, I desire the other one and I do not desire -Camille. This explanation of love is not brilliant, and if the -abstractors of quintessence who subtilize upon the sentiment, like your -friend Dorsenne, gave it in one of their books, they would lose their -feminine clientele, their twenty-five thousand skirts I call it. I -myself am neither an analyst nor a psychologist, and I maintain that -this explanation is the true one.” - -“So he told you everything!” Camille said ironically when I saw her the -day after this conversation. I had written to her, to be sure and not -miss her. I found her pale with eyes burning from insomnia. She was in -the little drawing-room in the Rue de la Barouillére, which always -looked so commonplace, poor and grey, while its canvas-covered furniture -gave it the appearance of a room prepared for moving. “Did he boast also -of the delicacy with which his wretch of a mistress thanked me? Here,” -and she handed me a leather case with her monogram upon it, C.F., which -I had noticed her fingering nervously for five minutes. I opened the -case, which contained, glistening upon black velvet, a massive gold -bracelet incrested with diamonds. It was one of those jewels in which -the work of the goldsmith is reduced to a minimum, and of which the -brutal richness makes the present an equivalent of a cheque or a roll of -sovereigns. I looked at the bracelet, then I looked at Camille with a -look in which she could read my surprise at the method employed by Madam -de Bonnivet to pay her for her devotion. - -“Yes,” the actress went on, and, in a tone of disgust which made me ill, -she repeated: “Yes, that is the object which came this very evening with -my coat. It is my medal for bravery,” she sneered. “My first object as -soon as I go out will be to give the wretch a lesson in delicacy!” - -“Be content with returning the jewel through Jacques to her,” I -suggested. “A scene would be too unworthy of you. When a person has the -whip hand, which you most certainly have, it is wise to keep it to the -end.” - -“No,” she proudly said, “there will be no scene between us. I would not -have one. I will go and sell the bracelet to a jeweller, then I will go -to a church, spend the money in charity, and Madam de Bonnivet will -receive with her jacket two little pieces of paper—one the jeweller’s -bill, and a note from the priest saying, 'Received for the poor, from -Madam de Bonnivet, so much.’ This infamous adventure will at least have -served to put a fire on a fireless hearth and a loaf of bread on an -empty table.” - -“Suppose the husband is there when the messenger arrives?” I asked. - -“She must explain it the best way she can,” Camille said, and a gleam of -cruelty passed into her blue eyes, which deepened in colour almost to -black. “Do you think I should have moved my little finger to help her -the day before yesterday, if it had not been necessary to save her to -save Jacques? Ah! that Jacques has not even called to inquire after me -this morning. He knows, too, that I have not acted for two consecutive -evenings. He knows me and that emotion makes me ill. Vincent,” she -added, taking my hand in her feverish grasp, “never love. It is such -madness to have a heart in this cruel world. From Jacques I have not -even had a note, two words upon his card, the little sign of politeness -one owes to a suffering friend.” - -“You are not just,” I told her, “he fears to face you. It is very -natural. He is too conscious of his faults, and, you see, he has sent me -to find out how you are.” - -“No,” she said, shaking her head dolefully, “he came to see you, because -he needed you for something. Confess to me what it was? From the first I -told you that you do not know how to lie or scheme. Oh, God! how nice it -would be to love some one like you, not in the way I love you, as a -friend, but in the other way! Come, confess that you have a commission -from Jacques for me.” - -“Well, yes,” I replied after a second’s hesitation. There was such -uprightness in this strange girl, such a rare nobility of sentiment -emanated from her whole being! To finesse with her seemed to me a real -shame. I therefore gave her, simply and sadly, Jacques’ message: simply, -because I reckoned, and rightly, too, that the surest way to influence -her was to state the facts without any phrasing; sadly, because I felt -the hardness of this new demand of Molan’s. I also realized its -necessity. When I had finished, tears came into her blue eyes. - -“So,” she said, with an even more bitter expression and a disenchanted -smile, in which there was much love, though it was for ever poisoned by -contempt, “he has thought of that, to save this woman again! He finds -that I have not sacrificed myself enough. Besides, it is logical. When -one has begun, as I did, one must go on to the end. I will go.” With her -forehead crossed by a wrinkle of resolution, her eyes hard, and her -mouth ugly, she went on: “Very well, Vincent. You have repeated his -words to me, and I thank you. That must have cost you something, too! -You owed me that frankness. You promise to exactly repeat mine to him, -do you not? Tell M. Molan, then, that I will act at Madam de Bonnivet’s -as is arranged. Yes, I will act there, and no one, you understand, shall -suspect with what feelings. But it is on one condition—tell him that, -too, and if he does not keep it, I will break my promise: I forbid him, -you understand, I forbid him to write or speak to me from this time -onward. He will talk to me at that woman’s house just sufficiently to -prevent anything being noticed. That must be all. I shall not know him -afterwards, you understand. After this last act he is dead to me. -Perhaps I shall really die myself,” she added in a stifled voice, “but -it is all over between us.” - -She made a gesture with her hands as of tearing up an invisible -agreement. Her eyes closed for a moment. Her features contracted with a -twitch of pain, and then this creature, so feminine in her grace and -mobility, assumed a tender look and a gentle smile as she got up and -said to me— - -“Leave me now, friend. Don’t come to see me again before I let you know. -We will finish the picture later on. I love and esteem you very much, -and feel real sympathy for you. But,” her voice was stifled as she -concluded, “but I must forget, all the same, to try and live.” Then with -a proud little inclination of her blonde head and a courageous shrug of -her slender shoulders, she concluded: “I am not to be pitied. I have my -art left.” - -I knew that Camille was incapable of breaking a promise made with such -seriousness as to be almost solemnity. She had that trait common to all -persons, men or women, who attach great importance to their feelings: a -fastidious scrupulousness in keeping unwritten agreements, reciprocal -engagements. Therefore I insisted with the greatest energy upon Jacques -conforming strictly to the condition which the actress had imposed upon -him, and I myself, great though the cost was to me, had the courage to -observe with the greatest rigour the programme of absence and silence, -the wisdom of which I understood. Around certain moral fevers, just as -around certain physical ones, there is darkness, suppression of motion, -and a total suspension of life. In spite of my absolute faith in -Camille’s word, I was not without uneasiness when I repaired a few days -later to Madam de Bonnivet’s party. I knew that the poor Blue Duchess, -if not quite restored to health, was at least well enough to reappear at -the theatre. When I say that I followed the programme drawn up by her -with the greatest rigour, I must add that I allowed myself once to go -and see her act without, as I thought, breaking the agreement, since she -did not see me sitting in the pit, and I had a feeling of relief at -seeing that there was no difference in her acting. I came to the -conclusion that she had taken to her art again, as she had said to me, -to that cult of the theatre which had been the naïve enthusiasm of the -dreams of her youth. I hoped that that love which never deceives would -cure the wound made by the other. But in the carriage which conveyed -Jacques and I to the club, where we again dined together, this -confidence gave place to apprehension, in spite of my companion’s -optimism, he having become once more a person of an imperturbable -assurance, which seemed born to manœuvre in false situations. - -“I am curious,” he said to me, “to know what she has prepared for her -audience of swells. She has promised the great scene from _La Duchesse -Blue_ with Bressoré, and then a few monologues and imitations. You don’t -know her in that light, do you? She has like every actor or actress her -monkey side.” - -“Imitations!” I repeated. “Fashionable people are admirable. They no -sooner have in their hands an artist of talent than they become -possessed of a single idea, to degrade that talent by forcing the -possessor to become a plaything for them. If it is a painter like -Miraut, they order from him portraits with a disgusting want of -expression to put upon bon-bon boxes! If he is a man of letters like -you, they make him write bad prose and verse at a moment’s notice! If he -is a musician, he has to produce a piece for the piano at once! In the -case of an actress like Camille, with ardour, temperament, and passion, -they make a parade of her. Good God, what foolishness it is! What is -going to happen to-night?” - -“Would you prefer,” sneered the dramatic author, “to hear the plaints of -Iphigenia or of Esther proclaimed ten paces away from a buffet laden -with _foie gras_ sandwiches, punch, orangeade, chocolate and iced -champagne? On my word of honour you seem to me admirable! But if you had -the lightest tint of that transcendental irony, without which life does -not present the slightest savour, you would find it exquisite that my -pretty Blue Duchess has saved the honour, and perhaps the life, of my -adorable Queen Anne, and that they met face to face—one playing her part -as a fashionable Parisian hostess, respected and worshipped; the other -giving her performance before an audience of the idle; while I myself am -the third person. My only regret for the beauty of the situation is that -I did not have an appointment with both during the day. Would you -believe it? Since these happenings I desire Camille again, and I would -retake her if I did not fear to spoil her masterpiece. Yes, the -masterpiece of her rupture. For she has discovered it; there is no -denying it. If André Mareuil had not laid down his humorous pen to -become a Commissioner of Police, if he were still writing his _Art de -rompre_ instead of drawing up regulations, I should submit the case to -him. Have you ever thought of a more divine method of a mistress ridding -herself of her lover and leaving in his mind an exquisite memory? That -is the ideal end of love.” - -“Try at least to be ashamed of your egoism,” I interrupted. I realized -that he was amusing himself by making my _naïveté_ display itself, and -that he was joking. But actually the fact that he was unable to jest on -such an occasion angered me, and I continued, touching his breast as I -did so: “Have you, then, absolutely nothing there but a ream of paper -and a bottle of ink, for the idea of this love, devotion and sorrow, -only to inspire you with one more paradox instead of bringing tears from -your eyes?” - -“One must never judge what is visible,” he replied with sudden -seriousness which contrasted strangely with his former flippancy. Did he -conceal in an inner fold of his heart, poisoned though it was with -social vanity, commercial calculations and literary ambitions, a tender -corner, too small to be ever exalted into complete passion, but -sufficiently alive to sometimes bleed, and had I touched the secret -wound? Or was his one of those complicated natures which keep just -enough sensibility to suffer because they have no more? These two latter -hypothesis are not irreconcilable in such a complex nature. They would -at least explain the anomaly of a talent for accurate human observation, -being associated with such implacable hardness of heart and a systematic -and utilitarian depravity of mind. Never had the astounding contrast -between Jacques’ person and his work struck me as it did in that rapidly -moving carriage. He was the first to break a silence which had lasted -for a few minutes by saying—he was without doubt replying to a thought -my reproaches had suggested to him— - -“Besides, if it were to begin again, I should have prevented that party. -It is useless. I don’t know what fresh information Bonnivet has -received, but he is charming to me and his wife. I found both of them -the other day examining two ornaments their jeweller had just brought. -In parenthesis, what do you think of this conjugal scene? She was -clasping around her neck a necklace of pearls and looking at herself in -the glass, while her husband said to me—to me!—as she showed me another -one: 'Which one do you prefer?’ She experienced a keen pleasure at this -high comedy scene. I saw that her eyes were shining like the pearls in -the necklace. At what price had she purchased this renewal of -confidence?” - -“But,” I said, “did not a scene like this, and the conclusion you drew -from it, make you take your hat and stick and go away, never to return?” - -“You are not, and never will be, intellectual, my dear boy,” he replied. -“Understand that there is a sort of bitter and ferocious joy in -despising what one desires, just as there is in enjoying what one hates. -That is how Queen Anne holds me fast, perhaps for a long time, just as I -hold her fast by the attraction of the danger involved. We have already, -since the affair, revisited the rooms in the Rue Nouvelle; would you -believe it? Decidedly there is no tincture of cantharides like fear?” - -“That is folly,” I cried, “to tempt fate like that!” - -“Quite right,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders, “but one must live -to write. There is a play in this story, and I will not miss it.” - -We reached Madam de Bonnivet’s house, and found a long string of -carriages already in the street. I was to find a great difference -between the almost familiar reception of the other evening and my -reception now. It seemed as if Jacques had in those few minutes tried to -give a complete representation of the different phases of character of -this human lighthouse. While we ascended the carved wooden staircase, -with its wealth of pictures, busts, tapestry, and ancient stuffs, he -whispered to me this last expression, which had nothing cunning nor -dandified about it, but was simply the childish vanity of the -middle-class gentleman engaged in a love affair— - -“You must admit that my friend is not badly housed?” - -I am quite sure that at that moment the carpets upon which his pumps -rested warmed a secret place in his heart. I am certain that the lustre -on that staircase illuminated the darkest depths of his snobbish -conceit. I am sure that a conqueror’s pride swelled his chest as he said -to himself in these luxurious surroundings: “I am her lover.” He had -become during the last few weeks too transparent for this shade of his -sensibility to escape me. Each of his words was like the striking of a -clock, the works of which are in a glass case. When the sound strikes -the ear one can see the little cogwheels bite the large ones and the -complicated mechanism at work. - -The hall doors had opened, and Jacques and myself were at once -separated. The spectacle, which this room, vaulted like a chapel and -unknown to me, and the two drawing-rooms opening from it presented, -awakened the painter in me, the man used to vibrating by a look. In a -corner of the hall a little platform had been erected, which was empty -just then. There were perhaps fifty women sitting with a like number of -men, all in evening dress, and the women’s jewels sparkled in their -blonde or dark hair and on their naked shoulders. The entire range of -colours was displayed in these various toilettes, which were heightened -by their contrast with the black coats and the details which had on my -first visit to this house so displeased me, the too composite character -of the decorations, blended and harmonized as they were in this light -with the aid of the moving crowd. Fans were waving, eyes shining, faces -were animated by questions and answers, and Queen Anne, towards whom I -went to pay my respects, really had in her white evening dress the -majestic air of a princess worshipped by her courtiers. - -As I approached her, I thought of the mortal peril she had been in the -other week. There seemed to me no more trace of it in her pale azure -eyes than there was of jealousy upon Bonnivet’s beaming face. For the -first, and, without doubt, the last time in my life, I was supplied with -positive information about a fashionable intrigue. Usually one does not -know the history of these fine gentlemen and beautiful ladies except -from a vague “they say.” A woman is suspected of having so and so for a -lover, and a man is suspected of having so and so as his mistress. This -suspicion, which to people of their class is equivalent to certainty, is -not reduced to exactness. The street and number of the house where they -meet is not known. It is not known under what circumstances they start -for the rendezvous. A door remains open to doubt, and if not open it is -ajar. - -As I bowed to Madam de Bonnivet and received her greeting in the form of -an amiable commonplace, I could see this haughty head on the pillow in -the chamber of adultery, and the terror of her disturbed features when -the continuous ringing of the bell and the repeated knocking at the door -had warned her of her danger. The contrast was so sharp that for the -first time I understood the unhealthy attraction which this to some -extent double existence exercises over certain imaginations, and why -women or men who have tasted these sensations no longer find any relish -in others. Such profound and perilous deception procures something like -an evil intoxication, the pleasure of a really superior and almost -demoniac hypocrisy, to the man or woman who lie in that fashion. To this -kind of infernal falsehood belonged the phrase which Madam de Bonnivet -used to close our rapid and uninteresting conversation. - -“There is some one who would not forgive me for detaining you any -longer,” she said, and the point of her fan indicated a direction which -my glance followed. I saw Camille Favier, whom at that moment Jacques -was approaching. “Go and speak to her,” she continued, “and tell your -friend Molan that I have a little commission for him while I think of -it.” - -I was prepared, on arriving that evening, to encounter much coolness in -this woman, who was depraved by coldness a coquette through egoism, and -curious even as regards vice through idleness. I had not even thought -the audacity of such a phrase addressed by her to me who knew everything -possible. In spite of my firm intention not to allow my impressions to -appear, she read my astonishment in my face. Her half-closed eyes darted -at me the most incisive look which has ever fathomed the soul of a man -to its depths. Without doubt, regarding her liaison with Molan, she -thought I had only one of those hypotheses, which I was unable to -verify, one of those hypotheses which grow around those so-called -mysteries, Parisian love affairs, and that I could not very well conceal -my deductions. The acuteness of her eyes became dulled into indulgent -irony, and I left her to obey the order she had given me, but in part -only. She had obviously calculated, with her habit of relying upon the -evil sentiments of her intimates, that I should be only too happy to -convey her message to Jacques in Camille’s presence, to make their -quarrel all the worse and put my friend in a somewhat false position. -She was to find out that a good fellow of a painter did not lend himself -to this pleasantry. I approached the two lovers as if the beautiful -enemy of the pretty actress had not entrusted me with any commission. -They were only exchanging, according to agreement, the most -indispensable polite phrases in a loud voice— - -“Have you come to this corner of Bohemia, then?” Molan said, my presence -restoring his natural assurance to him; “it is quite natural that you -should.” - -“Do not boast,” I replied in a tone of banter with a foundation of truth -to it similar to the one he affected. “It is a long time since you -passed as a man of the world.” - -“Big words!” he said still gaily. “I am off. Don’t talk too much ill of -your friend Jacques, and do not monopolize her too much,” he added, -turning to me; “she must do a little flirting to be a success with the -men.” - -He went away with the renewed desire, of which he had spoken to me, -shining in his eyes. Camille had bowed as he went without speaking, but -with a smile in which I, who knew her so well, could read so much -suffering and disgust. She fanned herself nervously, while I looked at -her with an emotion which I did not endeavour to conceal. We were in our -out-of-the-way corner like two outcasts, though our sorrowful -_tête-à-tête_ was very brief! Senneterre was already on his way towards -us from the other end of the hall with a young man who had asked to be -introduced to Camille. Those two minutes sufficed for us to exchange a -few phrases which redoubled my impression of danger. It had continually -increased ever since I had entered the house. - -“So you are come,” the actress said, “thank you;” and in a supplicating -tone she added: “Do not leave me this evening, if you love me a little.” - -“Don’t you feel well?” I asked. - -“I have presumed too much upon my strength,” she replied. “I was quite -well up to the moment I was presented to this woman and heard her voice. -Oh! that voice! Then Jacques came in, and I felt ill. Look, he is going -to her. They are talking, and are alone. Go and tell him that he must -not trample too much upon my heart. I am exhausted, and can bear no -more.” - -She pronounced these last few words hesitatingly, and forced herself to -smile, a convulsive smile like a nervous tremor. I do not think that I -have ever seen her so beautiful. The absence of jewels in the midst of -these well-dressed women and the simplicity of her toilette in these -luxurious surroundings gave her something like a tragic character. I had -no time to reply, for the professional “beater” was there with his -stereotyped phrase— - -“Mademoiselle, allow me to present to you my young friend, Roland de -Bréves, one of your most passionate admirers.” - -“With what selections are you going to charm us with this evening, -mademoiselle?” the young noodle asked Camille, who was still vibrating -with emotion. “It is rare good fortune to hear you in society; Madam de -Bonnivet will make many people jealous.” - -“Really there is no occasion for it, sir,” Camille replied, and to -correct his impertinence added: “I shall give a scene from _La Duchesse -Blue_ with Bressoré, and then three or four fragments. Besides, your -curiosity will soon be satisfied, for I can see Bressoré coming. He was -acting this evening in the new play, but he has got away early. What -luck!” - -“What good fortune for us,” her questioner said, “who will hear you all -the sooner!” - -“No,” she brutally said, “for me to be able to go to bed all the -sooner.” - -She turned her back on the young man, who was disconcerted by the -harshness of this strange reply, to exchange a few equally amiable words -with another gentleman who greeted her. The insolence of the phrases she -uttered, she who was usually so gracious, proved quite well that she was -hardly mistress of herself. Of what an outburst she would be capable if -Madam de Bonnivet, as her attitude towards Jacques at that moment made -me fear, gave too bold a display of coquetry. My anxiety was suddenly -borne to its highest pitch. I understood that in insisting upon Camille -figuring at this party, the cruel woman had not only proposed to put her -husband’s suspicions at rest for ever. For that she relied upon other -weapons. The dominant trait of her implacable nature was vanity, and -this vanity wished to have the actress at her mercy, to revenge herself -for the two humiliations she could not forget—the insulting heroism at -the rooms, and the return of the bill for the bracelet with the receipt -from the priest of Saint François Xaviers. - -Wounded in her most secret susceptibilities, she had promised herself -that for two or three hours she would keep her rival, who was then in -her employ, at her house, to inflame her again and again with the most -poignant and powerless jealousy, and leave herself free to pardon her -after the punishment and forget her, and also the man of letters whom -she had taken from the actress. He had already ceased to interest her, -now that he no longer represented another women whose happiness she -wished to steal. She would soon give proof of it, and also that the fop -was bragging when he thought that he had awakened her to the pleasure of -love. In spite of so many and such disturbing emotions, she had left his -arms as insensible, as far off as ever that total ravishment by person -which metamorphoses a coquette into a slave and enslaves her to the man -who has initiated her into this complete intoxication. She acted, -however, during this evening as if she had loved Jacques. The desire of -torturing the woman by whom she had been so strangely saved and wounded -was strong enough in her blasé heart to equal physical pleasure. I -gained this evidence upon the spot by watching her in the distance -talking, while I was making my way towards the spot where she was -laughing with Jacques, though my progress was interrupted at intervals -by Machault, further on by Miraut, and then by Bonnivet. - -The first of the three said to me: “I have not seen you at the school of -arms lately. You missed the Italian fencer, San Giobbe. He is really -wonderful.” - -“You did not tell me the other day,” the second said, “that you were -painting Camille Favier’s portrait. It is very underhand of you to treat -your old master in that way!” - -“Ah well, M. La Croix,” Bonnivet asked, “are you going to hang anything -at the next exhibition?” - -I felt inclined to answer the incorrigible fencer: “It is not a question -of assaults, parade and laughable combats; do you not see that there is -a prospect of a real duel, actual sword thrusts, and the sacrifice of -some one’s life?” To my dear master I felt inclined to say: “I shall not -make you sell a picture more, shall I? Why play the part with me of a -protector who is interested in the work of one of his pupils? Spare me -this comedy, and let me try to prevent a catastrophe.” To the husband I -would like to have said: “If you had watched over your wife more -carefully in the beginning she would not be what she is, and this drama -would not be enacted in your drawing-room.” In place of those replies, -in each case I uttered a few vain, untruthful words. My desire was to -reach Jacques soon enough at least to prevent him being in the vicinity -of Madam de Bonnivet while the acting was going on. Perhaps I should -succeed, as I was only a couple of paces away from him, when Queen Anne, -as if she had guessed that I was this time bearing a message from her -rival and should deliver it, decided to call me, and said in a tone of -imperceptible raillery— - -“Let me present you to the woman in Paris who knows most about the -primitive Italians about whom you were talking to me the other evening.” - -“Really, sir,” the person to whom I was to be thus linked, an -insupportable blue stocking, whose name, if my memory does not deceive -me, was Madam de Sermoise, said, “do you admire those idealist masters -who are so little appreciated in our days of gross realism? But we shall -return to them, and to a noble and lofty art. You have been to Pisa, of -course, to Sienna, to San Gemigorano and Perugia?” - -O sweet little red and golden towns of lovely green Tuscany, which -indent with your towers the heights of the slopes planted with vines and -olives! O generous artists with whom I lived so long, and whose visions -are to me still my soul’s daily bread! Pardon me if I blasphemed your -memory and your cult in replying as I did to the odious pedant. I -declared to her that her hostess was making fun of her. I told her that -I was a member of the grotesquely modern school of art. But my -indignation did not last. Madam de Bonnivet had just asked Camille -Favier and Bressoré to begin. She gave the signal for the guests to take -their seats before the space reserved for the two actors who were to -play; and she made Jacques Molan sit by her side, saying loud enough for -me to hear— - -“Every honour shall be shown to the author!” - -Then followed a few moments of general disturbance of couches and -chairs, the occupation of the seats by the women, leaving almost all the -men to stand, and the gradual establishment of silence. In the midst of -the last of the whispering came the sudden sound of the voices of the -two performers, the dialogue, and the discreet applause of the audience -of people of leisure; but I hardly noticed the details so did my heart -beat, and does still to-day, at the recollection of that long-past hour. - -Knowing as I did the minutest expressions of Camille’s mobile face, the -slightest shades of her gestures, the most tenuous inflections of her -voice, I had realized from the first words of the scene that she had -lost control of herself. Madam de Bonnivet had seen it too. She -affected, while bowing her head at the fine points and being the first -to applaud, to lean towards Jacques a little too far, to speak to him in -low tones, and render him that public homage which was the simple -politeness of an admirer of the fashionable author! But to Camille, the -wronged and desperate mistress, the insolence of this attitude was too -atrocious, and it was impossible for the actress to bear it without -taking her revenge. I believed at first that she would try to humiliate -her formidable rival by her success, so much eloquence and passion did -she display in the short scene she was acting. - -After that was ended, when she was asked to recite one or two pieces, I -thought she would restrict her vengeance to sharing a little of her -success with two of Jacques’ colleagues, of whom he is jealous, unless -she chose these two poems because in reciting them she was also solacing -her own poor deserted heart. One of these poems was by René Vincy, and -the other was an unpublished sonnet by Claude Larcher which I had copied -for her. Dear Claude! How beautiful Camille was while she recited this -elegy which had for me so many moving souvenirs of my dead friend’s -sorrow. She recited one or two other pieces, and then quickly and in a -joking way which reassured me for a second, she began to give those -imitations which are always ignoble and sometimes vulgar. The divine -Julia Bartet, the suffering and finely vibrating Tanagra in _Antigone_, -the supple and poignant Réjane in _Germinie Lacerteux_, the pathetic -Jane Hading in _Sapho_, the sprightly Jeanne Granier and the tragic -Marthe Brandés were in turn the pretext for a mimicry which testified to -a study of the art of these famous artists so profound as to be almost a -science, and to that monkeyish frolic of which Molan had spoken, till -having announced Sarah Bernhardt in _Phédre_, a shiver went through my -whole frame. - -She began and I suddenly recalled _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ and the scene in -which the actress, seeing Maurice de Saxe, whom she loved, flirting with -the Duchess de Bouillon during a drawing-room performance, recited those -same lines of Racine’s and ended by applying to her in a loud voice the -imprecation of the poet’s incestuous queen. Had Camille, an actress like -Adrienne, in love, too, like her, like her betrayed under circumstances -which I suddenly realized were very similar, coolly premeditated the -same vengeance? Or did the excess of her anger inspire her all at once -with this manner of outraging her unworthy lover and his mistress? I -could distinctly see now upon her face a terrible intention, and I -listened to her with my eyes fixed upon Jacques as she uttered that -admirable line— - - “The heart is full of sighs it has not uttered.” - -But her overpowering emotion already prevented from imitating the accent -of the admirable Sarah. She pronounced in her own way and on her own -behalf the poet’s lines, and advanced to the edge of the little stage -with the denunciatory gesture which is in _Adrienne Lecouvreur_. Her -arms were pointed towards Madam de Bonnivet. She darted at her enemy a -look of mad jealousy as she uttered the irreparable words— - -“I know my wickedness Œnone, and am not one of those bold women who, -enjoying in crime a shameful peace, have learned to keep an unblushing -face.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -I have often seen _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ acted, since that evening whose -events I am recalling, with a tremor of the heart simply at the -remembrance of the anguish I felt while Camille was performing this mad -action. I have always noticed that the audience are gripped by this -scene. As regards myself, both before and after the performance by -Camille upon the improvised stage at Bonnivet’s house, this scene has -always moved me so that I found the action indicated by the book quite -natural—I had the curiosity to consult it. Adrienne continues to advance -towards the princess, to whom she points with her finger, remaining some -time in this attitude, while the ladies and gentlemen who have followed -her movements rise as if in affright. It was without any doubt a similar -effect on the audience of terror, for ever dishonouring to her rival, -that the despised mistress had, in a flash of blind passion, resolved to -produce at the risk of the most terrible consequences. - -I awaited this terrible effect with as frightful a certainty as if I -could see in Camille’s hand a loaded weapon pointed at Madam de -Bonnivet. To-day, when my mind goes back to those moments in which my -heart leapt with apprehension, I cannot help smiling. Every one of the -audience without doubt knew _Adrienne Lecouvreur_ if not like I did, at -least well enough to recall the situation which was so dramatic as to be -easily intelligible. Every one had trembled at the Théâtre Français when -they saw Sarah Bernhardt or Bartet advance towards the Princess de -Bouillon as Camille advanced towards Madam de Bonnivet. But, except -those who were directly interested in this scene, not one of the -audience appeared to understand the young actress’ sinister intention. - -No one, I am certain, instituted, between the scene being enacted before -them at that moment and the one they had seen acted ten or twenty times -at the theatre, a comparison which would have been a revelation. The -actress herself, stupefied at what she had dared to do and the results, -mechanically continued the tirade as if in a dream. Automatically, too, -the tones of Sarah Bernhardt came back to her as she concluded. She -stopped amid a most flattering murmur from all sides, the discreet -applause of the fashionable before a wonderful feat marvellously -executed. One could hear such phrases as: “Very lifelike! Shutting your -eyes you would think you were listening to Sarah! How gifted the little -one is! It is not given to every one to possess talent like that!” - -Madam de Bonnivet, who had been the first to clap, had got up and gone -to Camille, to whom she said with a smile, the amiability of which was -her crowning insolence— - -“Exquisite, mademoiselle, exquisite. I am very grateful to you. Was it -not exquisite, Molan? Will you give Mademoiselle Favier your arm and -take her to the buffet?” - -Really I am not suspected of sympathy for the audacious woman whose -abominable coquetry had exasperated the poor actress to the extent of -this astounding insult. But I must do her the justice to admit that she -had really a majestic way of thus bringing to naught Camille’s justice. -I distinctly heard her voice pronounce the phrase in spite of the hum of -conversation and the noise of the moving of chairs and couches, and I -saw Camille look at her with a somnambulist’s look, and also give her -arm to Jacques in quite a passive and subdued way. Her astonishment at -daring what she had dared and at nothing happening had left her -incapable of reply, feeling or thought. She was like a murderess who had -fired at her victim and seen the bullet rebound from his forehead, -without even inflicting a scratch. She had not, nor had I, a mind -sufficiently disengaged to perceive in what had taken place a proof -among a thousand that an irreducible difference separates the life -presented upon the stage from the life which is really lived. She was -the victim of an attack of nerves which first showed itself in this -astonishment, or rather bewilderment, and almost immediately afterwards -by a fit of half convulsive laughter which wounded me severely. - -I gladly left the spot where she was with Jacques surrounded by men who -knew her and were paying her compliments. I came across Bonnivet -directly. His forehead was red, its veins swollen, his eyes were clear -and at the same time flaming, and these things with the tremors through -his whole body suddenly caused the fear I had felt a few minutes before -to return to me. Even if to the rest of the audience the insult hurled -in the fashionable lady’s face by the actress had passed unnoticed, a -circumstance which was explained by the fact that they had no notion of -Jacques’ position between his two mistresses, the husband himself had -perceived this insult, and it required all his self-control to swallow -the affront as he had done. He listened, or pretended to listen, to -Senneterre, whose volubility showed that he, too, had understood the -significance of the scene acted by Camille, and that he was trembling -with fear lest Bonnivet also understood. The husband was automatically -curling his moustache with his right hand, while I felt sure he was -digging the nails of his left, which was hidden, into his chest. - -I was not the only one to feel that this man was in a fury, nor to -notice his forehead, eyes and gestures, which displayed the obvious -signs, to a painter, of a formidable moral tempest. I saw the group of -gentlemen near which I was dissolve to make room for Madam de Bonnivet, -who was approaching her husband. In the same way that a little while -before she had found a smile of supreme contempt, with which to -congratulate Camille Favier and reply to the insult of an atrocious -allusion by the insult of an implacable indifference, now she found a -tender and affectionate smile to reply to her husband’s suddenly -aggravated suspicions. She brought him in her gracious and affectionate -smile an indisputable proof of her clear conscience. The sensation of -her presence was necessary to this man at the moment and she had -realized this, and also that the physical reality of her voice, of her -look, of her breath, the evidence, too, of her tranquillity would impose -upon her jealous husband a suggestion of calmness. Serenely radiant in -her sumptuous white toilette, her eyes clear and gay, a half smile upon -her pretty mouth, and fanning her lovely face with a gentle little -motion which hardly disturbed the golden hair upon her brow, she walked -towards him, hypnotizing him with her look. I could see at her approach -the unhappy man’s face relax, while Bressoré, whom I knew, took my arm -and whispered in my ear— - -“How smart she is! But, La Croix, as you are a friend of Favier’s, I -hope you will make her understand that her way of conducting herself -this evening is very bad for me and for all of us! Why this is a house -where we are received like swells, and yet because she is jealous of the -mistress of the house and Molan, she behaves like a fool and treats her -as Adrienne Lecouvreur did! I saw it coming and I saw it pass, and now I -have not a dry stitch of clothing on me. It did not strike home, it is -true, but it might have done so. But then if the audience did not -understand, the husband and wife did. I tell you this house is closed to -us for the future. They have had their fill of acting at home by this -time. Frankly, put yourself in their place, it would not do at all, -would it? I am not more straight-laced than most, and I have my fancies, -but I always behave in a gentlemanly way.” - -The comic plaint of the old actor, who was trembling for his social -status, put a note of buffoonery into the adventure. I soothed the old -man to the best of my ability, assuring him that he was mistaken, though -without hope of convincing him. What a fine picture he would have made, -with his mobile blue eyes looking out piercingly from his clean-shaven -face, over which seemed to float an everlasting grimace! He had so much -and such astounding good fortune that his glance upon the real bad side -of life was like that of a diplomat. His countless mistresses had so -well instructed him in the particulars of Parisian fashionable and gay -life that he was no longer the dupe of any one or anything. He nodded -his head incredulously at my protests and replied to me with the -inherent familiarity of his profession, in spite of the principles of -breeding he had just professed with such solemnity. - -“You know, my dear fellow, La Croix, I am a very good boy and I like to -try and give pleasure by appearing to believe what I am told, but I -can’t swallow that!” - -Our little conversation had taken us, the actor and myself, into a -corner of the drawing-room near the hall door, which was open. I judged -that poor Camille would not be long in leaving, and that the best thing -would be for me to wait for her outside and speak to her then so that -Bonnivet’s eyes would not be fixed upon us during our talk. If no -unfortunate accident happened I felt sure that now Queen Anne would -arrange to definitely withdraw from the intrigue. I was quite sure, too, -that Jacques would not be the one to end the affair. I knew his -self-control. He would not betray himself. I knew that outbursts like -Camille’s are at once followed by prostration, and I felt sure that she -had allowed herself to be taken to the buffet like a cowed animal. -Senneterre and Bressoré, the other two witnesses who had understood all -the secrets of this scene, were not the men to let their perspicacity be -apparent. One loved Madam de Bonnivet too sincerely, the other was too -preoccupied in playing his part as the correct artist. Only I myself was -likely by my nervousness to betray my knowledge. I therefore glided -between two groups towards the staircase, and as I was doing so felt my -hand seized. It was Molan, who said in a jerky voice— - -“Let us leave together. I want to speak to you.” - -“I am going at once,” I replied. - -“So am I; the coast is clear, let us be off.” - -We went downstairs without exchanging a word. We put on our coats in -silence under the critical eyes of the footmen. It was not till we -reached the street that Jacques said to me, while he clutched my arm -with a force which proved his anger— - -“Were you present at the scene? Did you see what that infamous actress -dared to do to me?” - -“I saw that she had her revenge,” I told him. “Frankly, you well -deserved it, both you and Madam de Bonnivet. But still it had no -consequences and no one perceived her intentions.” - -“No one? Did you take Madam de Bonnivet for a fool, and her husband too? -Do you think he did not see through it all? As Camille knew, too, his -jealous disposition after the risk she had seen me run, it was infamous, -I tell you, it was abominable. But I will teach her that I am not to be -laughed at like that,” he went on with increasing violence. As he -uttered this threat he turned back towards the house we had just left, -and I had to hold him back by the arm while I said— - -“Surely you are not going back there to make a scene?” - -“No,” he said, “but I know the driver of the carriage she uses for her -evening engagements, I engaged him regularly for her. I have always been -so good to her! I will stop her carriage. I will punish her here in the -street. It is her proper place, and I will tell her so.” - -“You will not do that,” I interrupted him taking up a position in front -of him and speaking in a low voice. Now I was afraid of the curiosity of -the drivers who were sitting on the boxes of a long string of carriages. - -“I will do it,” he replied, beside himself, and just at that moment the -porter called a carriage and we heard a name which caused Molan to burst -out into a laugh, that of Camille herself. - -“I beg of you,” I said to the madman, “if you have no regard for Camille -think of Madam de Bonnivet!” - -“You are right,” he replied after a short silence, “I will control -myself. But I must speak to her, I must. I will get into the carriage -with her, that is all.” - -“But if she will not allow it?” - -“Allow it!” he said with a shrug of the shoulders. “You shall see.” - -A carriage had left the rank while we were talking, a shabby hired -brougham. Its commonness contrasted strangely with the other vehicles -which were waiting in the long street. The time this carriage took to -enter beneath the archway and emerge again from it seemed to me -interminable. If my companion allowed himself to be disrespectful to -Camille I had made up my mind what to do. - -At last the carriage reappeared and a woman’s form was visible through -the window, wrapped in a cloak with a high collar which I recognized -only too well. It was Camille. Jacques called out to the driver, who -recognized him, and was on the point of pulling up when the window was -let down and we could hear the actress call out: “23, Rue Lincoln, don’t -you hear me? Do you take your orders from that gentleman?” Turning to me -she said: “Vincent, if you do not prevent that individual,” and she -pointed to Jacques, “from trying to get into my carriage I shall call -the police.” The silhouettes of two policemen appeared quite black in -the light of the lamps, and though the dialogue had been short the sound -of the voices had made some of the men sitting on the boxes of the other -carriages lean forward. In the face of this threat Jacques dare not turn -the handle of the carriage door on which he had his hand. He stepped -back and the carriage drove away while Camille’s voice repeated in a -tone I shall never forget— - -“23, the Rue Lincoln, as fast as you can go.” - -“Ah, well!” I said to Jacques after a short silence, as he was standing -motionless upon the pavement. - -“Ah, well! She guessed what was waiting for her,” he replied sharply, -“and she fled. Make your mind easy, the opportunity is only put off, not -lost entirely. But why can she be going to 23, Rue Lincoln?” - -“It is an address she gave haphazard,” I said, “to make you jealous and -make you think she was going to keep an appointment. She will give -another order to her driver as soon as she is round the corner.” - -“Still we can go there and see for ourselves,” he replied. “If she has -already taken a lover and allowed herself to play the trick she has done -on me, you must admit that she is a hussy.” - -“No,” I replied, “only an unfortunate child whom you have ill-treated -and driven mad. If she has taken a lover, that will only prove that she -is the victim of one of those despairs which women have, when everything -seems dark. Such an action sometimes leads to suicide though it has not -done so in her case, for she is too proud.” - -We got into a passing cab as we were talking, and in our turn started -off in the direction of the Rue Lincoln. My only idea now was to find -out whether the unkindness of which she had been a victim had not -projected her into some horrible calling. The phrases she had uttered to -me during my first visit to her modest abode in the Rue de la -Barouillére, on the temptations of luxury for her came back to my mind, -and I listened to Jacques the philosopher once more in a sort of stupor. -Libertines of his character never accept, without the most sincere -indignation, the appointment of a substitute by the mistress they have -most coldly betrayed. Still less do they allow any one to see their -humiliated spite. Jacques had ceased his complaints in order to converse -on ideas, and he did so with his usual lucidity. It is the gift of -intelligences trained to speculate to work in a mechanical way through -every shock. Molan, I believe, will dictate copy, and good copy too, in -his death agony! - -When our cab reached the Rue Lincoln Jacques peered out with a more -passionate nervousness than suited his dandyism to see if there was any -carriage standing in that short street. He saw the light of two lamps. -Our cab approached and we could see Camille’s carriage standing before a -small house the number of which was 23. The carriage was empty and the -driver had got off the box to light his pipe at one of the lamps. - -“The lady told me not to wait,” he replied to the question Jacques asked -him, accompanied as it was by a tip of louis just as the heroes of the -old school of romance used to do. My companion’s anxiety was very great -at this reply, though less than mine. We stood for a minute looking at -one another. - -“We will find out,” he said and called to the driver to stop at the -nearest café; “we will consult the _Bulletin_, and if that is not -successful we will go to the club and look at the _Tout Paris_. We shall -then know from whom mademoiselle seeks consolation, which you must admit -she has done very rapidly and I expect even before her misfortunes. It -is not very flattering for masculine love, but every time a man has any -remorse at deceiving a woman, he can assert that he is a dupe and that -she had already begun.” - -As he said this he jumped from the cab before it had quite stopped, -alighted on the pavement in the Rue François I, and entered a café the -only occupant of which was a waiter asleep on a seat. Without waking him -Molan picked up the _Bulletin_ from the counter, the cashier being -absent at the time, and with a hand which trembled a little pointed out -to me the two following lines: Rue de Lincoln, 23—Tournade, Louis -Ernest, gentleman. - -“Was I right?” he said with a grin. He shut up the _Bulletin_ and put it -back on the counter adding: “You must admit that I deserved better -treatment.” - -“I will admit nothing till I am sure of it,” I replied, so deeply -distressed by this fresh happening that I trembled all over. - -“Sure of it?” Molan cried with insolent bitterness. “Sure of it? What do -you want? Perhaps you would need to see them in the same bed? Then you -would still doubt! But I am not a member of the sect of the pure-minded, -I believe that Mademoiselle Favier is the mistress of M. Tournade, and I -repeat that in that case the scene which she made this evening is one of -the most miserable actions of which I have ever heard tell. I will be -revenged. So good-bye.” - -He left me after these expressions of hate without any attempt on my -part to detain or calm him. I felt crushed by an enormous weight of -sorrow. I have never in my sentimental life known that jealousy which -most books describe, that agonizing, feverish uneasiness about a perfidy -which one suspects without being certain. I have never loved without -confidence. It seems to me that women ought to be scrupulous of -deceiving men who love them in that fashion. I have discovered that it -is not so. Should I commence to, for again I should comfort myself in -the same way love the simple reason that a person cannot see with his -eyes full of tears. In return, if I have never been jealous in that -uneasy and suspicious fashion, I have experienced that other sorrow -which consists of having in one’s heart something like a perpetually -bleeding open wound, the evidence of having been deceived. I have known -what it is to suffer for entire nights at the idea of a woman’s body -being given up as a prey to another man’s luxury. This horrible -oppression, this interruption of the inmost soul, this deadly shudder in -the face of certainty, is, I believe, the worst form of sentimental -disorder, and this suffering I have just experienced again with some -intensity in reading the name of Tournade in the address book! - -Oh, God! how miserable I was when I got back to my residence on the -Boulevard des Invalides after walking all the way to quiet my nerves! It -was in vain that I told Molan that I was not sure Camille was the -mistress of the cad whose impure face had been so repulsive to me in her -dressing-room at the Vaudeville, for there was no room in me for doubt -on the subject. It was so simple. The unhappy child had lost her head. -Excess of anger and sorrow had deranged her, and in a moment of delirium -she had executed that scheme of revenge which would degrade her for -ever. What am I saying? She had executed the plan! She was doing so even -at the moment on that night when I saw the stars shining above my head -between the walls of the houses. That hour, these minutes, those -seconds, whose length I felt, and whose flight I measured, she also -lived and employed. How? - -The sensations with which this idea blasted me must be, I should think, -those of the man condemned to death and of his friends who love him -during the time which separates his awakening on his last morning and -his execution. He feels a desire to arrest the passage of time, to even -throw the world, and for the earth to open, houses to fall, and a -miracle to be accomplished. With what anxiety he then feels that life -performs its functions in us with the implacable accuracy of a machine! -All our moral and physical agonies, our revolts and surrenders, have no -more influence upon nature than the flutterings of an insect in the -furnace of a locomotive. - -“It is over! She is Tournade’s mistress!” - -Those frightful words, which I knew to be true, I pronounced -despairingly as I walked along the Rue François I, over the Invalide’s -Bridge, and then along the Avenue de la Tour Maubourg. Transcribing them -now, even after such a long period, gives me pain; but it is a dull -pain, a tender melancholy. With it is mingled a thoughtful pity, like -that which I should feel when standing before Camille’s tomb, instead of -the bitter nausea of anger and disgust which seized me when I first -realized the certainty of the event. Must I have loved her without -knowing it, or at least without knowing how much, for thinking of her as -I did to be such a penance! - -As soon as I reached home, and before going to bed, I wished to looked -at the two portraits I had drawn of her: the first of her before she -knew Jacques, the one I concealed so carefully; the second of the month -previous with an unfinished smile. These two pictures made her so -present to me, and made the defilement which sullied her at that moment -so real, that I recollect in the solitude of the studio uttering real -groans, like those of an animal with a death rattle in its throat. - -My grief relieved itself by such outbursts that my servant was awakened. -I saw with surprise this good fellow enter the room to ask if I were ill -and needed his services. It was a grotesque incident which had at least -one advantage, it put an end to this period of semi-madness. I should -smile at this childishness after so many months if, alas, I did not find -in it one more proof of my personal fatality, a sign of that destiny -which has always refused me the power to fashion events after my own -heart. Idolizing Camille as I did with such tenderness, ought I not to -have told her so before? Should not I have arranged so that her first -movement, if she desired to raise an impassable barrier between Jacques -and herself, would have been to come to me? Who knows? I should then -have realized with her the romance of which she had dreamed and which -she had failed to realize with Molan! I should have shown such -cleverness, such passionate tact, such caressing adoration in dressing -her wound, that perhaps one day she would have loved me! Ah, it is the -sorrow of “the might have been”! - -How true those lines of the painter poet Rossetti were of me, and how -suitable for my tomb— - - “Look in my face, my name is: Might have been! - I am also called: No more, Too late, Fare thee well.” - -I spent that night almost without sleep, only in the morning having a -feverish doze during which I dreamed a strange dream. I seemed to be -sitting at table during a big dinner. I had facing me Camille dressed in -red with her golden hair upon her bare shoulders. Near her was my -unfortunate friend, Claude Larcher, whom I know is dead, and whom I knew -was dead then at the time I seemed to see him alive. Although we were at -table Claude was writing. It caused me infinite anguish to see him -writing these lines, holding his pen in a way I knew only too well. It -struck me that as he were ill such an effort would be fatal. I wanted to -call out to him to stop, but I could not do so, as I was threatened with -her finger by Camille, in whose eyes I discerned an absolute order not -to say a word. I understood at the same time that the letter written -like this by Claude was meant for me. It contained advice about Camille, -and I knew it was of such pressing interest that waiting was a -punishment which increased when the guests rose from the table and I saw -Larcher go away with the letter without giving it to me. - -I set out to pursue him through an infinite maze of winding staircases. -To descend them more quickly I jumped into space and rebounded as if -wings had raised me till I found myself in a garden which I recognized -as being that of Nohant, though I had never been there. I observed with -astonishment the beautiful order of the beds, in which the flowers were -planted so as to trace letters, and in astonishment I read the phrase -which Jacques had used to me: “She had already begun.” At that moment a -burst of laughter made me look round. I saw Camille with her hair still -on her fine shoulders and very pale in her red dress. She took to -Tournade a note which I knew to be the one written by Claude. The fat -man was lying in bed, his face still redder than usual, and he smacked -his lips together with the sensuality of a glutton who has an appetizing -dish set before him. It was then, at the moment when Camille began to -unfasten her dress to get into bed, that the grief became unbearable. I -understood that she was about to give herself to him for the first time. -I wished to run to her and again the same fearful immobility entirely -paralysed me and I awakened bathed in perspiration. - -No sooner had I awakened from this painful sleep than an idea took -possession of me. Perhaps this visit to Tournade on the previous evening -had not been followed by a irreparable lapse? Is it not an every-day -occurrence for a woman to accept an appointment, keep it, and at the -last moment be seized with a feeling of revolt, defend her person with -fury and go away, having protected herself with an energy as mad as her -inconsistent conduct. Why had I not admitted that hypothesis the -previous evening, and why did I admit it now? I had no other reason than -this dream. It was enough to make me get up hastily at eight o’clock and -hurry to the house in the Rue de la Barouillére. Happily or unhappily, -for a little uncertainty at times means a little hope, at the moment I -knocked at the lodge window to ask if, in spite of the early hour, -Mademoiselle Favier was at home, I saw in the lodge a servant who had -several times accompanied her to my studio. This woman had opened the -door to me on my first visit. She had been present at Camille’s birth, -as I knew, and was her confidant. As soon as she caught sight of me she -ran out of the lodge with a haste which redoubled my fears. - -“Ah! M. La Croix,” she said as she pulled me towards the stairs so as -not to be overheard, “have you come to see mademoiselle?” - -“Has she returned?” I cried. Suddenly I realized by a glance at the -servant’s anxious face that her question was a pious fiction. Camille -had not returned. My exclamation revealed to my questioner the fact that -I knew something, and she at once began to interrogate me. Her questions -served to inform me. - -“Listen, M. La Croix,” she said anxiously, as she clasped her rough and -misshapen servant’s hands which trembled a little. “If you know where -she is, I ask you in the name of your mother, go and find her. Since the -coachman brought a message from her last evening that she would not -return, madam has been mad with grief. I never saw her like it before, -not even when we found her husband with a bullet in his forehead. She -does nothing but weep and say to me: “I don’t want ever to see her -again. I will turn her out if she comes back.” She says that; but if -Camille returns I am sure she will forgive her. Do you understand that, -M. La Croix? A child like her, modest and sweet, who never allowed any -one to approach her! We used to say, madam and I, that she would marry -so well, like that singer who became a marquise! No, I cannot believe -that she has gone astray! M. La Croix, you who are so good, tell me what -you know. I am not like some people. I have brought her up since she was -little, and it was on her account that I did not leave madam when the -crash came. But don’t let the porter see me talking to you for so long. -I have already had some difficulty in explaining why Camille did not -come home last night.” - -“Alas!” I replied without obeying her request to go upstairs, for I -feared the mother’s grief too much, “I know nothing more than you do, -and the proof of that is that I came to inquire after Mademoiselle -Favier, who appeared to me to be unwell last evening.” - -“She is not at your rooms, is she?” the woman asked struck by my -embarrassment. Her suspicion revealed to me what passionate affection -she bore the little one, as she called Camille. The mother’s despair and -the servant’s distraction completed the breaking of my heart. Once more -I realized in what an atmosphere of naïve and simple tenderness the poor -Blue Duchess had grown up. She had been one of those little girls whose -coming into the world is treated as a festival, and the steps towards -their womanhood are festivals too: baptism, birthdays, her first -sacrament, and her first long dress—and all that for the object of so -much moving solicitude to end in the defilement of gallantry! The -faithful servant continued like a naïve echo of my own bitter thoughts: -“No, she cannot be with you or M. Molan, nor with M. Fomberteau; you are -all of you too good fellows to turn a girl like her into a kept woman. -She will be that now, Camille, Camille, Camille!” - -Forgetting her own precautions to prevent the gossip of the porter, the -good woman began to sob. I calmed her to the best of my ability by -swearing to her that I would make every effort to see Camille during the -day and to tell her the state into which her mother had been thrown by -her departure. - -“Make her come back!” was the only answer I obtained through her tears -coupled with this sublime expression of shameless devotion: “If she -wants to have adventures I will help her as much as she likes. Tell her -so, only let her remain and live with us!” - -The struggle then was over. The drama of passion and perfidy at which I -had assisted for the last few weeks had reached its logical conclusion. -My dream had lied to me. It was too late to prevent that adorable child, -born with the most rare and delicate romance in her heart and head, -becoming nothing more than a courtesan. Her pride itself, that pretty, -vibrating pride for which I had loved her so, would hate her -degradation. When she emerged from the furious crisis which had sent her -to the bed of a man like Tournade, the contempt she would feel for -herself would vilify her so in her own eyes and her inner nausea would -have two results equally frightful to imagine: either she would not bear -her life a day longer and kill herself, or else she would take a -sorrowing pride in incarnating in herself that outrageous type of luxury -and triumphant shamelessness which become a great actress who is also a -great courtesan. Which of these two solutions should a man prefer who -loved her as I did, first of all with a somewhat obscure sentiment, but -now with one which was very full of misery and suffering? Both -perspectives seemed so horrible to me that in spite of the promise I had -given the old servant I made a fixed resolution never to see the unhappy -child again, and a wiser one still of putting into execution a plan I -had long pondered over, ever since, in fact, I had begun to understand -my poor heart: to go away, and return either to Spain or Italy, to one -of those sunny lands where a soul wounded to death can at least wrap up -its wound in solitude, light and beauty. - -I ordered my astonished servant to pack up at once for a long absence, -and I set to work to classify studies and then run through guide books, -compelling myself to become absorbed in the hustle of this unexpected -departure. This new and monstrous fact, the fall of Camille into -Tournade’s arms, had suspended every other thought in my mind. I had -forgotten Madam de Bonnivet, the scene of the previous evening, and -Molan himself. It was therefore like a sudden displacement of the -atmosphere, a recall to an abolished reality, when I saw the latter -about half-past two enter the studio. It was Molan, however, who was the -cause of the moral shipwreck from which I was suffering. He was the man -I ought to curse and hate. I perceived him, simply recognizing his face, -hearing his voice and touching his hand. He wore his evil expression, -that of his periods of ferocious hardness, and his supreme excitement -was betrayed at least to any one of experience like myself, by a way he -had of biting his lower lip with his teeth, thus imperceptibly -lengthening his already somewhat lengthy profile, and the animal hidden -in every one of us—which in his case was the fox—was so cruelly in -evidence that even the friend most hypnotized by affection could see at -those times his real character. For my own part I experienced, on -discovering in his face the traces of his real nature, a start of -antipathy which inundated me with rancour. All my sufferings of the last -few hours exploded and I received him with a torrent of abuse. - -“You have come to tell me, have you not, you who have behaved so badly, -that poor Camille is utterly lost now? I went to her house this morning, -and I learned that she had spent the night from home. We know where. -That is the work of your egoism. But there will be a reckoning with you -for this infamy; there is justice somewhere. It is a crime, do you hear, -a crime to play with a sincere heart and to behave as you have done.” - -“Let me alone,” he quickly interrupted with a shrug of the shoulders. -“When a young girl takes a lover, she will take two, three, four, and -the rest. If Camille had been an honourable creature she would have said -to me when I courted her: 'Will you marry me? No? Then good-bye.’ She -did not say so. So much the worse for her! Besides, if I did her a -wrong, it seems to me that now we are quits, mean trick for mean trick, -her scene of last evening was equal to all my infamy!” - -“Ah! the scene from _Adrienne_!” I cried. “Are you thinking of that to -try and quiet your remorse instead of shedding every tear in your body -over the moral assassination you have committed. Let us talk of that -evening! What painful consequences can it have which you can put in the -scale to counterbalance a ruined future and a poor soul defiled forever? -Has Bonnivet turned his wife out? Has he sent his seconds to you? No, I -answer myself, and I will save you the trouble of comparing the bad five -minutes you passed and deserved with the vertigo which has just seized -and destroyed this poor girl for the whole of her life; I repeat, and -you shall hear, for the whole of her life.” - -“What heat!” he replied with an ironical smile. “What eloquence! We are -engaged in telling the beautiful truth. Come, you are angry with -yourself for not having the courage to put yourself forward in -Tournade’s place. That is the truth, no denials, please. I know the -cause of it, poor La Croix. Hard words are useless between us, you know -that, so let us change our subject of conversation, shall we?” Then -after a short silence he continued: “I am not annoyed with you, and I am -going to prove it by asking you to do me a service. Guess whence I have -just come?” - -“From the house of that hussy, Madam de Bonnivet, naturally,” I replied. -I was quite determined to end the interview with a quarrel, and I had -used the phrase which I thought most likely to bring that about quickly. -My anger changed into stupor at hearing him reply to me with a chuckle— - -“Yes, with that hussy, Madam de Bonnivet. You hate her very much, do you -not? You think I am very infamous to sacrifice Camille for her, don’t -you? Ah, well!” he went on in a singularly bitter tone which made me -realize that something very new and unexpected had taken place in that -quarter, “I have come to ask you to aid me in my revenge. That surprises -you, does it not?” - -“Confess that there is a reason,” I answered him. “I left you at eleven -o’clock last evening, only thinking of her and indignant with Camille on -her account. Then you treated as a dirty trick the foolish prank of that -poor child because she——” - -“I repeat the expression,” he very quickly interrupted me. Another -period of silence followed. I could see that a combat between most -contradictory sentiments was taking place in him. What he had to tell me -wounded his vanity sorely. On the other hand the same vanity desired to -wreak upon Madam de Bonnivet the immediate vengeance of which he had -spoken, and I alone was able to help him effectively. But this man, who -was usually master of himself, had just been so completely overwhelmed -by an affront, which was all the harder for him to bear as he was -unprepared for it. His anger was very great, and he went on in a hissing -voice which vibrated with absolute sincerity: “Yes, a dirty trick. I -stand by the expression, and I am almost happy to have to do so, for it -constitutes a hold over her. Listen,” he went on, putting his hand on my -arm, and pressing it as he spoke. “I called upon Madam de Bonnivet -directly after lunch to-day. I was uneasy. It is in vain that we know -that women are like cats, and always fall on their feet, keeping -something in their disposition with which to twist a husband who loves -them round their fingers when and as often as they please—do you -understand me?—we have to be so very careful! I was afraid that Bonnivet -had made a scene with his wife after Camille’s escapade last evening. -Now you will admire my foolishness and cease to reproach me with -heartlessness. For once I obeyed my poor heart and it was a success! So -I called upon her and was received in the small drawing-room, which you -know, by the woman, reclining in a long chair, clad in a thin -dressing-gown. You can imagine that clad in lace, with just enough light -to give her a shadowy charm like a phantom, she looked like a picture of -the ideal capable of bewitching a lover who is about to be dismissed. -Listen: 'Have you a headache?’ I asked her. 'I ought to have one at -least,’ she replied, looking at me with eyes I cannot describe—eyes in -which there was hatred and fury; but at the same time they were cold and -venomous eyes. 'You have the audacity,’ she continued, 'to return here -after what took place yesterday.’ I was so dumbfounded by this reception -that I had no answer ready. She was making me responsible for the insult -Camille had levelled at her!” - -“It is a little severe,” I said, laughing in spite of myself at this -prodigious change of front, and the sheepish look of the pseudo Don Juan -before this surprising display of feminine malice. “Between ourselves -you well earned it.” - -“But listen,” he went on more violently than ever, “you will chaff me -presently, and you will be right. I thought I had touched this icy soul -in a spot with some feeling in it. I was taken in, that is all. You -cannot imagine what hard, cruel things she said to me in that quarter of -an hour; and though I very well knew to what risk I was exposing myself -by allowing Camille to act there, yet I had naturally felt flattered at -having my two mistresses face to face, and at being received there -myself as a man of the world and Camille as a lady; and though I had -conducted myself as a man of letters while she behaved like a common -actress, yet she dared to make use of words which indicated that it was -a scheme devised between us to satisfy my vanity and to revenge the -insolence she had suffered, that it was the last time her door would be -opened to me, and that she had spoken to her husband—she dared to tell -me that—yes, that she had spoken to him and explained to him this girl’s -ignoble conduct by a boast on my part! But if you had heard her tone of -voice when she insisted: 'My first vengeance shall be, since it appears -she loves you, to send you back to her, and she shall see you unhappy, -and unhappy through me; for you shall be, you shall be!’ She laughed her -bitter laugh, which you know, and I, the Jacques Molan you know, -listened, so terrified at the baseness of soul which these phrases -proved, that I did not stop her. I might say if I posed to you that I -amused myself by studying it. Alas, no! at that moment I was paralysed, -I do not really understand by what. But I was. Can you imagine Pierre de -Bonnivet entering in the midst of this scene, and the silence which fell -upon the three of us in that little drawing-room? I swear to you I -thought of crying out to that fool of a husband then: 'You know I have -been your wife’s lover.’ I believe that would have soothed me! What -would have followed? A duel. I should have survived it, and I should -have been revenged through this woman’s dishonour. But the prejudice -which requires a man to bear everything rather than to betray a woman -who has given herself to him, even when she deserves it, stopped me. And -so, here I am.” - -“But what motive has she obeyed?” I cried, so astounded by the story -that it did not occur to me to laugh at the contrast between Jacques’ -triumphant attitude of the previous evening and the piteous confession -he had just made in a hesitating though furious way, being so -overwhelmed that he had told me everything haphazard, this time without -calculation and without posing. It was the shriek of the wounded animal. -“Yes,” I repeated, “what is her motive? She has been your mistress. -Consequently she must have thought something of you!” - -“Her object was to take me from Camille,” he interrupted. “That I have -always known. Now that she has succeeded I no longer interest her, which -is quite natural. The spite of outraged self-conceit has done the rest. -For a few minutes I represented Camille to her and she detested me with -the hatred she bears her. That is also very natural. She has found a -means of satisfying everything at once: her caution concerning her -husband’s suspicions, which were now very much aroused; her ferocious -hate, and without doubt her natural fund of brutality by that unlikely -rupture. But I am not turned out just like that. I have a revenge to -take, and I will take it. You will aid me, and at once.” - -“I?” I replied; “how?” - -“By going at once to Camille,” he told me, and as I made a gesture he -insisted: “Yes, to Camille. There is a first night at the Théâtre -Français for which I have a box. I wish to attend the performance with -her _tête-à-tête_, do you understand? Madam de Bonnivet will be there. I -want the wretch to see me with little Favier, and I want her to realize -that we are reconciled and happy, for that will wound her self-conceit. -It is the only place where I can attack her. Ah! she is convinced that I -left her house in tears with my heart torn, and that I am miserable! She -will have before her fine guinea fowl eyes the proof that she will no -longer be of any more account in our lives, Camille’s and mine, than -that,” and he threw down a match with which he had just lit his -cigarette; “and she will have to say to herself: 'All the same, this man -has had me.’ For I have had her; she cannot alter the fact that she has -been my mistress. What a revenge it is even to think that a woman can -never efface that!” - -This horrible explosion of evil sentiments had made the face of Jacques, -who not without reason passed as a handsome man, and who could make -himself so feline, so gentle, and so caressing, quite sinister. He was -hideous at this moment when he was justifying in a striking way the -theories of poor Claude upon the savage hatred which is at the root of -sexual intercourse. This so-called love, which has cruelty for its root, -has always been so repulsive to me that it was impossible for me to pity -Jacques, although I felt that he was as unhappy as it was possible for -him to be. Besides, I could clearly see the absolute uselessness of the -mission which the discarded lover wished me to undertake. Madam de -Bonnivet’s character became quite clear to me. I realized that even with -his subtle pretensions to trickery my companion had been in the hands of -this woman what the most corrupt of writers would always be in the hands -of a really wicked creature who did not dally with depravity. A child, a -poor, little swaggering imp of vice immediately unmasked and bound. - -This implacable coquette had amused herself by destroying little -Favier’s happiness with the joy those beings who cannot feel experience -in torturing the sentiments of others! She had seen clearly into Molan’s -heart. She had manœuvred so as to bury the knife in the vulnerable part -and at the desired moment. She turned him out, after that had been done, -with the only pleasure she could feel—that of causing suffering. He, the -theorist of all Parisian depravities, had allowed himself to be cornered -at this little execution without any suspicion. Now he was foaming at -the mouth with impotent rage against the mistress who had played with -him as long as this sport had suited her despotism, her ennui, and her -moral depravity. But she had not left in his hands a line of her -writing, a portrait—nothing in fact which could bear witness to their -liaison. No. Molan was no match for her, and had I not been influenced -by other motives I should have refused to undertake the commission he -desired. The only service to render him was to take him away from any -intercourse with this terrible woman. Besides, again making use of the -unfortunate actress in this affair would have appeared to me the misery -of miseries, and I told him so. “Be satisfied,” I said, “with this -revenge, for when you speak of the other you forget what your relations -with Camille are.” - -“How?” he said, and he made use of the most astounding expression his -egoism had ever uttered in my presence: “Since I forgive her that night -with Tournade!” - -“But,” I replied, “perhaps she does not forgive you.” - -“Now,” he said, “you have only to go and ask her to give me a ten -minutes’ interview here. You will see if she will refuse. Do it for me -and for her!” - -“No, no,” I gave as my final reply with the brutality of real -indignation, which made him shrug his shoulders and pick up his hat as -he said— - -“Very well, I will go and find her myself.” - -“Where?” I asked. - -“Where she is,” he answered. - -“At Tournade’s house?” - -“Yes. After all an encounter with that funny fellow would rest my -nerves. Then the Bonnivet woman will hear of it, and it will be another -proof that I still love Camille. But I shall find a letter from her at -home waiting, asking me to see her. It is surprising that she has not -reappeared this morning.” - -He had again become the Jacques Molan of his best days, the man of such -assurance, of such imperturbable personal affirmation, from which a -curious authority emanated. Henceforward I was refractory on my own -account. Was it the same with Camille? Would he not succeed in -recovering his influence over the poor mistress he had tormented and -vilified? Then what worse degradation would she have to suffer? That -question which I asked myself when Jacques had at last gone so -overwhelmed me with bitterness that my desire to go away, to see neither -him nor her and to know no more about them, became irresistible. I -decided to start for Marseilles that same evening. There I would decide -upon my destination. I spent the rest of the day in making the necessary -arrangements and visiting a few relatives. From time to time I looked at -my watch, and at the thought that the time of departure was approaching -a hand seemed to clutch my heart. I felt beforehand the chill of the -solitude which I was about to enter in leaving the city in which my only -love lived and breathed. How great was my discomfiture when at six -o’clock, just as I was sitting down to dinner, I heard a carriage stop. -The bell rang and then I heard a voice, that of the person I most -desired and at the same time most feared to see, the voice of Camille -Favier! - -“Are you going away?” she asked me when I went to her in the studio, -where I had told the servant to take her. “I saw your trunks in the -anteroom.” - -“Yes,” I said, “I am going for a tour in Italy.” She had not raised her -veil, as if she did not wish me to see her face. This sign of the shame -which she felt was very pleasant to me. It was a proof, after so many -others, of her natural delicacy, which made her lapse into prostitution -all the more heart-breaking to me, and which made her more sadly, though -madly, dear to me. - -“When?” she again asked me. - -“In an hour and twenty-five minutes if the train is not late,” I said in -a joking tone looking at the clock, the sound of whose ticking filled -the empty room. For a time we remained silently listening to this noise -of time, the unalterable step of life which had led us to that moment -which would lead us on to other moments, moments we foresaw likely to be -dishonourable for her and melancholy for me. Although we had only -exchanged those insignificant words, she saw that I knew everything. She -sat down, leant her forehead on her hands, and went on— - -“So much the worse. I wanted you to take a message for me to Jacques.” - -“What?” I said tremblingly; I anticipated the horrible confidence. But I -added: “If I can be of service to you by postponing my departure——” - -“No,” she said with strange energy. “It is not worth the trouble. It is -better that I should never see you again. It was to return him this -letter he sent me to-day—see to what address,” and she held out the -envelope on which I could see the name of Tournade and the Rue Lincoln; -she added in a voice which was less firm: “I wished to ask him not to -write to me nor seek for me again, either there or elsewhere, as I am no -longer free.” - -Then followed another period of silence, after which she got up and -offered me her hand, saying— - -“I will send him back the letter myself through the post. It will be -better. Now, Vincent, good-bye, and a pleasant trip. You will remember -me, will you not, and not judge me too harshly. Come, give me a kiss, as -we shall not see one another again till God knows when!” - -As I pressed my lips upon her cheek I felt through her veil that it was -moist with tears. Not another word was spoken between us. I could not -find a question to ask her. She did not think of a plaint to make. Even -at the deathbeds of those I loved most I have never said a good-bye -which has cost me more. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -Yes, it was a sad and rending farewell! I must, too, have been plunged -into the depths of melancholy in my heart, for as I wrote the account of -it I sprinkled the paper with my tears; and now I feel that I have -hardly the strength to take up my pen again to add to this real romance -the sinister epilogue, the suggestive irony of which alone decided me to -write these pages. Twenty-five months and an absence of that length have -not healed my secret wound. It is still open and bleeding at the -recollection simply of Camille’s cheek moist with those vain tears -beneath my farewell kiss, the first and last I ever placed on that -charming face which was now profaned for ever. Yet if absence and -silence are the two great remedies for those passions without hope and -desire, one of which my strange sentiment for this poor girl was, I can -do myself the justice to say that I sincerely practised them. Those -twenty-five months appeared to me so short, so short when compared with -those few weeks spent in following hour by hour the fatal march of the -deceived mistress towards despair, and the rest without trying to -prevent it. - -But let us run through those two years from memory, and also to prove -that I have not much to regret in their employment. First of all, that -same evening came my hurried flight to Marseilles, then the following -day I sailed for Tuscany by one of the boats which call at Bastia -eighteen hours later and then at Leghorn. I have always preferred this -way of entering dear Italy without halts by the way, besides which this -journey did away with the possibility of telegrams or letters for at -least half a week, from Sunday to Thursday. Would Camille Favier leave -Tournade and resume her position as Jacques’ mistress or not? Would the -latter follow up his absurd project of a duel with his new rival? Would -he not extend the folly of his humiliated self-conceit to the length of -having an affair with Pierre de Bonnivet as well? So weary was I that I -no longer wished to set myself these problems. O God, how weary I was! -In parenthesis, I was very wrong in setting myself these problems, for -to talk like my friend Claude, who used to quote with such delight a -phrase from Beyle upon the execution of one of his heroes: “Everything -went off simply and decently.” - -I found out that detail afterwards, but much later. At the time I -remained in an uncertainty which I had the wisdom to prolong. But four -months later, opening by chance a French paper in a hotel in Perugia, I -saw that Mademoiselle Camille Favier was to replace Mademoiselle Berthe -Vigneau in the chief part of a comedy by Dorsenné; that Molan was -publishing a collection of his own plays; that a horse of M. Tournade’s, -Butterfly, had won some big race; that at a very select gathering at M. -de Senneterre’s Madam X——, Madam Y——, Madam Z——, and Madam de Bonnivet -were noticed. All this news was packed into this one issue of the paper -like raisins in a pudding. It sufficed to prove to me that this corner -of the world, like all corners of the world, was still itself, and that -there was a reassuring lack of important events. But on my part, was I -not imitating myself by copying first a part of the fresco of Spinello -Aretino on Saint Ephése, then the Salomé of Fra Filippo Lippo at Prato, -and going on with a study after the Piero della Francesca by Arezzo? -Then I was preparing to go to Ancona; afterwards to Brindisi; to visit -Athens and Olympia, to feast with new visions the most sterile and -insatiable of dilettantisms. When I think of that furious work of vain -culture, I repeat to myself another phrase which Dorsenné was always -quoting, the exclamation of the dying Bolivar so poignant with -lassitude: “Those who have served the Revolution have ploughed the sea!” -Have those who have served art as I have served it accomplished more -useful work? Then what is it? - -Then what? I think that Bonaparte, Talleyrand, Bernadotte and many -others would have smiled a smile of the most profound contempt for the -dying revolutionary who had caught no treasure in the great troubled sea -of politics, and I have only to think of the two little scenes which -fixed the bitter crisis in my memory to smile a no less contemptuous -smile at myself. However, after my tour in Greece, I returned to prepare -for a longer stay in the Orient, and a visit to Egypt and Asia Minor in -the month of October, to begin there that series of pictures upon our -Lord, conceived in their natural environment, which would have been the -definitive work of my maturity if another had not anticipated me. - -Chance had prevented me meeting Jacques and Camille between these two -trips. I only know that the latter was more celebrated than ever and the -former had married. He had decided at last to pluck the ripe pear, and -he had done so under the wisest conditions. He had married a widow of -about his own age who was very rich and without children, with -sufficient to provide him in his maturity with a luxurious home without -the aid of his copy. But as he had not deigned to add a friendly word to -the wedding card he sent me I had not written to him. That absolute -suppression of intercourse between us hardly allowed me to expect to see -him enter, as he did the other day, my studio, looking a little older, -but with as clear an eye, as satirical a mouth, and as well-dressed and -smart a person as ever. Had we met on the previous evening he could not -have shaken hands with gayer cordiality, and at once without waiting to -hear my news began— - -“You don’t know the pleasure I feel in seeing you again. When will you -come and dine and be presented to Madam Molan? You shall see that I have -been lucky in the marriage lottery. I am sure you will be very pleased -with her. She knows, too, how I like you. Yes, we have not met lately, -but that is no reason for forgetting. What have you been doing since we -had our last chat? It is two years ago; how time passes! I knew that you -had gone to the Orient. I heard of you through Laurens, the Consul at -Cairo. You see, I followed your movements from afar. But tell me,” he -went on, after I had replied to him in some embarrassment. These subtle -cordialities after such indifference still disconcerted me a little. -“Yes, tell me. Have you seen Camille Favier?” - -“Me?” I cried, and I felt that I was blushing under his indulgent, -ironical look, “never. Why do you ask that?” - -“Ah, my dear boy,” he said laughing, and this time with a gay laugh -which displayed his white teeth, which had remained quite sound though -he was forty, “you were born simple and simple you will remain.” - -“I understand you less and less,” I replied somewhat impatiently. - -“Why? She pleased you. You pleased her. She has had lover after lover -since Tournade—Philippe de Vardes, Machault, Roland de Bréves—every one, -in fact, ending by the little Duke of Lautrec, who spends 200,000 francs -a year on her, and yet you did not return! It is said,” he continued -with more malice still in his eyes, “that you will never see her again -except under my chaperonage! Do you recall our last conversation, how I -asked you to act as my ambassador to her and you refused? Ah, well, I -want you to undertake another mission to her. Are you going to refuse -again?” - -“That depends upon the mission,” I replied in the same jesting tone. - -“Alas! it is quite a literary one,” he went on gaily. “It is not that I -fear my wife’s jealousy. We are not lovers, she and I. We are associates -for life, and she is intelligent enough to understand that the -infidelities of a man like myself are of no consequence. But I have in -all things a horror of going back, and particularly in love! Briefly -this is what it is. You remember Madam de Bonnivet and her jealousy of -Camille?” - -“Queen Anne!” I interrupted; “do you want to send me to her too? That -would crown everything.” - -“No!” he said, “that is all over, and a very good thing, too. Do you -know that she has been left a widow. There is a report that she is going -to get married again. But the whole story, Camille’s jealousy, the scene -at my rooms, and the scene in the drawing-room, were all so well suited -to a play that I have written one. It is a kind of _Adrienne -Lecouvreur_, but modern. I have read it to a few friends and they are -all of the same opinion, that it is the best thing I have done. We shall -see whether his accession of wealth has spoiled Jacques Molan. It is a -fact that I swore to write no more, and this is the only exception I -shall make to that rule. After the age of forty, however great a genius -a man may be, he repeats himself, then he has outlived his day. When a -man cannot surpass himself it is better for him to be silent. I dream of -an end like Shakespeare and Rossini, the end of a very little Rossini -and an even smaller Shakespeare. But I have done what I can and I wish -to let my twenty volumes rest. But this opportunity was too strong for -me. The subject took possession of me, and the play is written. I repeat -it is the last!” - -“You have written a play upon that story?” I interrupted. “What will -Madam de Bonnivet say?” - -“That I am not clever,” he said. “With women of the world it is very -simple. You figure in their drawing-rooms and you are a great man. You -no longer appear there and your plays are not worth seeing. My wife has -already recognized three of our friends as the principal character in -the play. Besides people like the Bonnivets are very common now and they -will not be recognized in it.” - -“But Camille, whose romance, a sad and true romance, this adventure was, -have you not thought of what you were doing to her by transporting her -adventure warm with life to the stage?” - -“That is precisely it,” he replied nodding his head; “it is her life and -her personality. She is the only one who can play the part, and I do not -know how to negotiate with her. She is a strange creature. She never -forgets. Would you believe that three weeks ago she spoke bitterly of me -to one of our mutual friends! If I write to her she is quite capable of -leaving my letter unopened. Some one must go and suggest the part to -her, some one before whom she has no self-conceit. I thought of -Fomberteau. But we have not been very friendly since my marriage. He -reproached me with selling myself. What foolishness! Camille and he have -quarrelled, too, over some article. Oh, she has become a great actress -now. That is the reason I have come to you to ask for your assistance.” - -“Me!” I cried. “You want me to go with your manuscript and beg that poor -girl not only to forgive you for writing the play, but also on your -behalf to take the part herself! Come, let me look you straight in the -face! But you are not a fool. You are a man like another. Yet you do not -realize what a monstrous thing you are proposing to me!” - -“Ah, well!” he replied with his usual smile, which he had already -employed to laugh at my _naïveté_, “will you undertake simply to convey -our conversation to her as far as your indignant exit just now? I -authorize you to do so. That does not make you into the accomplice of -any infamy. You are going to see an old friend you have somewhat -neglected. Nothing can be more natural, can it? You talk of the rain and -the fine weather. My name is mentioned and you repeat our conversation -exactly, beginning like this: What do you think Jacques dared to ask me? -You will then see what answer she will give.” - -Was it the continuation of the habitual empire his vitality had -exercised from our college days over my doubts? Was there concealed -within me a secret desire to see Camille again, a curiosity to know what -the Blue Duchess of two years ago had become? Did I also feel curious to -know her reply to Jacques’ outrageous proposal? But whatever the reason, -I accepted this mission which I considered and still consider monstrous. -I called upon Camille, everybody’s Camille, to take her the horrible -words of her old lover. I saw once more the face I loved so well, but -now it was framed in ignoble luxury which contrasted so cruelly to my -mind with the proud and humble simplicity of the Rue de la Barouillére! -Not one of those pieces of furniture in those former apartments in that -old street but told of a noble act of her who did not wish to sell her -beauty, or of her mother who had saved the honour of their name by the -heroic sacrifice of her fortune. There was not a room in the sumptuous -house, that home of infamy where she lived now in the Avenue de -Villiers, like my fashionable colleagues, which did not tell of one of -her prostitutions. - -Was it indeed the woman who, when I last saw her, had not dared to raise -her veil, as if she were afraid I should see the traces on her pale -cheeks of Tournade’s caresses? Yes, it was the same woman who now -received me laughing in insolent bravado with not a trace of -embarrassment; and she was still beautiful, adorably beautiful, with her -fine and delicate beauty, which I believe would never have deserted her -whatever her surroundings; but she was now so provoking, so shameless! - -Not a word, not a blush, not a falter betrayed that she felt any emotion -at seeing in me the witness of what must remain to her a perpetual -memory. She lit, while she listened to me, an Egyptian cigarette of -tobacco the colour of her hair, and smoked it, exhaling the bluish smoke -through her delicate nostrils, with wide open eyes between her eyelashes -which had been slightly eaten away by the crayon she used. Her mouth -looked too red from the rouge of the night before; her cheeks were -fuller and her throat was larger; and her more opulent lips were defined -by a dressing-gown which was a costume of blue stuff worked and -embroidered with silver. I began as a matter of politeness by giving her -a brief account of my travels, my work and my return; then I broached -the real object of my visit, and I conveyed to her brutally, without -evasion, Molan’s proposal. - -“Is he cad enough!” she said shrugging her supple shoulders. “Is he cad -enough!” For a moment I hoped that a nausea of disgust would prove to me -that the old Camille was not dead. But no, she went on after a brief -silence: “If there is really a fine part for me, tell him to send or -bring me the play. He is so very clever when he is clever! Have you read -the play? Is he satisfied with it? You know I am really in need of a -fine part. So is he, for since he has become wealthy, he is allowing -himself to be forgotten. Between the two of us I will answer for its -success: his prose is so tender and I interpret it so well!” - -Not a vestige of indignation did she feel, that indignation I had felt -at knowing that the sorrowful romance of her irreparable downfall was -profaned! Hardly a vestige of malice did she show against Jacques, that -malice he himself expected! From her clear eyes which retained the -colour, the transparent purity, of the days of her innocence, I now saw -her smile at the fine part, as I had seen Jacques smile on the subject -of the play. Then it was I really understood the reason I should never -be a great artist. For them—for him as I have always known him, for her -as she has become after her first experience, their entire life, hearts -included, is only an opportunity for producing the special act they have -to produce, the precious secretion which they make, as the bee does -honey, as the spider does its web, by an instinct blind and ferocious as -all instincts are. - -Love, hate, joy and sorrow is the soil to make the flower of their -talent grow, this flower of delicacy and of passion, for which they do -not hesitate a moment to kill in themselves all real delicacy and living -passion. For a word to speak on the stage, for a phrase to write in a -book, this woman and this man would sell their father and their -mother—Camille had not even mentioned hers; they would sell their -friend, their child, and their sweetest memory. I, who have spent my -life in feeling what they express so well, he in black and white, she by -gestures and in moving accents, only succeed in paralysing myself with -that which exalts these expressive natures; in exhausting myself with -that which nourishes these souls of prey. Does destiny then will it that -artists, little or great, be of necessity distributed between the two -classes, those who transcribe marvellously without feeling the passions -which the other class feels without power to transcribe? Was Jacques -right in saying that his cruelty to Camille by giving her memories would -also give her talent? A fine part! A good play! Really we do not -complain at remaining obscure and mediocre, if this obscurity and -mediocrity are the condition for real feeling. Besides we have no -choice. - - - - - THE END. - - - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PLYMOUTH - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ● Transcriber’s Notes: - ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. - ○ Phrase corrected: “Une Épopée de ce temps” instead of “Une Épopée - de a temps” - ○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended. - ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. - ○ Spelling was made consistent when a predominant form was found in - this book; otherwise it was not changed. - ▪ Miraut instead of Mirant. - - ○ Inconsistent accents in French words were corrected and - regularized. - ▪ Barouillére instead of Barcuellère or Bareuillère. - ▪ Champmeslé instead of Champmeslè. - ▪ Bressoré instead of Bressorè. - ▪ Odéon instead of Odeôn or Odeòn. - ▪ Théâtre instead of Théatre in names of places. - ▪ Éthorel instead of Ethorel. - ▪ Élysées instead of Elysées. - - ○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in - bold by “equal” signs (=bold=). - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blue Duchess, by Paul Bourget - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE DUCHESS *** - -***** This file should be named 55726-0.txt or 55726-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/7/2/55726/ - -Produced by Clarity, Barry Abrahamsen and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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