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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3992d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65407 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65407) diff --git a/old/65407-0.txt b/old/65407-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e9cfec6..0000000 --- a/old/65407-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6432 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Love Crime, by Paul Bourget - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Love Crime - -Author: Paul Bourget - -Release Date: May 22, 2021 [eBook #65407] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images - generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE CRIME *** - -A LOVE CRIME - -BY - -PAUL BOURGET - - - - -_Author of a "CRUEL ENIGMA._" - - - - -LONDON - -_W. W. GIBBINGS, 18 BURY STREET W.C._ - -1892. - - - - -[Figure] - - - - -CONTENTS -CHAPTER I -CHAPTER II -CHAPTER III -CHAPTER IV -CHAPTER V -CHAPTER VI -CHAPTER VII -CHAPTER VIII -CHAPTER IX -CHAPTER X -CHAPTER XI - - - - -DEDICATION. - -TO GASTON CRÉHANGE. - - -Many days have elapsed, my dear friend, since our childhood, but they -have passed away without effecting any alteration in the affectionate -feelings we then entertained. In memory of an intimacy of heart and mind -which has never known a cloud, it is very pleasant to me to write your -name at the beginning of that one of my books which you preferred to all -the rest. It is further the book in which I have stated with most -sincerity what I think concerning some of the essential problems of the -modern life of our day. May this complete sincerity, by which you, the -truest and most loyal being I know, have doubtless been attracted, plead -in favour of the work with readers who would otherwise be startled by a -certain boldness of depicture and cruelty of analysis! - -For the rest, whatever may be the verdict of public opinion respecting -"A Love Crime," as I have called this minute diagnostic of a certain -distemper of the soul, it will always be possessed of one great merit in -my eyes, for it will have pleased you, and have enabled me once more to -subscribe myself, my dear Gaston, your ever faithful friend, - - -PAUL BOURGET. - - - - -A LOVE CRIME - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The little drawing-room was illuminated by the soft light of three -lamps--tall lamps standing on Japanese vases and bearing globes upon -which rested flexible shades of a pale blue tint. The door was hidden by -a piece of tapestry; two walls were hung with another piece, which was -covered with large figures. Both windows were draped with -curtains--drawn just now--of deep red colour and heavy of fold. - -The apartment thus closed in had a homelike air, which was heightened by -the profusion of small articles scattered over the furniture: -photographs set in frames, lacquered boxes, old-fashioned cases, a few -Saxon statuettes, books stitched in covers of antique stuff, such as -were coming into fashion in the year 1883. The wreathing foliage of an -evergreen plant showed in one corner. Close beside it, an open piano -displayed its white keys. An English screen with coloured glass and a -shelf on which tea-cups, books, or work might be laid, stood in folds on -one side of the fire-place. The fire burned with a peaceful crackling -noise which formed an accompaniment to the sound proceeding from the -tea-pot as the latter received the caresses from the flame of its lamp -on the low table designed for such service. - -The furniture of the somewhat crowded drawing-room presented that -composite appearance which is characteristic of our time, together with -the peculiarity that everything in it seemed to be almost too new. At a -first glance, certain slight indications would have seemed to show that -its Parisian aspect had been voluntarily aimed at. Objects were -contrasted here and there; there were, for instance, little -old-fashioned silver spoons; on the walls were two excellent copies of -small religious pictures, to which memories of childhood were certainly -linked, and which could have come only from an old country house. The -photographs, also, witnessed, by the dress and demeanour of the -relatives or friends represented, to altogether provincial -relationships. The feeling of contrast would have become still more -perceptible to one visiting the other rooms and finding everywhere -evident tokens that the persons dwelling in them had lived but a very -short time at Paris. - -This small-sized drawing-room belonged to a small-sized house situated -at No. 3½, Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The lower part of this street, -which descends in a very steep slope to the Rue Saint-Lazare, comprises -several private houses of very varied build, and a few retired dwellings -surrounded by gardens. The house containing the little drawing-room was -built for an actress by a celebrated financier under the Empire, at a -period when the Rue de la Tour des Dames harboured many princes and -princesses of the footlights. Too small to suit a wealthy family, too -inconvenient, owing to certain deficiencies in accommodation, for -tenants accustomed to the completeness of English comfort, it must have -proved quite seductive to persons accustomed to a semi-country life by -its attraction as a "home," as well as by the quiet pervading the end of -the street, which is rarely affronted by vehicles on account of the -difficulty of the ascent. - -During this November evening, although the windows of the little -drawing-room looked upon the courtyard, and the latter opened upon the -street, only a dim and distant murmuring penetrated from without, broken -by occasional gusts of the north wind. Judging by the whistling of this -north wind the night must have been a cold one. So, at least, opined a -fairly young man, one of the three persons assembled in the -drawing-room, as he rose from his chair, set down his empty cup on the -tea-tray with a sigh, and looked at the time-piece. - -"Ten o'clock. Must I really go to see the Malhoures this evening? What a -disaster it is to have a sensible wife who thinks about your future! -Never get married, Armand. Listen to that wind! I was so comfortable -here with you. Look here, Helen," he went on, leaning on the back of the -easy-chair in which his wife was seated, "what will happen if I do not -put in an appearance this evening?" - -"We shall be discourteous to some very kind people, who have always -behaved perfectly towards us since we came to Paris a year ago," replied -the young woman; she stretched out to the fire her slender feet, in the -pretty patent leather shoes and mauve stockings, the latter being of the -same colour as her dress. "If I had not my neuralgia!" she added, -putting her fingers to her temple. "You will make all my excuses to -them. Come, my poor Alfred, courage!" - -She rose and held out her hand to her husband, who drew her to him in -order to give her a kiss. Visible pain was depicted on Helen's handsome -face for a minute, during which she was constrained to submit to this -caress. Standing thus, in her mauve-coloured, lace-trimmed dress, the -contrast between the elegance of her entire person and the clumsiness of -the man whose name she bore was still more striking. - -She was tall, slender, and supple. The delicacy with which her hand -joined the arm which the sleeve of her dress left half uncovered, the -fulness of this arm, on which shone the gold of a bracelet, the -roundness of her dainty waist, the grace of her youthful figure,--all -revealed in her the blooming of a bodily beauty in harmony with the -beauty of her head. Her bright chestnut hair, parted simply in the -centre, half concealed a forehead that was almost too high--a probable -sign that with her feeling predominated over judgment. She had brown -eyes, in a fair complexion, such eyes as become hazel or black according -as the pupil contracts or dilates; and everything in the face declared -passion, energy, and pride, from the rather too pronounced line of the -oval, indicating the firm structure of the lower part of the head, to -the mouth, which was strongly outlined, and from the chin, which was -worthy of an ancient medal, to the nose, which was nearly straight, and -was united to the forehead by a noble attachment. - -The pure and living quality of her beauty fully justified the fervour -depicted on the face of her husband while he was kissing his wife, just -as the evident aversion of the young woman was explained by the -unpleasing aspect of her lord and master. They were not creatures of the -same breed. Alfred Chazel presented the regular type of a middle-class -Frenchman, who has had to work too diligently, to prepare for too many -examinations, to spend too many hours over papers or before a desk, at -an age when the body is developing. - -Although he was scarcely thirty-two, the first tokens of physical wear -and tear were abundant with him. His hair was thin, his complexion -looked impoverished, his shoulders were both broad and bony, and there -was an angularity in his gestures as well as an awkwardness about his -entire person. His tall figure, his big bones, and his large hand -suggested a disparity between the initial constitution, which must have -been robust, and the education, which must have been reducing. Chazel -carried an eye-glass, which he was always letting fall, for he was -clumsy with his long, thin hands, as was attested by the tying of the -white evening cravat, so badly adjusted round his already crumpled -collar. But when the eye-glass fell, the blue colour of his eyes was the -better seen--a blue so open, so fresh, so childlike, that the most -ill-disposed persons would have found it hard to attribute this man's -weariness to any excess save that of thought. - -His still very youthful smile, displaying white teeth beneath a fair -beard, which Alfred wore in its entirety, harmonised with this childlike -frankness of look. And, in fact, Chazel's life had been passed in -continuous, absorbing work, and in an absolute inexperience of what was -not "his business," as he used to say. Son of a modest professor of -chemistry, and grandson of a peasant, Alfred, having inherited aptitude -for the sciences from his father, and tenacity of purpose from his -grandfather, had, by dint of energy, and with but moderate abilities, -been one of the first at the entrance to that École Polytechnique -which, in the estimation of many excellent intellects, exercises, by its -overloaded and precocious examinations, a murderous influence upon the -development of the middle-class youth of our country. - -At twenty-two, Chazel passed out twelfth, and three years later first -from the School of Roads and Bridges. Sent to Bourges, he fell in love -with Mademoiselle de Vaivre, whose father, having married a second time, -could give her only a very slender dowry. The unexpected death, first of -Monsieur de Vaivre, then of his second wife and of their child, suddenly -enriched the young household. Appointed the preceding year to a -municipal post at Paris, the engineer found that he had realised a -hundredfold the most ambitious hopes of his youth. His wife's fortune -amounted to about nine hundred thousand francs, to the returns from -which were added the ten thousand francs of his own salary and the small -income which had been left by his father. But this competency, instead -of blunting the young man's activity, stimulated it to the ambition of -compensating in honour for the inequality of position between himself -and his wife. He had, accordingly, gone back to mathematical labours -with fresh ardour. Admission to the Institute shone on the horizon of -his dreams, like a sort of final apotheosis to a destiny, the happiness -of which he modestly referred to his father's wise maxim: "To keep to -the high road." - -Add to this that a son had been born to him, in whom he already -discerned a reflection of his own disposition, and it cannot fail to be -understood how this man would congratulate himself daily for having -taken life, as he had done, with complete submission to all the average -conditions of the social class in which he had been born. - -Did these various reflections pass through the mind of the third -individual--the man whom Alfred Chazel had called Armand, as he -contemplated the conjugal tableau through the smoke from a Russian -cigarette which he had just lighted--a liberty which revealed the extent -of his intimacy with the family? The same contrast which separated -Alfred from Helen separated him also from Armand. The latter looked at -first younger than his age, though he too had passed his thirty-second -year. If Alfred's carelessly-worn coat revealed rather the leanness and -disproportion of his body, the frock of the Baron de Querne--such was -Armand's family-name--fitted close to the shoulders and bust of a man, -small but robust, and evidently devoted to fencing, riding, tennis, and -all the sporting habits which the youths of the richer classes have -contracted in imitation of the English, now that political -careers--diplomacy, the Council of State, and the Audit Office--are -denied them by their real or assumed opinions. - -The quiet jewellery with which the young baron was adorned, the delicacy -of his hands and feet, and everything in his appearance, from his cravat -and his collar to the curls in his dark hair, and to the turn of his -moustache, drawn out over a somewhat contemptuous lip, disclosed that -deep attention to the toilet which assumes the lengthened leisure of an -idle life. But what preserved De Querne from the commonplaceness usual -to men who are visibly occupied with the trifles of masculine fashion -was a look, in a generally immovable face, of peculiar keenness and -unrest. This look, which was not at all like that of a young man, -contradicted the remainder of his person to the extent of imparting an -appearance of strangeness to one who looked in this way, although a -desire to evade remark, and to be above all things correct, evidently -influenced his mode of dress. - -Just as Chazel seemed to have remained quite young at heart, in spite of -the failure of constitution, so the other, if only in the expression of -his eyes, which were very dark ones, appeared to have undergone a -premature aging of soul and intellect, in spite of the energy maintained -by his physical machine. The face was somewhat long and somewhat -browned, like that of one in whom bile would prevail some day, the -forehead without a wrinkle, the nose very refined; a slight dimple was -impressed upon the square chin. It would have been impossible to assign -any profession or even occupation to this man, and yet there was -something superior in his nature which seemed irreconcilable with the -emptiness of an absolutely idle life, as well, too, as lines of -melancholy about the mouth which banished the idea of a life of nothing -but pleasure. - -Meanwhile he continued to smoke with perfect calmness, showing every -time that he rejected the smoke small, close teeth, the lower ones being -set in an irregular fashion, which is, people say, a probable indication -of fierceness. He watched Chazel kiss his wife on the temple, while -_she_ lowered her eyelids without venturing to look at Armand; and yet, -had the dark eyes of the young man been encountered by her own, she -would not have surprised any trace of sorrow, but an indefinable -blending of irony and curiosity. - -"Yes," said Alfred, replying thus to the mute reproach which Helen's -countenance seemed to make to him, "it is bad form to love one's wife in -public, but Armand will forgive me. Well, goodbye," he went on, holding -out his hand to his friend, "I shall not be away for more than an hour. -I shall find you here again, shall I not?" - -The young Baron and Madame Chazel thus remained alone. They were silent -for a few minutes, both keeping the positions in which Alfred had left -them, she standing, but this time with her eyes raised towards Armand, -and the latter answering her look with a smile while he continued to -wrap himself in a cloud of smoke. She breathed in the slight acridity of -the smoke, half opening her fresh lips. The sound of carriage wheels -became audible beneath the windows. It was the rolling of the cab that -was taking Chazel away. - -Helen slowly advanced to the easy chair in which Armand was sitting; -with a pretty gesture she took the cigarette and threw it into the fire, -then knelt before the young man, encircled his head with her arms, and, -seeking his lips, kissed him; it looked as though she wished to destroy -immediately the painful impression which her husband's attitude might -have left on the man she loved, and in a clear tone of voice, the -liveliness of which discovered a free expansiveness after a lengthened -constraint, she said: - -"How do you do, Armand. Are you in love with me to-day?" - -"And yourself," he questioned, "are you in love with me?" - -He was caressing the hand of the young woman who had thrown herself upon -the ground, and with her head resting on her lover's knees, was looking -at him in a fever of ecstasy. - -"Ah! you flirt," she returned, "I have no need to tell you so to have -you believe it." - -"No," he replied, "I know that you love me--much--though not enough to -go all lengths with the feeling." - -The tone in which he uttered this sentence was marked with an irony -which made it palpably an epigram. It was an allusion to oft-stated -complaints. Helen, however, received the derisive utterance with the -smile of a woman who has her answer ready. - -"So you will always have the same distrust," she said, and although she -was very happy, as her eyes sufficiently testified, a shadow of -melancholy passed into those soft eyes when she added: "So you cannot -believe in my feelings without this last proof?" - -"Proof," said Armand, "you call that a proof! Why the unqualified gift -of the person is not a proof of love, it is love itself. It is true," he -went on with a more gloomy air, "so long as you refuse to be entirely -mine I shall suspect--not your sincerity, for I think that you think you -love me, but the truth of this love. Too often people imagine that they -have feelings which they have not. Ah! if you loved me, as you say, and -as you think, would you deny me yourself as you do? Would you refuse me -the meeting that I have asked of you more than twenty times? Why you -would grant it as much for your own sake as for mine." - -"Armand--" she began thus, then stopped, blushing. - -She had risen and was walking about the room without looking at her -lover, her arms apart from her body with the backs of her hands laid on -her hips, as was usual with her at moments of intense thought. Since she -had begun to love, and had acknowledged her feelings to Monsieur de -Querne she was quite aware that she must some day give up her beautiful -dream of an attachment which, though forbidden, should remain pure. Yes, -she knew that she must give her entire self after giving her heart, and -become the mistress of the man whom she had suffered to say to her: "I -love you." She knew it, and she had found strength for the prolonging of -her resistance to that day, not in coquetry--no woman was less capable -of speculating with a man's ungratified desire in order to kindle his -passion--but in the persistence of the duty-sense within her. - -Where is the married woman who has not fondled this chimera of a -reconciliation between the infidelity of heart and the faith sworn to her -husband? The renunciation of the delights of complete love seems at -first to her a sufficient expiation. She engages in adultery believing -that she will not pass beyond a certain limit, and she does in fact keep -within it a longer or a shorter time according to the disposition of the -man she loves. But the inflexible logic that governs life resumes its -rights. Soul and body do not separate, and love admits of no other law -than itself. - -Yes, the fatal hour had struck for Helen, and she felt it. How many -times during the last fortnight had she had this horrible discussion -with Armand, who always ended by requiring from her this last token of -love? She was sensible that after each of these scenes she had been -lessened in the eyes of this man. A few more, and he would lose -completely his faith in the feeling which she entertained towards him, a -feeling that was absolute and unreasoned; for she loved him, as women -alone are capable of loving, with such a love as is almost in the nature -of a bewitchment, and is the outcome of an irresistible longing to -afford happiness to the person who is thus loved. She loved him and she -loved to love him. Pain in those beloved eyes was physically intolerable -to her, and intolerable also mistrust, which betokened the shrinking -back of his soul. - -She had taken account of all this, she had looked the necessity for her -guilt in the face, and she had resolved to offer herself to her -"beloved," as in her letters she always called him, because "friend" was -too cold, and the word "lover" purpled her heart with shame,--yes, to -offer him the supreme proof of tenderness that he asked for, and now, -when on the point of consenting, she was impotent. Her will was failing -at the last moment. Was she going again to begin what she used to call, -when she thought about it, a hateful contract? Ah! why was she not -free--free, that is, from duties towards her child, the only being whom -she could not sacrifice to him whom she loved--free to offer this man -not a clandestine interview but a flight together, a complete sacrifice -of her entire life. - -All these thoughts came and went in her poor head while she herself was -walking to and fro in the room. She looked again at her lover. She -fancied she could see a change come over the features of the countenance -she idolised. - -"Armand," she resumed, "do not be sad. I consent to all that you wish." - -These words, which were uttered in the deep voice of a woman probing to -the inmost chamber of her heart, appeared to astonish the young man even -more than they moved him. He wrapped Helen in his strange gaze. If the -poor woman had had strength enough to observe him she would not have -encountered in those keen eyes the divine emotion which atones for the -guilt of the mistress by the happiness of the lover. It was just the -same gaze, at once contemptuous and inquisitive, with which he had -lately contemplated the group formed by Alfred and Helen. But the latter -was too much confused by what she had just said to keep cool enough for -observing anything. - -Then, as she had come back and was crouching on Armand's knees, and -pressing against his breast, a fresh expression, that, namely, of almost -intoxicated desire, was depicted on the young man's face. He felt close -to him the beauty of this yielding body, he held in his arms those -charming shoulders of which he had knowledge from having seen them in -the ball-room, he drank in that indefinable aroma which lingers about -every woman, and he pressed his lips upon those eyelids, which he could -feel quivering beneath his kiss. - -"You will at least be happy?" she asked him in a sort of anguish between -two caresses. - -"What a question! Why, you have never looked at yourself," he said, and -he began to extol to her all the exquisiteness of her face. "You have -never looked at your eyes"--and he again drew his lips across -them--"your pink cheek"--and he stroked it with his hand--"your soft -hair"--and he inhaled it like a flower--"your sweet mouth"--and he laid -his own upon it. - -What answer could she have given to this worship of her beauty? She lent -herself to it with a half-frightened smile, surrendering to these -endearments and to these words as to music. They caused something so -deep and withal so vague to vibrate throughout her being that she came -forth half crushed from these embraces, like one dead. It was not for -the first time that she was thus abandoning herself to Armand's kisses. -But no matter how sweet, how intoxicating these kisses, which she found -it impossible to resist, she had on each occasion been strong enough to -escape from bolder caresses. - -No, never, never would she have consented, even had there existed no -danger of a surprise, to yield thus in the little drawing-room, where -the portraits of her mother, her husband, and her son reminded her of -what she was nevertheless ready to sacrifice. Ah! not like that! And -again at this moment, when she saw on Armand's face a certain expression -of which she had so deep a dread, she found courage to escape, seated -herself once more in another easy chair, and opening and shutting a fan -which she had taken up in her quivering hands, replied: - -"I will be yours to-morrow, if you wish." - -Armand seemed to rouse himself from the sweep of passion in which he had -just been tossing. He looked at her, and she again experienced the -sensation which had already caused her so much pain, and which was that -of a veil drawn suddenly between herself and him. Yet, what could she -have said to displease him? She thought that he was wounded by the fact -of her shrinking from him, for was not the uttering of the words that -she had just uttered equivalent to giving herself to him beforehand, and -how could he be vexed with her for desiring that their happiness might -have another setting than that of her every-day life? But he had already -answered her by the following question: - -"Where would you like me to meet you? At my own house? I can send away -my servant for the whole of the afternoon." - -"Oh, no!" she replied hastily, "not at your own home." - -The vision had just come to her that other women had visited Armand, -those other women whom a new mistress always finds between herself and -the man she loves, like the menace of a fatal comparison, like an -anticipated discrediting of her own caresses, since love is always -similar to itself; in its outward forms. - -"At least," she thought to herself, "let it not be amid the same -furniture." - -"Would you like me to request one of my friends to lend me his rooms?" -Armand asked. - -She shook her head as she had done just before. She could hear by -anticipation the conversation of the two men. She was a woman, and -hitherto had been a virtuous one. She was only too well aware that the -manner in which she regarded her own love would have little resemblance -to that of the unknown friend to whom Armand would apply. In her own -eyes passion sanctified everything, even the worst errors; spiritualised -everything, even the most vehement voluptuousness. But he, this -stranger, what would he see in the affair but an intrigue to afford -matter for jesting. A shudder shook her, and she looked again at Armand. -Ah! how her lover's thoughts would have horrified her had she been able -to read them. It was very far from being De Querne's first affair of the -sort, nor did he believe that it was a first act of weakness on her -part. She had, indeed, told him that he was her first lover, and it was -true. - -But what proof could be given of the truth of such vows? The young man -had himself deceived and been deceived too often for distrust not to be -the most natural of his feelings. He had provoked this odious discussion -concerning their place of meeting only for the purpose of studying in -Helen's replies the traces left by the amorous experiences through which -she had passed, and mere curiosity led him to dwell upon a subject which -at that moment was stifling the young woman with shame. The scruples -that she displayed about not yielding to him in her own house seemed to -him a calculation due to voluptuousness; those about not yielding to him -at his house, a calculation due to prudence. When she refused to go to -the rooms of a friend: "She is afraid of my confiding in some one," he -said to himself, "but what does she want?" - -"Suppose I furnished a little suite of rooms?" he said. - -She shook her head, though this had been her secret dream, but she was -afraid that he would see in her acceptance nothing but a desire to gain -time, and then--the necessity, if their meetings occurred always in the -same place, of enduring the notice of the people of the house, the -thought of being the veiled lady whose arrival is watched! Nevertheless, -although such a contrivance also involved a question of outlay which -horrified her, she would have consented to it had she not had another -feeling, the only one which, shaking her head with its rising fever, she -uttered aloud. - -"Do not misjudge me, Armand; rather understand me. I should like to be -yours in a place of which nothing would remain afterwards. What would -become of the rooms you furnished for me if ever you ceased to love me? -Why, I cannot endure the thought of it, even now. Do not wrong me, dear; -only understand me." - -Thus did she speak, laying bare the profoundly romantic side of her -nature, as also her heart's secret wound. Although she did not account -fully to herself for Armand's character--a character frightful in -aridity beneath loving externals, for in this man there was an absolute -divorce between imagination and heart--she perceived only too clearly -that he was inclined to misinterpret the slightest indications. She saw -that distrust was springing up in him with an almost unhealthy -suddenness. She had been quite aware that he suspected her, but she had -believed that this doubt proceeded solely from her refusals to belong to -him. - -It was on this account that she was consenting to give him this last -proof. "He will doubt no longer," she thought to herself, and the mere -idea of this warmed her whole heart. If only he did not give a guilty -construction to her replies? She rose to go to him, and leaning over the -back of his arm-chair, encircled his forehead with her hands. - -"Ah!" she said with a sigh, "if I could know what is going on in here. -It is such a little space, and it is in this little space that all my -happiness and my misfortune are contained." - -"If you were able to read in it," the young man replied, "you would see -only your own image." - -"I shall read in it to-morrow," she said subtly. - -"To-morrow," he returned with a smile; "but what about the place of our -meeting? There is nothing left but furnished rooms or a hotel." - -Furnished rooms! A hotel! These words made Helen shudder. All the shames -of adultery appeared to her to be comprised in their syllables. There -was the hiring of a cab, with the driver's cunning smile; there was the -entry into one of those houses, whose thresholds have seen the passage -of so many furtive, quivering women; and, as a setting for her divine -passion, there was the furniture that had, perhaps, been utilised for -similar scenes. Yes, but there was also an element of anonymity, of -impersonality, of never-ending strangeness. And since all was pollution, -the former of the two alternatives carried with it the least. She was -too certain of Armand's refinement to think that he might take her to a -place which he had visited with others. She would have to endure -personal loathing, but nothing that would touch the very essence of her -feeling. It was accordingly with courageous resolution that she replied -to her lover. - -"Will you have time enough to find them in one morning?" - -"Yes," he said, after a moment's reflection. "I have in my mind a very -convenient house, where one of my English friends always used to stay. -See," he went on, "between eleven and twelve o'clock I will send you -some books and a note. I will give you the address of the house and the -number of the room, just as though you had asked me for the address for -one of your country friends. Don't let that prevent you, however, from -burning the note immediately. You will come at whatever hour you can; I -will spend the whole afternoon waiting for you, and, if you do not come, -I shall not be put out; I shall think that you have not been able." - -She listened to him with a mingling of pain and enchantment--pain, -because it would cost her so dear to keep her promise; and enchantment, -because all the trouble that he took to point out these details to her, -instead of enlightening her concerning the man's heart, appeared to her -a sign of his love, and their talk proceeded in the quiet drawing-room, -in front of the expiring fire, until the stopping of a carriage at the -door announced Alfred's return. - -"Good-bye, my love," said Helen, taking Armand's hand and kissing it, as -she sometimes did with sweet coaxing; and she had already begun a piece -of work when Chazel came in, with a cheery "Well!" He looked at once -towards his wife with his loyal, honest gaze. - -How well Armand knew that gaze, one which had not altered from the days -of their childhood, when they were both at the Institution Vanaboste, -whence they followed the courses of study in the Lycée Henri IV.! The -establishment stood yonder behind the Panthéon, at the corner of the -Rue du Puits-qui-Parle, now the Rue Amyot. Yet it was not remorse for -deceiving the man whom he had known from quite a child that suddenly -made De Querne feel uncomfortable. It was the thought that Helen was -deceiving this confiding nature. Masculine egotism has such monstrous -ingenuousness. A seducer engaged in enticing a woman, despises the woman -for yielding to him, and forgets to despise himself for seducing her. -Meanwhile Alfred had taken Helen's hands. - -"I have bored myself conscientiously this evening; what will you give me -in reward?" he asked. - -How his familiarity hurt her! How willingly would she have cried to this -unsuspecting husband: - -"Do you not see that I love another? Let me go away. I do not want to -lie to you any more." - -But two rooms farther off stood a little bed, beneath the white curtains -of which slept her son, her little Henry. Why was it that the picture of -this curly head was something too weak to arrest her on the fatal high -road to adultery, and yet strong enough to prevent her from seeing her -passion through to the end. She had a glimpse of the child while her -husband was speaking to her. It did not occur to her to scorn Armand for -having gained her love, although she was the wife of his friend. She -scorned herself for not loving him enough, since she did not love the -sufferings of which he was the cause, and, sustained by the thought that -she was doing it for him, it was with something like an impulse of pride -that she held out her forehead to her husband's kiss, and said -gracefully: - -"That's just like men; they must be paid, and immediately too, for doing -their duty." - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -It was half-past eleven o'clock when Armand de Querne left the house in -the Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The wind had swept away all the clouds, and -the sky was filled with stars. "What a beautiful night!" said Armand to -himself; "I shall walk home." It was a long way, for he lived in the Rue -Lincoln, in the upper part of the Champs-Élysées. Here, on the second -floor of a wing projecting upon a garden, he had rooms which he had once -amused himself with furnishing in quaint and exquisite fashion with all -kinds of old-fashioned trifles. But how long had he ceased to spend the -evening in this "home?" - -He was following the pavement of the Rue St.-Lazare, which, after quite -a narrow and slender beginning, suddenly, like a river swelled by -tributaries, widens after the Place de la Trinité, when it receives, -one after the other, the flood of passengers and vehicles drifting -through the Rue de Chateaudun, the Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, and the -Rue de Londres. Cabs were plying, omnibuses were changing horses, the -crowd was surging. Sometimes a girl came out from the corner of a -doorway, and with obscene speech accosted the young man, who put her -away gently with his hand. - -Was it the contrast between the intimacy of the little drawing-room and -the swarming infamy of the pavement? Armand felt deeply melancholy. He -could not help seeing Alfred's face again in thought, with Helen's close -beside it. Yet, was he jealous? No. Pictures of childhood came back to -him as they had done just before, but with increased precision, showing -him Chazel dressed in the uniform of the "Vanabosteans"--a small jacket -similar to that of the Barbistes. They always went side by side in the -ranks. Poor Chazel! he was not rich. The head of the establishment had -taken him as a foundationer, with a view, to making a show-pupil of -him--a machine for winning prizes in competitions. How many times had -Armand paid for him at the little wicket, when the porter sold to the -pupils sweetmeats, fragments of iced chestnuts, cakes, and Parisian -creams--tablets of chocolate having a thick and oversweet liquid inside! - -They had gone through all their classes together from the fourth up, and -had together passed through the evil days of the Commune, when, on -returning both of them from the country, after the siege, they found -themselves blockaded in Paris. Alfred had afterwards entered the École -Polytechnique. And when he came on Wednesdays and Sundays to visit his -old schoolfellow, who had already crossed the Seine and begun to lead -the life of a rich and idle young man, how ludicrous he was in his -military dress, embarrassed by his sword, not knowing how to set his hat -upon his head, and invariably scarred with clumsy razor-cuts! - -While Alfred was at the School of Bridges, Armand was travelling. He had -gone round the world in the society of an amateur artist. On his return -he found that his friend was no longer at Paris. The letters passing -between them became rare. Could they have told why? Armand perhaps -might. There was only one point left in common between Alfred's life and -his own. Alfred had married Mademoiselle de Vaivre. They had made a trip -to Paris, and Armand well remembered how he had been deliciously -surprised by Helen's distinguished demeanour, when he had expected to -find her awkward, pretentious, and a fright. But at this period he was -taken up with another woman, little Aline, a mistress of his for whom he -had cherished the only genuine passion of which he was capable--painful -jealousy blended with delirium of the senses. - -Later on, some one had spoken to him of Helen Chazel, and told him ugly -stories about her. And who was it that had done so? Another -school-fellow--big Lucien Rieume, who had been educated at the Vanaboste -establishment like Alfred and himself--during one of these -_tête-à-tête_ luncheons when an opening of the heart usually -accompanies that of the oysters between two college companions; and -Lucien--cordial, indiscreet, intolerable--had talked a great deal, -pouring out pell-mell whatever he knew concerning former friends. Armand -could again hear him chuckle, leaning forward somewhat with kindled eye -and humid lip: - -"Poor Chazel, he hadn't a head worth a fig! It seems that his wife is -tricking him. I heard the gentleman's name: Marades, Tarades--just wait -a moment--yes, De Varades, an artillery officer. It was the talk of -Bourges. He was never out of the house." - -It was an unfortunate trait in Armand's character that he was unable to -withstand the tempting of mistrust. When evil was asserted to him, he -preserved an indelible impression of it. He did not altogether believe -in it, and yet he believed in it sufficiently for a suspicion, and a -busy suspicion, to be planted within him. When the Chazels had come to -settle in Paris, ten months previously, and Armand had begun to interest -himself in Helen, the scruples of an old friendship might perhaps have -been stronger than his freak of curiosity if big Rieume's words had not -risen before his recollection. - -"Really," he had said to himself, "it would be too foolish,"--a criminal -phrase which serves men for the justification of many a dastardly -action. Helen had not been slow in displaying towards him a kind of -passion which he had attributed to the natural exaltation of a -provincial. "I am the first Parisian who has paid her attentions," he -had said again to himself, and as she possessed charming gracefulness of -gesture, so sweet an expression of countenance and such an air of -complete refinement and nobility about her entire personality, he had -taken a pleasure in completing her education in elegance, thinking to -himself that she would be a delightful mistress. - -But for many days she had refused really to become his mistress, and her -resistance had made him obstinate. He had become bent upon overcoming -her, recollecting the officer and telling himself that the officer had -not been the only one. A few skilful conversations with Alfred had -taught him that at one time Varades had really been a constant guest at -the house; was he not the same year's student at the École -Polytechnique as Alfred himself? Armand had lost his doubts, and in -Helen's refusals to be his, he had seen nothing but coquetry. Now, in -this respect like all men who hold the strange ethics of seducers, -Querne considered coquetry in a women a justification for the worst -behaviour. At last the long siege was about to issue in the coveted -result. Madame Chazel had granted him an appointment for the following -day. Twenty-four hours more and he would have a new mistress, as -desirable and as pretty as those whose memory was the most flattering to -the pride of his recollection. Why then did he, instead of being happy, -feel so deeply melancholy. Was it remorse for the treason to his friend? - -His friend? Was Alfred really his friend? Yes, that was understood -between themselves, as well as in the eyes of others. But a friend is a -man who knows you and whom you know, to whom you show your heart and who -shows you his. Would he ever bring the tale of one of his hopes, his -joys, his sadnesses, to the calculating machine that bore the name of -Chazel? Had the latter ever confided a secret to him? So much the -better, too, for the ideas of this worthy schoolboy who seemed to look -upon life as the prolongation of a college task, must be silly enough. -It was their college life that continued to link them together, and the -recollections of their childhood. Their childhood? Turning down the Rue -Royale and arriving at the Champs Élysées, Armand suddenly recalled -the ranks of Vanaboste's school, on Thursdays, as they walked three and -three under the superintendence of a poor wretch of an usher who strove -to hide himself among the groups of people, so as to seem a passer-by -like the rest and not a watch-dog charged with the duty of looking after -a flock of schoolboys. - -And what a flock it was! The majority had pale complexions, hollow eyes, -an enervated exhaustion of the whole being that spoke of secret -excesses. How much ignominy and baseness was there in that community, -the eldest in which were nineteen years of age and the youngest eight! -Within the walls of their prison, as within the walls of the great -Lycée to which they repaired twice a day, nothing was thought of but -the infamous amours existing between the elder boys and their juniors. -Of these unnatural loves, some were partly sensual, and had for their -theatre all the deserted corners in the house, from the dormitories to -the infirmary. And of the French youth confined within similar colleges, -how many were participators in this lewdness, while the rest defiled -their imaginations, although they repelled it! Among these college boys -there were also elevated and chaste connexions. The perusal of a certain -eclogue of Virgil's, a dialogue of Plato's, and a few of Shakespeare's -sonnets had excited the more literary of them, and Alfred Chazel, being -then in the third class, had one day received a piece of poetry written -by a sixth-form boy, beginning with the following astonishing line, -which had made them laugh like mad creatures: - - -"Alfred, my pale Alfred, my love, my sweet." - - -"Ah! what a horrible, horrible, place!" thought the young man, as he -recalled this blending of turpitude and puerility. - -Alfred and he had belonged to the small number of those who had remained -untouched by the infection. But to him at least, all the advantage due -to this disgust was that it had led him when quite young to the pursuit -of women, and his initiation into natural pleasure had been effected in -the most degraded prostitution. - -"And these are the youthful recollections that I should respect," said -Armand to himself. "What duty do I owe him because we were galley slaves -together?" - -No, a hundred times no, it was not on Alfred's account that he felt so -melancholy as he hastened his steps and, this time with semi-brutality, -repulsed the love-beggars who accosted him with their unvarying phrases. -Ah! he knew this unconquerable melancholy only too well. Only too often -had it visited him, gnawing him in the diseased portion of his heart, -from the time that the income of thirty thousand francs coming to him at -his majority had permitted him to live according to his fancy; and this -fancy had immediately taken the direction of sentimental experiences. -Such melancholy, sharp and severe, he had experienced, even when quite a -youth, every time that he had found himself on the eve of a first -love-meeting with a new mistress, even though she had been the most -coveted. It was like an anguish-stricken apprehension--a dull, dim agony -of soul. - -At first he had attributed this strange phenomenon alternately to -physical timidity, to remorse at his own unworthiness of the feelings -that he might inspire, and to hankerings after purity. Now he knew the -true explanation of these momentary sorrows, these keener crises of the -great sorrow which formed the gloomy background of his life. It was, -alas! the more present and palpable certainty of his impotence to love. -At this very moment he was asking himself: - -"Am I really in love with Helen?" - -He gathered and heaped together the whole of his inmost sensibility, -like a physician seeking with his fingers for the painful spot of a -diseased limb. But the spot of love, which it would have given him such -sweet pain to meet with, Armand could not discover. - -"No," he answered himself with terrible sadness, yet courageously--for, -with all his failings, he had energy enough to venture upon -self-knowledge--"no, I am not in love with Helen. I desire her because -she is beautiful; I have paid my addresses to her because I feel bored; -I have grown obstinate about it because she denied me. Pride, -sensuality, and romantic twaddle--that's the top and bottom of the whole -affair. Then what is the good of it? What is the good? Why renew such an -intrigue as that with Madame de Rugle?" - -And all the amours into which his depraved liking for seduction--the -fatal vice of his youth--had impelled him, came back into his memory, -with the monotony of their pleasures, the bitterness of their ruptures, -the sickening void of their duration. What was the good of this one or -of that? What was the good a year or two ago of amusing himself by -winning the love of Juliet, governess to the children of a house at -which he was received? What was the good of that comedy played to little -Maud, the pretty Englishwoman whom he had met at a watering-place? - -"I dreamed of being a man of gallantry--a Don Juan. It looks as though -fate punishes us for the evil dreams of our youth by bringing them to -pass. I have had intrigues that might flatter my foolish vanity--and -what wretchedness!" - -Among all the women whose faces and kisses he distinguished in his -thought, there was not one who had made him happy, even for a single -day, and--strange anomaly of a distempered heart--there was not one who -had not in some sort made him suffer. Through what moral disorder did it -come to pass that he was devoted to this continual inward calamity--to -the endurance of all the tortures of love: the jealousy of the present, -the intolerable loathing for the past, the bitter vision of the -treacheries of the future, and never, never, aught but physical -intoxication, without that ecstacy of soul which, notwithstanding, -existed, for he had seen with envy the heavenly expression due to it on -the countenances of a few of his mistresses? - -One especially came before him--one whose conquest had not been effected -for the flattering of his fatuity, for she was but a girl was Aline, who -had died of consumption in the autumn of 1880. He could again see her -with her hollow eyes, her delicate cheek, and the blending of native -purity and corruption that was in her. He could see her nursing a little -sister whom she had taken to be with her, a child four years of age. -What affecting kindliness in vice, and what innocence in infamy! Yes, -Aline loved him, although she had three or four other lovers at the same -time as himself. His chief pleasure used to consist in taking this -pretty, ruined creature into the country to enjoy the childish outbreaks -of rusticity that prompted her to pick flowers, to listen to the birds, -to lean upon his arm, as though she had never exercised her hideous -profession. - -What a mysterious thing is memory! He was on the eve of his first -assignation with Helen, and here he was growing tender over poor Aline, -evoking her as she was when he had so often sought her in her rooms in -the Rue de Moscow; as she was at certain moments when he had loved or -nearly loved her--on a summer evening, for instance, when she was seated -in the stern of a boat rowed on the Seine by four oarsmen of their -acquaintance. Yes, she was seated in a bright dress, looking at him over -the heads of the youths as they alternately stooped and rose. A -stillness was falling upon the river. A fine of orange was trailing -along the margin of the sky. What unspeakable emotion had bathed his -soul as he was sensible of the passing hour, the quivering water, the -living creature, and the dying light! - -He ascended his staircase with these thoughts. Why this fatal -incompleteness in all his passions? Why was he incapable of attaining to -that absolute of tenderness which he conceived, of which he had -glimpses, towards which he sprang at every new intrigue? And -then--nothing! And yet how many chances had been combined for him; and -while his servant was relieving him of his overcoat, and he was passing -into the drawing-room, in which he often read at night before going to -bed, he mentally enumerated these chances: a fortune which enabled him -to pursue his fancies without much need of calculation; a genuine and -ancient title; ability to maintain a position in society that pleased -him; a robustness of health that could not recall a week of sickness; a -taste for intellectual things just sufficient to occupy his attention -without annoyance, for, absolutely free from personal ambition, he had -never ceased to be interested as an amateur by the attractions of -literature and art. - -Added to all this, he had an appointment for the following day with a -charming woman whom he desired, and the fire of sense had not been -slackened within him by the excesses of his life. Why, then, was it -inevitable that the perception of an indefinable insufficiency in his -life should make him so melancholy just at this moment? He put on a -lounging jacket, dismissed his servant, and settled himself beside the -fire in his drawing-room. He again evoked Helen with an exactitude of -recollection which made her present to him from her mauve stockings to -that little mark which she had there at the right corner of her mouth. -Well! he did not love her, and he would never love her. If he had hoped -to experience at last, through her, that supreme surprise of the heart -which continually eluded him, he might tell himself that this hope was -abortive like the rest. - -Like the rest! He felt a desire to convince himself that it had always -been so with him. He went and opened a box, in which were piled six or -seven note-books of different sizes. Some were made of sheets of school -paper. There were two of Japanese paper. These note-books were journals -of his life taken up repeatedly at unequal periods. In them he came upon -pages scrawled on the desk of the study-room at school, pages blackened -on the sides of boats, in hotel rooms, in this very drawing-room. He -took up these note-books, and began to turn over the leaves, finding in -them a former ego perfectly similar to the present ego in premature -misanthropy, sudden and fleeting ardours of sensuality, murderous -analysis, impotent hankering after unattainable delight, indolent -languor and incapacity ever fully to feel anything, whether real or -ideal. - -The whole had combined to make of him a sort of child of the century, of -the year 1883, but without elegy, a Nihilist of gallantry and without -declamation. - -The following is one of the pieces which his eyes, now gloomy and dull, -dwelt upon, and which would have broken Helen's heart if, gifted with -the magic faculty of second sight, she had discovered the melancholy -torpor which even the gift of her person, following upon the gift of her -entire soul, was inadequate to disturb. - - -"PARIS, _May_ 1871. - -"Terrible days. Vanaboste comes and tells us yesterday, at one o'clock, -that we must get ready to leave, and that the pupils at Sainte Barbe -have gone already with their head. The Panthéon is full of powder, and -will soon blow up. Since morning the firing had been slowly, slowly -drawing nearer--a strange noise! It was as though some one had shaken -millions of nuts over the town in a gigantic cloth. Alfred and I spent -the morning in the attic watching the flames of the conflagrations -writhing against the sky. He was quite depressed, and I fiercely gay, -with a nervous gaiety that forced me to the utterance of outrageous -paradoxes--but were they paradoxes?--concerning the fine theories of our -professor of philosophy last week. O vision of fate! His last lesson -turned upon progress! - -"We are packing up hastily in order to leave, when one of the masters -comes in a state of terror through the little door opening upon the -Rue Tournefort, which he bolts behind him. He tells us that the -federates would not allow anyone to pass their barricades. It was with -great difficulty that he himself has been able to return. We were a long -way from the good-natured National Guardsman who said to us on Monday, -at the doors of the Lycée: Shout "Long live the Commune!" boys, and you -are free." Vanaboste was as white as my paper when he heard this news. -The usher hit on the plan of having mattresses spread over the middle of -the courtyard, so that if the Panthéon blew up we should fall with less -violence. We remained for about two hours in this distress, we pupils -fourteen in number, the two assistant masters, and the head master. -Alfred and I, who, by an odd contradiction, were almost calm, talking -together in a corner. - -"In spite of the firing, which was constantly drawing nearer, and the -bullets cracking against the walls, perhaps a hundred paces off, we had -neither of us a perception of reality; the danger appeared to us to be -something distant, dim, almost abstract. And we were talking--of what? -Of our childhood. 'It has been a happy one,' he said to me, 'even here.' -For once I emptied my heart to him, and let him see what I thought of -the scholastic lupanar in which, owing to my guardian's selfishness, I -have been obliged to grow up. After all, I prefer even this bagnio to -his house. - -"Through this useless talking the firing can be heard coming nearer. The -Panthéon does not blow up. Suddenly a loud shout comes down from one of -ourselves in the upper story, where, at the risk of receiving a bullet, -he had stationed himself at the window. 'The Chasseurs are at the end of -the street.' That was the most trying moment. My heart beat as though it -would burst, my throat was choking in the expectation of what was going -to happen. Undefined danger had left me calm. Exact, brutal, and present -fact affected me unpleasantly. Some shots are fired quite close, then -furious summonses with the butt-ends of guns shake the gate. The same -usher who had shown his coolness in conceiving the precautionary measure -of the mattresses, rushes forward in time to strike up the levelled guns -of two chasseurs, who, blackened with powder, and with eyes gleaming in -frenzy, would have fired at random into the crowd of us if the other had -not been there. A lieutenant comes up, a little man in yellow boots, -with strap on chin and pistol in fist. Vanaboste speaks to him, and we -are saved. - -"All this was yesterday. To-day we are again at our studies, a symbol of -our childish life in the midst of this tumult of action. I turn over the -leaves of an old book of spiritual philosophy with the pleasure of -contempt, and after reading official phrases about God, the immortal -soul, refinement of manners, moral liberty and innate reason, I close my -eyes and see the Square of the Panthéon as it was last night: the dead -lying with naked feet, because their shoes have been stolen; and with -battered skulls, because their deaths have just been made sure, of by -blows from butt-ends of guns; the splashes of blood, that feel sticky -beneath the soles of our boots; the flames of the conflagrations in the -distant sky; and on the footpath, lying on the same straw, and sleeping -like wearied brutes, the little chasseurs who have taken the quarter. -_Homo homini lupior lupis._" - - -"DIEPPE, _July_ 1874. - -"The daughter resembles the mother. She is only twelve years old, and -already I can catch the coquetry, the glances, the premonition of the -woman in the presence of the man; and it will end as it did with her -mother, in a marriage of convenience, first acts of thoughtlessness, a -first lover, then a series of lovers down to some young Baron de Querne, -whom there will be an attempt to persuade that none was ever loved but -he; and, more foolish or more intelligent than myself, he will perhaps -believe it. - -"Yes, more intelligent; for in love the great thing is to have as much -emotion as possible; and the real deception is to paralyse one's heart -by clear-sightedness. Whether was it Valmont in the 'Liaisons'--dear -Valmont--or the President's wife that was deceived? She who felt or he -who calculated? Whether was it Elvire or Don Juan, who does not -understand that Elvire, seeing that she has been able to intoxicate -herself with love, is alone to be envied, while he himself is not? I -know all this, but the inward demon is the stronger, and as soon as I -begin to pay my addresses to a woman I am at pains to procure all such -information concerning her as can render me incapable of loving her. - -"At my age, ought I not to write in this book: 'O divine fate! that has -caused me so speedily to light upon the unique, the ideal woman, the -sister-soul,' &c. (It would call for some of Gounod's music). Not -exactly, Monsieur de Querne, but rather a lady of experience, who has -had five or six lovers, who has retained sufficient taste to give the -title of 'sentiment' to what belongs to fair and fitting and the most -brutal sensation; a lady of tact, who has given herself a good deal of -trouble to persuade you that you have seduced her. And the deuce take me -if I am angry with her for such charming hypocrisy! Besides, what is the -good of being angry with anyone for anything? Every human being is a -pretentious little watch, which, seeing its hands go round, fancies that -it is itself the cause of the motion. Foolishness and vanity! There is a -delicate mechanism inside, and this mechanism has it that Madame ---- -shall be a sentimental prostitute, her daughter a future quean, and I a -mirthless debauchee, who parch my soul by setting forth all this instead -of enjoying what is granted to me." - - - -"PARIS, _22nd May_ 1877. - -"An evening of folly yesterday and debauchery, but debauchery that was -gay and healthy which is undoubtedly the truth. Nothing but this remains -to me that does not leave disgust behind. - -"I went to see Duret, the painter, with that sad dog René W----, who -first stopped in the Rue de la Tour-Auvergne to ask for Marie, a tall -brunette. - -"I have a Marie here," said the doorkeeper, "but she is a tall blonde, -red even," and in fact at a window in the first floor I saw a head of -warm, golden hair, a dress of clear, bright blue, and a made complexion -as extravagantly pink as a doll's. In my dark hours I have had -sufficient knowledge of the degrading and consolatory fascination of -these painted charms, of these slain bodies, of these ringed eyes, of -all this lying! - -"At Duret's found Léonie, the model who stood to him for his _Delilah_ -in the last Salon: a somewhat wearied face, with a refined and arched -nose, eyes of gleaming blackness, a strongly marked chin, with a -slightly masculine appearance in the profile--the masculine appearance -of theatrical women who act in burlesque--and a long countenance. But -that is but the skeleton of the face. The slight moustache was tinged -with black, the patch on the cheek underlined with black, the eyes made -still larger with black, the complexion covered with powder, and the -powder blending with the pale pink of the blood gave the woman an -extravagant and sophisticated look which was completed by the -brilliantly nacreous teeth that twinkled with the splendour of moist -imitation pearls. - -"The toilet completed the woman. She had some black, gauzy material -round her neck, a hat trimmed with gauze and flowers, a dress of -variegated and friezed material, with a huge, red rose blooming on her -left breast. - -"'She's a luxurious woman,' said René ironically, and, indeed, with the -material of her dress, her gauze and her flower, she looked like a -creature that lived on nothing but superfluity. I paid my addresses to -her, pleased her, and did not leave her house until this morning. - -"O enchantment of the senses when the surcharge of thought comes not to -mar physical intoxication! O enchantment of prostitutes, seen thus as -dispensers of pleasure free from disquiet of heart! No asking whether or -how one loves or is loved, no measuring of sensation with an ideal type -of feeling that is perceived, and striven after, and that never can be -felt! I write these lines, and see! already my enjoyment has evaporated. -I write these lines and yet would that on a solitary terrace fronting a -landscape of trees and waters a woman might appear having the eyes of -which I long have dreamed--eyes which I know without having ever met -them--and might swear to me that this life has been nothing but an evil -dream! And she should tell me _all_, and by that all be made the dearer -to me;--and then I should love!" - - -"PARIS, _June_ 1879. - -"Luncheons and dinners; dinners and luncheons. Assignations and evening -parties. Ah! how empty my life is! I do nothing that I like; nothing; -for I like nothing. - -"In presence of the living creature, nothing at heart but pity for him -who suffers, if he does suffer--who will suffer since he endures the -evil of existence. - -"If death, inevitable death, were neither physically painful in the -passage thither from life, nor terrible in its sequel to our imagining, -ah! how I would seek that which has prompted thoughts to mar my life! - -"We live on--and why? We think--and why? Why between two glasses of -delicate wine and amid naked shoulders does there come to me ceaselessly -at table the image of the grave, and the insoluble question concerning -the meaning of this deadly farce of nature, and the world, and life? - -"I muse on the sweets of mutual love, an absurd dream that civilisation -grafts upon the simple need of coupling. Ah! for a simple passion that -might apply my entire sensibility to another being, like wet paper -against a window-pane. - -"And all this declamatory philosophy due to the fact that yesterday I -saw Madame de Rugle again at the Théâtre Français, and that the sight -did not move me one whit. What does logic say? That a man should not -force himself to tenderness when his lack of feeling is self-admitted, -but turn on his heel, whistling that polonaise of Chopin's which she -used to play to me sometimes in the evening with so much intention and -sentimentality. And of that passion this is all that is left." - - -"PARIS, _January_ 1881. - -"I am aware that I have become horribly, fiercely egoistic, and the -external manifestations of this egoism are now offensive to me, whereas -formerly I used to surrender myself to it without scruple, at a time, -however, when I was of more worth than I am now by reason of the dream -that I cherished concerning myself. - -"Philosophising truthfully about oneself is as great a relief as the -vomiting of bile. I look for the history of my temperament from the days -of my childhood. I see that my imagination has been excessive, -destroying my sensibility by raising a fore-fashioned idea between -myself and reality. I expected to feel in a certain way--and then, I -never did so. This same imagination, darkened by my uncle's harsh -treatment, has turned also to mistrust. I have always dreaded every -creature. The loss of my father and mother prevented the correction of -this early fault. College life and modern literature stained my thought -before I had lived. The same literature separated me from religion at -fifteen. Impiety, to my shame, acted like refinement to seduce me! The -massacres of the Commune showed me the true nature of man, and the -intrigues of the ensuing years the true nature of politics. I longed to -link myself to some great idea--but to which? When quite young I had -measured the wretchedness of an artist's existence. There must be genius -or far better leave it alone. To rank as fiftieth among writers or -musicians--thank you, no. My fortune exempted me from the necessity of a -profession. Enter a Council of State for foreign affairs, or a public -office--and why? There are only too many officials already. Get married? -The thought of chaining down my life never tempted me. I should have -done the same as B---- who, on the day of his wedding, took train to -return no more. - -"Then what? Nothing. I have not even grown old of heart; I am abortive. -My sentimental adventures, which have been pursued in spite of -everything, for women are even yet what is least indifferent to me, -have, alas, convinced me that there are no kisses that do not resemble -those already given and received. It is all so short, and superficial, -and vain. How desperate I should be rendered by the thoughts of -myself--of that self which I shall never be able completely to -renounce--did I often indulge in them! What else but the damnation of -the mystics is _non-love_?" - - -Such were a few of the pages among many others, and the abominable -monograph of a secret disease of soul was continued in hundreds of -similar confidences. Often simply the date was written, together with -two or three facts: Rode, paid visits, went to the club, the theatre in -the evening, or a party, or ball, and then came a single word like a -refrain--_Spleen._ At the beginning of the last of these note-books, -Armand, when he had closed it, could read a list of all the years of his -life since 1860, and after each date he had scrawled--_Torture_, and at -the end, these words: - -"I did not ask for life. If I have committed faults, frightful ones, too, -I have also known sufferings such as, set over against the others, might -say to the inconceivable Power that has created and that sustains me, if -such a Power possess a heart: 'Have pity upon me!'" - -The young man thrust away with his hand the heap of papers wherein he -encountered so faithful an image of his present moral aridity. Slowly he -began to walk about the room. Everywhere in it he recognised the same -tokens of his inward nihilism. The low bookcase contained but those few -books which he still liked: novels of withering analysis--"Dangerous -Liaisons," "Adolphus," "Affinities"--moralists of keen and self-centred -misanthropy, and memoirs. The photographs scattered over the walls -reminded him of his travels--those useless travels during which he had -failed to beguile his weariness. On the chimney-piece, between the -likenesses of two dead friends, he kept an enigmatic portrait, -representing two women, with the head of the one resting upon the -shoulder of the other. It was the present, life-like remembrance of a -terrible story--the story of the bitterest faithlessness he had ever -endured. He had been cynical or artificial enough to laugh over it -formerly with the two heroines, but he had laughed with death in his -heart. - -At the sight of all these objects witnessing to the manner of his life, -he was so completely sensible of his emotional wretchedness that he -wrung his hands, saying quite aloud: "What a life! Good God! what a -life!" It was owing to experiences such as these that his lips and eyes -preserved that expression of silent melancholy to which he had perhaps -owed Helen's love. It is their pity that leads to the capture of the -noblest women. But these crises did not last long with Armand. In his -case muscles were stronger than nerves. He took up his journals, and -threw them, rather than put them, away in the box. - -"That's a rational sort of occupation," he thought to himself, "for the -night before an assignation." - -Immediately, his thoughts turned again to Helen. The charming air of -distinction that she possessed returned to his recollection, and -suddenly softened him to an extraordinary degree. - -"Why have I entered into her life," he said, "since I do not love her? -For eleven little months she did not know me, and she was at peace. -There would still be time enough to act the part of an honest man." - -He was seized by the temptation to do what he had done once already--to -renounce, before any irrevocable step had been taken, an intrigue in -which he ran the risk of taking another's heart without giving his own -in return. - -"Perhaps she loves me," he said to himself; and he sat down at his -table, and even got ready a sheet of paper in order to write to her. -Then, leaning back in his easy chair, he reflected. The recollection of -Varades suddenly beset him, as also of the serenity with which Helen had -deceived her husband that evening. "Innocent child," he said aloud, -speaking to himself, "if it were not I, it would be someone else. When a -fast woman meets with a libertine, they form a pair." - -He began to laugh in a nervous fashion, and recalled the boundless -contempt with which he had formerly been covered by the lady whom his -scruples had led him to give up. She was the only enemy that he had kept -among all the women with whom he had had to do. The clock struck. - -"Two o'clock," he said, "and I have to get up early in order to visit -worthy Madame Palmyre, and reserve one of her little suites, as in -Madame de Rugle's days. I shall be tired. Monsieur de Varades will be -missed." - -Half-an-hour later he was in bed, and, head on arm, sleeping that -infantine sleep which, in spite of his life, had still been left to him. -So he was represented in a drawing by his father, which hung on one of -the walls of his bed-room. Ah! if the dead ones, whose son he was, had -been able to see him, would they have condemned him? Would they have -pitied him? - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -It was about half-past ten in the morning when Madame Chazel received a -small packet from the Baron de Querne. It contained two books--two new -novels--and a letter, the last being similar to all those that a man of -the world may write to a woman with whom he is on friendly terms. But -the postscript pressed as with a hand upon her heart. It ran as follows: - -"If your country friend decides to come to Paris, the best furnished -apartments that I have seen are at 16, Rue de Stockholm. They are on the -second floor, to the right." - -Yes, Helen was seized with inward trepidation on reading these simple -lines. In proportion as her action drew closer to her--the action that -would for ever separate her future and her past--the fever which had -been preying upon her since the previous evening had increased still -more. She had just left her bath, and, wrapped in a dressing-gown of -pure white, was crouched on a low chair beside the fire, her naked feet -in slippers, her form unconstrained by the flexible material, and her -hair rolled in a great twist about her neck. She shivered in her -wool-lined robe, and, with Armand's letter in her fingers, gazed now at -the paper, the mere touch of which overwhelmed her, and now around the -room--a refuge which she preferred even to the little drawing-room, as -enabling her to retire into a domain that was all her own. - -She had been so pleased at the time of their settling in Paris to obtain -this room all to herself! She had during so many nights known the -torture of sleeping beside a man whom she did not love, and if sleeping -side by side, almost breath to breath, forms the delight of blissful -passion, physical aversion, on the other hand, is augmented by such -intimacy, until it becomes a species of animal hatred. Alfred's -movements, the sound of his breathing, the mere existence of his person, -angered her and hurt her, in the hours that she spent thus beside him, -when silence hung heavy upon their rest, and she lay awake quivering and -in revolt. When requesting this separation of rooms she certainly had -not foreseen that the solitude of her couch would one day avail her as a -weapon against material partition, that terrible ransom for adultery -which prudent women accept as a security. It is a rare thing for those -who deceive their husbands to sleep apart from them. They would rather -not have to carry with them to their lover the anxiety due to a -watchfulness but little reconcilable with complete pleasure. - -But Helen was not capable of such calculations. The most charming trait -in her character was a spontaneity that might draw her into very great -perils, but that at least always preserved her from a foulness which is -more degrading than anything else--reflection in the midst of error. At -this very moment, as she sat crouching upon her low chair, she did not -think about the consequences of her approaching action, nor did she -reason--she felt. The presence of Armand's letter caused her to be -visited with excessive emotion. She scarcely so much as listened to the -noise that her little boy made in playing beside her bed. The child was -shaking his flaxen ringlets, and shouting and running about. He had set -two chairs beside each other, and was creeping between them, pretending -that he was a railway train passing through a tunnel. - -Since she had been in love with Armand, Helen had experienced strange -feelings of sadness in the presence of her little Henry, and she had -reproached herself for them as for a lack of tenderness, attributing -them to remorse. In reality, her sorrow was due to the discovery in her -son of an astonishing likeness to her husband. Even in his games the -child recalled the conversation of the father, who from principle gave -him for books nothing but scientific works, and then he had Alfred -Chazel's eyes and his awkwardness in using his hands, and had only his -mother's mouth and forehead. She spoiled him all the more for her -consciousness of what she had taken from him to give to another! The -child continued to play, looking sometimes towards his mother. The -latter, at one moment, heaving a deep sigh, crumpled up the paper that -she held in her hand, and flung it into the fire. - -The note had grown intolerable to her. She told herself, indeed, that it -was more prudent on her lover's part to write to her in this tone of -formal politeness, but it was such prudence as freezes, and in Helen's -then unnerved condition she had need of a letter whose every phrase acts -upon the reader's heart like invisible and caressing lips. The crumpled -paper, letter and envelope together, rolled into the fire, and the child -left the two chairs with which he was playing to come to his mother's -side and watch it burn. - -"What are you looking at there, darling?" Helen said to him. - -"At the nuns, mamma," he replied. So he called the luminous dots that -run across the black surface of paper consumed by fire. These dots were -in his eyes nuns distractedly traversing their burnt cloister. "How they -hurry," he said; "how frightened they are! Oh! that one, mamma, look at -that one! The convent is falling down. They are all dead." - -Madame Chazel felt herself incapable of enduring this merriment. The -whole odious nature of her moral situation had just been rendered -palpable to her by a petty, insignificant fact, that of her son making a -plaything of the letter in which her lover made an appointment with her -for their first secret meeting. She would have been so glad to have held -her home life, the maternal obligations of which she would fulfil to the -utmost, distinct from the other, from that life of passion upon which -she was entering, carried away by something stronger than her reason, -something so obscure to herself and yet so real. Was this distinction, -then, altogether impossible, seeing that on the very first day all that -she would have wished apart were being blended together? - -"Go and play with Miette," she said to her son, "I have a slight -headache." - -Miette was the little boy's nurse. A lady's maid, a cook, and a -man-servant completed the _personnel_ of the household. Miette, who had -come from the country with her employers, had taken care of Henry from -his earliest infancy. At night, to send him to sleep, she used to sing -canticles to him, one especially of which delighted and terrified him: - - -"Come, divine Messiah." - - -"What is Messiah?" he would ask his nurse. - -"He is Antichrist," she used to reply. - -"When will He come?" asked the child. - -"At the end of the world." - -"In how many years?" - -"Seven," said the nurse. - -"Then I shall be twelve years old," Henry would calculate. - -This astonishing prediction had so struck him the night before, that at -the mere mention of his nurse's name, he began to tell it to his mother. -At any other time this confidence would have amused her, but while -speaking he had in his bright grey eyes a look that the young woman knew -only too well. - -"Don't be frightened," she said, "for you are good, and go and play." - -The little boy cast a glance at the fire where the black residue alone -marked the site of the burnt convent; at the chairs whose backs were no -longer the walls of a deep tunnel; at his mother, to know whether he -might not remain. Unconsciously he was affected by the sadness -overspreading her face. By one of those almost animal intuitions -peculiar to extremely sensitive children, he discerned that his presence -was vexing to his mother. He kissed her hand, and then suddenly burst -into tears. - -"What is the matter, my angel, what is the matter?" said Helen, pressing -him in her arms and covering him with kisses. - -"I thought you were angry with me," he said. Then, warmed by her -caresses, he said: "I am going, mamma; I will be good." - -"Have children presentiments?" Helen asked of herself when she was left -alone. "One would think he were conscious that something unusual is -taking place." And with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting -upon her closed hands, she relapsed into the state of fever that had -kept her awake the whole night. The nacreous bruise that encircled her -eyes too clearly revealed this sleeplessness. On rising, she had looked -at herself in the glass, and said to herself: - -"I am not pretty--I shall not please him." - -What had been preying upon her had been neither prudish reasoning nor -moral reflection. It was a sort of ardent languor. She could see Armand -in her thought, and as it were a wave of blood, but having greater heat, -surged to her heart, her throat choked a little, and her will tottered. -It was not only her first intrigue, in the sense in which the world -understands the term, but it was her first love. Helen Chazel, while -still Mademoiselle de Vaivre, had endured one of the most painful trials -that can weigh upon youth. She had been persecuted by a step-mother who -hated her, while believing that she was only bringing her up well and -correcting her. The De Vaivres lived in a kind of château, four miles -from Bourges, and this had been a prison to the young girl. The father, -a weak man, who cherished an innocent mania for an archaeological -collection, patiently and complacently gathered together, had never -suspected the mute drama played between step-mother and step-daughter -for twelve years. - -Madame de Vaivre loved her husband, and, without herself comprehending -as much, was jealous of the dead wife, that first wife whose grace she -saw renewed in the features of the child, in her smiles and in her -gestures. Nothing is so dangerous as an evil feeling of the existence of -which we are not quite aware. To gratify it we discover all kinds of -excuses which enable us to feed our hatred without losing our -self-esteem. It was thus that Madame de Vaivre, having taken Helen's -education in hand, made every lesson and every admonition a means for -torture. - -This woman, pretty and refined, but unfeeling, very solicitous about -propriety in consequence of the lengthened sojournings at Paris with her -father, who had been an official deputy under the July monarchy, was -withal minutely devout, and instinctively unkind, like all persons who -are accustomed never to admit the just sensibilities of others. When -Alfred Chazel had come to be intimate with Monsieur de Vaivre, owing to -their common taste for excavations and antiquities, she had with joy -perceived that he was falling in love with Helen. It afforded her a -secret pleasure to marry her step-daughter to a man who had no fortune, -and, the dowry being very small, to condemn her for years to a middling -existence. Death, which takes as little account of our evil calculations -as of our great intentions, had taken in hand to render abortive this -woman's hateful anticipation, through which poor Helen had seen no more -clearly than Monsieur de Vaivre himself. - -All that the young girl understood on the day that Chazel asked her in -marriage was that she would be free from her step-mother's tyranny. She -had a plain perception of that from which she was escaping. As to -marriage and its physical realities, what could she have known of them? -Thus, on leaving the church, she found herself in a moral situation that -was full of peril. Her childhood, spent, as it had been, beneath -continual oppression, had to an excessive degree developed within her a -taste for the romantic--a power, that is, of fashioning beforehand an -image of life with which the reality is subsequently compared. Through -her joy at deliverance, her future marriage showed to her like a -paradise of delight. - -Misfortune had it that Alfred Chazel should be one of those men who, -with all kindness, all delicacy even, at the bottom of their hearts, are -for ever ignorant of a woman's nature. The consummation of the marriage -was to Helen something as hateful as it had been unexpected--like a -tribute paid to clumsy brutality. The result was that she received her -husband's endearments with a repugnance that was imperfectly dissembled, -and that added to the timidity of a man already timid by nature and -awkwardly impassioned, as those who have not slackened the initial -ardour of their youth in facile intrigues often are. Alfred was secretly -afraid of showing his tenderness to his wife, and he concealed from her -the intensity of a love that would perhaps have touched her had she been -able to perceive it. - -Moral divorce between husband and wife has nearly always physiological -divorce for its first and hidden cause. If community in voluptuousness -is the most powerful agent for the fusion of temperaments, the torturing -possession of a woman by a man remains the certain origin of -unconquerable antipathy. It came to pass in the Chazel household, as in -all similar households, that this first antipathy was heightened from -week to week by reason of the fact that two beings, condemned to live -side by side, unceasingly afford each other grounds for more love or -greater hatred. Do not all the petty events of life render them every -minute more present to each other? The divergence in tastes, ideas, and -habits that parted Alfred from Helen, would have provided the latter, -had she loved her husband, with pretexts for a loving education. Not -loving him, she found in them only reasons for separating from him still -more. - -Alfred Chazel was in fact a son of the people, and in spite of the -intellectual refinement of two generations, his peasant origin showed -itself again in him in clumsiness of gesture and attitude. He was not -vulgar, and at the same time he was lacking in manner. Helen, on the -contrary, came of a noble family, and her step-mother's continual -superintendence had developed to an extreme in her a sense of detailed -particularity concerning her person and everything about her. Her -husband's manner of eating shocked her; his manner of going and coming -and sitting down--a certain slowness in grasping all that constituted -the material side of life. When it was needful to accomplish a rapid and -precise movement, during a walk, or at table, or in a shop, he would -pause for a moment, with lips slightly gaping, and with a startled -demeanour, like a peasant passing through a terminus in a large town. - -Alfred, moreover, was fond of saying that he was an absent man, and that -the external world had no existence for him; and it was true, for two -influences had contributed to uproot him from the said external -world--the sudden transition of his family from one social class into -another, and the nature of his mathematical studies. His wife had never -been able to ensure that the cord of his eyeglass should not be broken, -and then knotted in several places, that the collar of his overcoat -should be kept down, his silk hat brushed, and his cravat properly tied. -The carelessness characteristic of men of thought was visible in his -entire person. - -Helen would have blushed with indignation and shame had she been told of -the part played by these trifles in her conjugal aversion. But is not -the life of the heart, like physical life, a summing of the infinitely -little? Moreover, these minute facts, which formed a mass in their -totality, symbolised an essential ground for dissociation between the -husband and wife, namely, the absolute distinction between the minds of -both. Helen's instruction had not been of a very solid kind; she had not -been fortified by that sum of positive learning which alone is able to -balance intense development of thought. Thus, all her reading as a girl -and as a young woman had been directed towards those works of -imagination for which Alfred professed the innocent contempt of a -scientist whose literary culture is almost non-existent. It appeared -extraordinary to him, and he used ingenuously to say so, that in an age -of chemistry, steam, and electricity, intelligent beings should occupy -themselves with the composition of such trash. Hence, in conversation, -husband and wife had not a single opinion in common. Alfred was quite -sensible that an abyss, growing constantly more impassable, was yawning -between Helen and himself, and he was pained by it, but in the way that -he would have been pained by an incomprehensible misfortune. - -"What does she want to make her happy?" he would ask himself, and then -he would in thought draw up a list of the conditions for happiness that -were realised about his wife: "We have money, and a dear child; she -wished to live in Paris, and here we are; I give her every freedom; I -have the most absolute confidence in her; I do her honour by my -position; everything smiles upon us and flatters us--and she is not -happy!" - -No, Helen had not been happy, and on the morning of this winter day, -which was to prove to her a date that could never be forgotten, she felt -her whole melancholy past surging back upon her. A thousand scenes -showed themselves, and she discerned that through them all she had been -advancing towards the hour at which, as she believed, her true life -would begin. Often at Bourges, while walking with her husband along the -Seraucourt promenade, she had asked herself whether she should ever, -ever be acquainted with happiness, with the warm radiancy within her of -a light that might illumine the cold darkness in which she languished. -Her husband conversed with her about his plans, his college life, and -his companions, with the calmness which he displayed in all matters, -holding it a principle that a man should look at life on its good side, -should be submissive, and accept. - -These talks prostrated her with sadness. She sighed vaguely after an -infinitude of emotion which she conceived to be possible, and the -tokens, the reflection of which she discovered in a few phrases in the -novels of her reading when they treated of love. Of all the emotions of -life this was the only one with which she was unacquainted. She had been -a daughter, and had loved her father, but her affection had been cruelly -deceived. She had been a sister, but little Adèle, Monsieur de Vaivre's -daughter by his second marriage, resembled her mother, and Helen had -never been able to become unreservedly attached to her. She had had -friends, but it had always seemed to her that these friends did not feel -as she did, and she had never ventured to speak to them of what touched -her most closely, of what was dearest to her heart. She would have been -pious had not the sight of her step-mother's piety given her an aversion -to religious practices which, as she saw only too clearly, might be made -a justification for the worst egotism. She was a mother, and she loved -her son; but, as formerly, in the case of her little sister, a -resemblance checked her in her feeling. Little Henry recalled Alfred too -much at certain moments. - -Then it was, when she had fathomed the bankruptcy of her first youth, -that her imagination pictured to her the dawn of a reparative feeling; -and what could this mysterious feeling be if it were not that one with -which she was unacquainted, and the sweetness, power and happiness of -which were celebrated by all? - -"But no," she said to herself, "it is a crime to love when one is not -free." - -Then she recalled conversations heard on her friends' "days" at Bourges, -and the manner in which people spoke of a doctor's wife who had eloped -with a young Conseiller de Préfecture. And then she met with men who -had so little resemblance to the image that she had formed of him whom -she might have loved! She remembered the painful surprise which had been -caused her by that very Monsieur de Varades, of whom De Querne had -heard. She had believed in the genuineness of his sympathy. He came to -see her. They used to have a little music together. Then, had he not -offered violence to her one evening when they were alone in the house? -She had said nothing to her husband from dread of a scandal and a duel; -but she had never received the young officer again when alone. She did -not suspect that he had revenged himself upon her by saying that she had -been his mistress. - -By what familiarities had she challenged the audacity of this garrison -Don Juan? Yet she was not a coquette. The feeling that sprang up within -her in the presence of a stranger was rather an apprehension of offence -than a desire to please. She had been as little of a coquette with -Armand de Querne. If there was a man whom she would have refrained from -approaching with a desire to seduce, it was assuredly he. Her husband -had so often extolled him to her. - -"When we were at college, Armand and I," or, "Armand used to say to me," -or, "Armand wrote to me." And so on. - -Helen had anticipated another and a more pretentious Alfred. She had -told herself that some day, if ever she left the country, she would be -obliged to endure in her home the presence of this friend, who would be -a hostile judge, and would raise fresh difficulties between her husband -and herself. If they were separated for so many reasons the one from the -other, her own reserve and Alfred's good nature at least prevented the -separation from breaking out in scenes and disputes. What would be the -outcome of the intrusion of Alfred's old chum into their home, she -almost anxiously asked herself on the occasion of her first visit to -Paris. - -Her rapid interview with Monsieur de Querne had modified the colouring -of these fears. He had come to take the Chazels to their hotel, and all -three had dined together in a restaurant on the Boulevards. Helen had -been surprised by Armand's outward appearance, and by the contrast that -he presented to the carelessness of Alfred; but further, the young man's -questions, his keen way of looking, the irony that tinted his slightest -expressions, together with an indefinable shade of contempt for Alfred, -which a woman's acuteness could not but remark, had disconcerted her, -causing her a slight shiver of mistrust. She would have wished never to -see the man again. She had been unable to refrain from mentioning this -antipathy to her husband, and he had replied: "He looks like that, but -he is such a good fellow, and then he has been so unfortunate." And he -told his wife about Armand's childhood, his guardian's selfishness, his -youthful melancholy, and he commiserated him for other mysterious -sufferings. - -"He has not understood life well. He was rich. He has not employed his -fine powers. He has said nothing to me, but I always believed that he -had experienced a deep passion." - -Helen would have been much astonished if any one had revealed to her -that the species of agony with which her thought rested upon the -probable secret nature of this disquieting personage, comprised that -form of anxiety which often precedes love. The settlement at Paris had -taken place, and Armand had begun to visit them, at first in their -furnished rooms, and then in the little house in the Rue de La -Rochefoucauld. It was he who had found it for them, he who courteously -offered his assistance in the countless goings and comings necessitated -by the furnishing of the new home. In the constant interviews thus -brought about, whether in a shop, or while walking together from one -tradesman's to another, or when driving in a carriage, as often -happened, Helen learnt to know all the delightful outward qualities -possessed by Armand. Unlike the men, all of them occupied with science -or self-advancement, who met at her husband's house, he appeared to -attach only a secondary importance to acquired merits or positive -learning. Questions of feeling alone interested him. - -In all the men that she had seen, Helen had encountered the same idea -about love, namely, that it pertained to youth, was to be relegated to -the background, and that rational people should never weigh it against -family or professional interests. Her discussions with Armand revealed -to her a man who had reflected a great deal about the mutual relations -of the sexes. He possessed that imagination of heart which women so -readily confuse with genuine sensibility, together with that experience -of amorous life which lends to libertines their prestige even with the -most virtuous. The expression of melancholy which was familiar to him -seemed to say that this experience had been purchased at the cost of -cruel deceptions. It was these unknown griefs that completed the work of -seduction which had begun in timorous astonishment, and been continued -in the admiration of the provincial for the Parisian; for the -superiority of judgment concerning life which distinguished the young -man, corresponded to too many stifled aspirations on Helen's part, to -leave her indifferent to it. It was he whose taste she perceived -scattered over the walls of her little drawing-room; he who had chosen -that old tapestry and hung it in its corner; he who had chosen this -piece of furniture or that piece of material from among several others. -This softened admiration, which led her to say to herself: "What a -happiness it would be to comfort him for all that he has suffered," had -soon ended in the hope that her presence was really sweet to him, for he -was occupied about her with visible sympathy. - -At different times she had heard him tell her: - -"I had an invitation to Madame So-and-so's this evening, but I broke my -engagement in order to spend the evening with you." - -One day, on the occasion of one of those insignificant events which in -the heart's darkness are as tiny lights revealing an immense gulf, she -had confessed to herself that she loved him. Armand, who was to have -come to dinner in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, had sent a note of excuse -to the effect that he was unwell. She had sent Alfred to see him, and -Alfred had found nobody in the Rue Lincoln. By the sorrow that the young -woman experienced, she recognised the extent of the interest that she -took in Monsieur de Querne, and, to her misfortune, she recognised it at -a moment when, upon one of those petty troubles, which are great -disasters in love, she must inevitably doubt whether her feeling was -returned. Instead of striving against this love, as she would have done -had she believed herself loved, she said to herself: - -"Why has he not kept his promise? With whom has he spent the evening?" - -When she saw him again, he spoke somewhat hardly to her, and she -suffered a disconcerted countenance to be seen. He gently took her hand, -and she burst into tears. From that hour she ceased to be capable of -concealing the disquiet with which the mere sight of Armand inspired -her. She began to enter upon that stage wherein the soul finds itself -ceaselessly divided between the sight of the direst misfortune and of -the highest felicity. How is it possible to reason then? Armand, who -knew love's halting-places too well not to perceive the progress that he -was making in Helen's heart, was adroit enough to show her that he -doubted her feelings towards himself, and that he was unhappy on account -of this doubt. - -He thus led her in succession to tell him that she loved him, to let him -take her hands, her arms, her waist, and to lend her cheek, her eyes, -her lips to kisses. Nothing could be more opposed than these progressive -familiarities to the ideas that Helen entertained respecting the manner -in which a woman ought to behave towards a man when she loves. She -considered, as do all truly loyal natures, that a slight deception is -morally equivalent to one that is complete. But she yielded to the -faintest expression of pain in the young man's eyes with a weakness for -which she reproached herself on each occasion, only to relapse once -more. - -"Ah! do not be pained; what does it matter if I ruin myself?" such was -the translation of the poor woman's looks, the words that she uttered in -a whisper. - -She had not spoken falsely when putting to him the sorrowful question: - -"You will at least be happy?" - -And now, within a few hours of the moment when she would be entirely -his, it was this hope and this uncertainty that floated above all else. - -"Ah!" she thought, "if only I may see that light in his eyes! Afterwards -I shall become what I may. What matter if I have given him that?" - -She had reached this point in her reflections when a kiss made her -start. Alfred had just come in to bid her good morning. Having gone out -before eight o'clock he had not yet seen her, and finding her so pretty -in the robe of soft material that showed the outline of her graceful -shoulders, and bust, and the lines of her legs terminating in the white, -blue-veined, naked feet in their black slippers, he could not refrain -from approaching her and stealing a kiss from the sweet place on her -neck, between the ear and nape. This was such a surprise to her on -emerging from the universe of ideas in which she had just been absorbed, -that she gave a slight scream. - -"Lazy, chilly, timorous creature," said Chazel, who strove to jest in -order to banish the angry expression which his caresses had just called -up upon that charming face. "Do you know what o'clock it is? A quarter -to twelve. You will never be ready for breakfast. What are you reading?" -he continued, taking up the two volumes sent by Monsieur de Querne which -were lying on the table; "more novels--but they are not cut. What have -you been doing all the morning?" - -"I have been settling papers and making up accounts." - -How many of these little falsehoods her lips had uttered, and not one, -even the slightest and most innocent of them, that did not cost her a -cruel effort. - -"Will you ring for Julia?" she resumed. "I am going to have my hair -dressed, and I shall be ready in ten minutes." - -"I am not in your way if I remain here?" he said. - -"Not particularly--for the present," she replied, and already she had -passed into her dressing-room. She had put on a light cambric wrapper, -and was unfastening her beautiful chestnut hair, combing it herself. -Alfred remained on his feet, leaning against one of the leaves of the -door and reading a newspaper which he had taken out of his pocket. The -mere rustling of the paper irritated Helen's nerves, because it recalled -this man's presence to her, and his presence appeared at this moment a -profanation. Ah! if Armand had been there instead of the other, how -charming she would have found it to associate him thus with the -coquettish portion of the mysterious attentions to her beauty. But such -familiarity in one whom they do not love is so displeasing to women, -that even prostitutes are pained by it. In all, whether virtuous or not, -modesty is the beginning and the ending of love. Alfred had never -understood this. He was still in love with Helen; and these sudden -intrusions upon her privacy procured him a dumb happiness that was -composed of timid desires and furtive contemplations. Over the top of -his open newspaper he watched the white hands passing backwards and -forwards among the yielding hair, and the graceful shape of the arms -which the wide sleeves, when thrown back by certain movements, allowed -to be seen. - -How he would have liked to handle that hair which she always denied to -him! And she too looked at her hair with happiness, in spite of the pain -which her husband caused her by remaining there, for she perceived that -it was as long and as wave-like as when she had been a young girl. Every -time that she paid attention to her beauty now, she studied herself with -childish anxiety, spying out the slightest wrinkle on her temples, about -her lips, around her neck, asking herself whether she was still pretty -enough to intoxicate the man she loved, and she smiled at herself in the -glass as she twined her hair, and leaning forward a little she saw in a -corner of the same glass the reflection of her husband's face with a -blaze in his eyes--that swift gleam of desire which she knew and hated -well. She shivered as though she had awoke to find herself exposed naked -in a public square, blushed violently, and said: - -"I do not know why Julia is not here. Ring again, please, and leave me." - -She got up, pushed Alfred away, shut the door, and when alone, felt the -tears come. - -"Ah!" she said to herself; "I do not truly love him. Ought not these -trifles to be sweet to me since I endure them for his sake?" - -Such were her thoughts as she sat at the breakfast table, dressed now in -a dark-coloured dress, and wearing boots--the boots in which she was -presently, and in a very short time, for the time-piece hanging on the -wall was pointing to thirty-five minutes past twelve--to walk to that -Rue de Stockholm which she had not known even by name before receiving -her lover's note. Where was it? What would the house look like? At the -mere thought of it, an intoxicating, burning fluid seem to course -through her veins. To remain quiet was a torture to her, and as for -eating, she was unequal to it. It seemed to her that her throat was so -choked that not even a piece of bread would pass through it. Little -Henry was talking to his father, and the latter, on failing to receive -even a reply from her to two or three questions, said: - -"How strange you are to-day. Are you not well?" - -"I?" she said. "Why I am as cheerful and merry as possible," and she -began to laugh and to talk in a loud tone. "Can he suspect anything?" -she asked herself; "but what matter if he does?" - -"What are you going to do this afternoon?" asked Alfred again -mechanically. - -"Will you take me with you, mamma?" said Henry. - -"No, darling," she replied, evading a reply to her husband, "you will go -to the Champs-Élysées, and I will wish you good morning as I pass, -perhaps. Is it fine to-day?" she went on, although she had watched both -sky and pavement with impatient anxiety since early morning. And on his -replying in the affirmative she said: "You can take the carriage; I will -go on foot, it will do me good." - -They had a brougham that was hired by the month, and that they used in -turns, he for business expeditions, and she for paying visits. - -"At last!" she sighed, when she found herself alone in the little -drawing-room, Alfred having left for his office, and Henry for his walk; -and the distresses of the morning were succeeded by a delicious feeling -of relief. - -Already even, in her drawing-room, which was filled with recollections -of Armand, she was surrendered unreservedly to her love. The recovery of -her freedom overwhelmed her with joy such as the vision of the future -could no longer take from before her mind. She evoked in thought her -lover's gaze, she kindled in it that gleam of felicity which was as the -stars towards which her being was uplifted. - -"I am sacrificing everything for him," she thought to herself, returning -for a moment to the impressions of that painful morning; "but the more I -sacrifice for him the more will he feel how much I love him. And how I -love him! how I love him!" she repeated aloud in exultation. She looked -at her watch. "It is past one o'clock. He is to wait for me from twelve. -What a surprise for him if I arrive so soon. For he does not expect me -immediately." - -And she hastened to put on her hat, taking a thick veil with her at the -bottom of her pocket to put over her face in the cab. He had the day -before recommended her to do so. And now she was already passing down -the Rue Saint-Lazare, like one walking in her sleep, not daring to look -at anything around her. It seemed to her that everyone could see by her -figure and gait where she was going, and her elation had given place to -a sort of terror--but a resolute terror, like that of a man of courage -when on the way to fight his first duel--when she ventured to hail a cab -in the Place de la Trinité. - -"The Rue de Stockholm," she said. - -"What number?" asked the man. - -"I will tell you when to stop," she replied. - -To get out of the cab in front of the house had just appeared to her -suddenly as an impossibility. Her hands shook when she fastened on her -double veil in the vehicle, which began to move forward, heavy and slow; -at least it seemed to her that every revolution of the wheels lasted a -minute. She looked at the shops in the Rue Saint-Lazare, as they filed -past, then at the courtyard in front of the terminus, and the sight of a -traveller paying his cabman set her searching in her muff in agony. What -if she had forgotten her purse? No, she had forty francs, in small -ten-franc pieces. So much the worse; she would give one to the man, for -to wait for the change on the footpath would be too much for her. - -All these emotions were painful to her feelings. She would willingly -have fixed her imagination upon her lover--her lover, for she was going -to be his mistress. How contemptuous the tones of her friends at Bourges -used formerly to become when uttering these words in reference to some -compromised woman! Then her nervous emotion proved the stronger. - -"If only he does not guess what it has cost me! Ah, may my cowardly -fears not spoil his happiness!" - -The cab having meanwhile climbed the beginning of the ascent of the Rue -de Rome, was turning down past the wall of a private garden which forms -the corner of the Rue de Stockholm, and the driver leaned down from his -seat to ask Helen where he was to stop. - -"Here," she said. - -She got out, and placed the small gold piece in the man's hand, saying -to him: - -"Keep it, keep it." - -Then she was immediately afraid that he would guess why she did not wait -for the change, and she stopped and busied herself with gazing, without -reading it, at a placard affixed to the wall, until she heard the cab -wheels rolling away. She followed the footpath, lifting her head with a -throbbing of the heart which seemed to be driving her mad. Eight, -ten--two numbers more, and she had reached the house mentioned in the -note. She entered the gateway, seeing nothing. She passed in front of -the porter thinking that her limbs would not support her. Her feet were -giving way on the stair-carpet. One more effort, and she was at the door -of the apartments on the second floor. - -She leaned against this closed door. Not a sound was to be heard on the -staircase; not a sound came up from the street. She could hear the -beatings of her heart, and instead of ringing she remained where she -was. She wanted to recover a little calmness before appearing in -Armand's presence. Why had she come here? To make him happy! What, then, -would be the good of letting him see how much she had suffered? Her -heart beat less rapidly; she forced herself to smile; and the thought of -the happiness she was about to give was already a happiness to her -greater than her anguish had just been. - -She at last made up her mind to ring. The tinkling was succeeded by the -sound of footsteps, the key turned in the lock, and she sank upon -Armand's bosom, and was immediately drawn into a little drawing-room -furnished in blue. Flames were burning in the fire-place. At the first -glance Helen saw that there was no bed in the apartment. She had so -dreaded the sight of this on first entering that she felt an infinite -gratitude to Armand for having selected their place of meeting in such -a way as to spare her this initial shock. He, meanwhile, had unfastened -both her veils, taken off her bonnet, compelled her to sit down in an -arm-chair beside the fire, and, kneeling in front of her, was clasping -her almost madly, repeating again and again: - -"Ah, my love! how sweet of you to come!" - -And he gazed at her with eyes made very loving with the joy of desire -that is certain of its satisfaction--the joy of desire only, for on -seeing her smile at him with that easy smile to which she had compelled -her countenance, in order not to displease him, he had just told himself -that it was not the first time that she had come to a like meeting, and -a terrible duality had been set up within him between his sensations and -his thoughts. - -"She has a fancy for me," he reflected; "let us take advantage of it. -But why have all women a mania for telling you that you are their first -lover?" - -His kisses were loosening the locks of her hair, which she tried to -readjust above her forehead with her hand. - -"Do not be afraid," he said to her; "I have thought of everything." And -he led her through the bedroom to the door of a little dressing-room, on -the table in which were arranged all the articles belonging to his -travelling dressing-case. - -"You will be able to comb your hair again," he said. - -"Oh!" she said, blushing, "you make me ashamed." - -Just then he had led her into the bedroom, and as he was taking off the -jacket which she wore over her dress, a small object rolled out of her -pocket. It was a pocket-comb of light tortoise-shell, which Helen had -taken up unreflectingly before going out, as she often did. - -"She remembered that, too," he thought. - -Then with loving entreaty: - -"Be mine," he asked of her. - -"Nay, I am yours," she replied. - -A twilight prevailed in the bedroom, for he had loosed the -window-curtains, as also those of the bed--of that bed which she found -strength to look at for the first time. How fain would she have bidden -him leave her to herself! And she turned her eyes towards him. He had -begun to unfasten the buttons of her dress, and she was about to say to -him, "Go away!" when she saw in his eyes that expression of felicity of -which she had so often dreamed, and she suffered him, with that divine -weakness whose sublime flattery so few men understand. - -If a woman who loves wishes to be loved in the same degree, is it then -needful that she borrow something from the methods of those creatures -devoid of true sensibility, to whom their persons are but instruments of -supremacy, and who surrender themselves that they may the better -possess? Helen did not suspect, while Armand, intoxicated with her -beauty, was sweeping her away in his arms, after warming her feet with -kisses and taking from her all her attire, from her bracelets to her -hair-pins--no, Helen did not suspect that, at that very moment, this man -had just found in the absolute submission to his desires that had cost -the poor woman so dear, a reason for not believing in her. - -"Are you happy?" she asked of him an hour later, lying on his heart, and -giving herself up to the languid voluptuousness that succeeds caresses; -"tell me, are you happy? You see, _I_ am." - -And it was true, for she had just for the first time felt an unfamiliar -emotion waking in her beneath the caresses of the man she loved so -dearly. - -"Oh! very happy," replied Armand, and he spoke falsely, for reviewing in -thought all the slight incidents of this first meeting--the smiling -entry, the presence of the comb, the compliant disrobing, the burning -susceptibility of his mistress--he said again to himself that he was -certainly not Helen's first lover. - -And then, he secretly despised her for not having denied herself in -detail. The evident absence of remorse in the woman seemed to him a -proof that she had no kind of moral sense. He did not tell himself that, -if she had manifested remorse, he would have treated her as a hypocrite, -and meanwhile she was speaking to him. - -"See," she sighed, "as soon as I saw you, I loved you. I felt that you -had not had your share of happiness here below, and it was my dream to -impart it to you, and to do away with all your troubles. There is a -wrinkle in your forehead which I cannot endure. When you asked me to be -yours and I said no, I saw that wrinkle between your eyebrows, there," -she said, kissing the spot, "and then, when I said yes, the wrinkle was -gone. That is why I am here, and proud of being here, for I am so proud -of loving you." - -"How strange it is," thought Armand, "that no woman has conscience -enough to say to herself: 'I am acting disgracefully, lying, betraying; -it amuses me, but it is disgraceful.' The cloth on the communion-table -and the sheet on the bed of a furnished room are all one to them. There, -my angel, go on with your romances," and he closed her lips with kisses. -"Ah!" he thought again, "she is very pretty. If only she had wit enough -to hold her tongue!" - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The evening which succeeded to this day of fever, agony, and bliss, was -spent by Helen in torturing and delicious yearning. Is not the -regretting of one's happiness the thinking of it again? Why had she -asked her lover not to come to the Rue de la Rochefoucauld that evening? -When yonder, beside him, she had thought that to meet him again in her -own home after an interval of so few hours, would be distressing to her. -Now she said to herself, while working after dinner at her crochet in -the little drawing-room, and seated in the arm-chair which Armand -usually occupied--yes, she said to herself with melancholy that it would -be very sweet if she had him there, close beside her. - -She would touch her lover's hand sometimes with her own. She would -breathe the faint aroma of the scent which she had asked him to use and -which was the same as hers. In imagination she grasped that enjoyment at -once severe and soothing to a woman's soul--the enjoyment of hearing the -lips that have told you "I love you" between two kisses in the -afternoon, employ "Madame" and similar formalities to you, so that the -most insignificant phrase brings home the charm of the mystery that -links you together. And Helen's delicate fingers continued their agile -handling of the tortoise-shell crochet hook, while Alfred turned over -the leaves of a book without speaking. - -On her return, she had experienced a bitter moment when, meeting her son -again, she had been forced to allow little Henry to give her -kisses--which she had not returned. She had contented herself with -embracing him, with resting the child's cheek against her own, and then -she had felt that she loved him even more than before. All these -different kinds of emotion had left their traces in her face, which, -usually rosy, was on this evening strangely pale, but of that toned and -shrouded paleness that succeeds to complete voluptuousness. - -A halo of lassitude hovered about her eyes, a softness about her smile, -an air of suppleness and languor about her entire person, and this -lover-like appearance lent her such seductiveness as would have -frightened her had she taken the trouble to watch Alfred. The latter -never turned his eyes from her as she bent her tenderly wearied head -over her work. Dressed in white, as was her custom, the faint brown tint -of her eyelids was the better seen since she kept them downcast, -apparently upon her wool, in reality upon the visions which were -rekindling her soul. Alfred reflected with rapture that she was his -wife--his wife. - -He was more in love with her than ever. Only, ever since their -settlement at Paris had brought with it a separation of rooms, he had -felt himself seized, whenever he longed for her caresses, by an emotion -which he could with difficulty subdue. He must ask his Helen to allow -him to remain with her, or else enter her room when she was in bed. This -need of acting, united to the torment of physical desire, is so painful -to certain men, that timid youths experience an almost unbearable -throbbing of the heart on merely crossing the threshold of those houses -in which pleasure is sold ready-made. During the whole of this evening, -Alfred, although he was satisfied of Helen's submission, endured that -emotion which is not without sweetness, since it renders still more -perceptible the keenness of desire. He looked at her, and the words -which he was preparing beforehand to say to her, caused him a sinking of -the heart. He kept silence with such persistency that the poor woman had -almost forgotten his existence when she rose to go to her room and held -out her forehead to him, with the words: - -"Till to-morrow." - -"Eh! what! till to-morrow?" he replied, trying to bring his kiss down to -her eyes, and lower still. She shuddered, repulsed him abruptly, and -looked at him. In the depths of her husband's eyes there was the same -gleam of desire the reflection of which she had that morning surprised -in her looking-glass, while combing her hair to surrender it to the -hands of the other. - -It was an abrupt awakening from the dreams of that whole evening. The -palpable sensation of physical partition was present in all its -hideousness, and as Alfred approached her with a smile, and the words, -"My little Helen," she passed quickly to the other side of an -easy-chair, and, separated from him, replied: - -"Do you not see that I am quite ill this evening?" - -She was so pale, and had such a ring of weariness about her eyes, that -Alfred was moved by the sight. - -"It is the last of my headache," she continued, touching her temple; "a -good night's rest, and it will disappear. So, till to-morrow." - -She smiled, made a graceful gesture with her hand, and left the -drawing-room. Alfred, when alone, could hear her going and coming in the -adjoining apartment, which was her own room. He himself occupied a room -on the floor above, opening into his study. - -"How delicate her health is," he thought tenderly to himself. - -"No; never, never!" said Helen, speaking aloud to herself, when her maid -had left her; and, leaping out of bed, she turned the key in both doors. -Alfred, who was still in the drawing-room, seated before the fire, heard -the sound of the key turning in the lock. - -"She is afraid of me, then?" he asked himself with singular sadness; and -meanwhile Helen, stretched in bed, was repeating half aloud: - -"Never, never again will I give myself to that man." - -The reality of the situation had just been impressed upon her with -frightful clearness. She could foresee the daily strife, the dispute for -her person night by night and hour by hour. If high life, as it is -called, with its nightly engagements, its facilities for isolation in an -immense house, and its social pleasures and duties, enables a husband -and wife, not on good terms with each other, to live both side by side -and yet apart, it is not so with those of the comfortable middle class. -Conjugal interviews in private are there the rule, social engagements -the exception, and husband and wife meet every moment, and in every -detail of existence. - -"Heavens, what can I do?" said Helen to herself. Then courageously: "I -will find means. It will be so sweet to struggle for him." - -Her soul became exalted by the impress of this thought, and suddenly she -could again taste Armand's kisses upon her lips. All the circumstances -of their interview showed themselves, from the anguish of arrival to -that of departure. Ah, what a farewell! What a caress was that given on -the threshold of the door before entering again upon life! Then, what a -walk through the streets with its brutal tumult of passengers, vehicles, -trains! Armand had remained alone in the little home. What had been his -thoughts in presence of the bed which, with strange modesty, she had -wished to remake herself? - -"I am going to be grateful to my step-mother for making me wait on -myself when I was small," she said, with her tender gracefulness. - -She knew by hearsay that men usually despise women when they have -nothing more to obtain from them. But her Armand was not like the rest, -since he had lavished upon her his most caressing kisses after their -common ecstacy. "I was there," she reflected; "it was when I had left -that he judged me. Judged?--and how? I deceived for his sake, but still -I deceived." Then once more she saw him, full of such tender passion, -that she fell asleep with a smile at his image, and at the thought: - -"I shall see him to-morrow." - -It was at the Théâtre des Variétés that they were to spend together -that second evening whose hours were to Helen sweet of the sweet--the -only truly rapturous ones of those sad loves. As soon as she awoke, she -had written her lover an interminable letter, and just as she was about -to send it, she had received from the young man, who for once was -faithless to his principles, an almost coaxing note. The nervous emotion -of the night before had lost its keenness in her, leaving behind it an -acuter susceptibility of heart with which to enjoy desired things with -more of inward thrilling. Chance willed it that Alfred should breakfast -away from home, and thanks to his absence the cruel impressions of the -previous evening were not renewed. Thus, when she arrived at the door of -the little stage-box in the theatre, she was in that delicious state of -soul in which there is, as it were, an inward voice that sings. At such -moments everything soothes, just as at others everything wounds. - -It was nine o'clock. Helen was standing then in the passage, and while -the attendant was relieving her of her cloak she did not venture to ask -whether there was anyone already in the box. The door was opened, her -heart throbbed, and she perceived Armand rising to greet her. How she -loved him for having got there before herself and her husband. Once -seated, she at last ventured, after a few minutes, to look at him. He -appeared to her to be rather pale, and she felt some anxiety about it; -but he had such eyes as on his good days, those which rekindled all her -soul, and not those others whose mystery terrified her. What piece were -they playing on the stage? She could hear the music of the orchestra, -the voices of the actors, the applause; but the interest of the play -turned with her upon knowing whether Alfred would leave the box at the -next interval. The curtain fell. Her happy destiny willed it -that there should be a family of their acquaintance in the house. -Her husband went off to speak to these ladies. She was alone with her -beloved--alone!--and turning towards him she asked: - -"Are you in love with me to-day?" - -Armand did not reply, but under pretence of picking up his opera-glass, -which had fallen to the ground, he bent down and took her foot in his -hand. Through the silk she could feel a clasp which caused her to blush -and cast down her eyelids, as though she were incapable of supporting -the emotion that took possession of her. With a rapid gesture she seized -a bouquet composed of a spray of fern and a little lily-of-the-valley, -which the young baron wore in his button-hole, and slipped her larceny -into her bosom. - -Alfred returned, the curtain rose again, scene succeeded to scene, and -act to act, but she was aware of nothing save of the fact that she was -almost too happy; and when, on the conclusion of the play, Armand gave -her his arm to lead her back to a carriage, she leaned upon this arm -with that absolute blending of motion, which is a surer token of love -than any other. How gladly she would have had him to take his place -beside her! But already he was departing, and she followed him with a -prolonged gaze through the crowd. Then the carriage extricated itself -from the confusion in the neighbourhood of the theatre. "Good-bye, my -love," she said in thought, while her husband took her hand, and said -aloud to her: - -"You are better this evening?" - -"Yes," she said, freeing her fingers, "but it is the excitement of the -play. I need rest so much. I have not slept for the last five nights." - -Chazel understood only too well what this reply meant. He remained -silent in a corner of the carriage. Helen also refrained from speaking. -But a plan had already ripened in her head. The very next day, brought -by Alfred himself, she would visit their physician, whose consulting day -it was. She would enter the doctor's room alone, and relate to him some -symptoms or other; then she would say that the physician forbade all -intimate relations with her husband until further notice. She was too -well acquainted with the species of timid modesty which ruled Alfred not -to know that he would pity her without seeking to divine the mystery of -suffering with which she would shroud herself. Supported by this -plan--which would have been very repugnant to her had it not been -calculated to assure the security of her happiness--with what delight -did she suffer herself to be overpowered by sleep, by such a sleep as -that wherein we appear to sleep with clearness in our dreams! We sleep, -and something wakes within us--a happy portion of our spirit--which -ceases not to be sensible of the happiness that we shall find again -to-morrow on our pillow. Do we not know that we shall learn this -happiness anew by merely opening our eyes? - -But neither on that following morning, nor on the mornings which came -after it during those few weeks of first intoxication through which she -passed, did Helen open her eyes immediately upon awaking. For several -minutes she kept her eyelids closed, that Armand's image might return to -her perfectly clear and complete before any other impression. If the day -about to be spent was an ordinary one, that is to say, without an -appointed visit to the Rue de Stockholm, she rose indolently. The -thought of her appointment was not present to make her feverish, and she -could think about her lover without anxiety. - -On the previous evening, before going to bed, she had begun a letter to -him, which she concluded as soon as she had risen, so that "good-night" -and "good morning" might meet upon the same scrap of paper--a visible -symbol of the continuity of her love. Sometimes she found means to send -this letter, sometimes she kept it about her, folded in two in her -bosom, in order to deliver it herself. From Armand she expected no -reply. He had explained to her the prudential reasons on account of -which he did not write, and in this prudence she had not perceived the -lack of impulse and politic calculation of a man of gallantry, who -foresees approaching ruptures, and does not wish to leave any weapon in -the hands of his future enemy. - -She used to close her letter with a seal, on which she had had engraved -a serpent in the shape of the letter S, because with an S began the name -of the street which had been the asylum of her happiest moments. The -laughter with which Armand had greeted this childishness, had indeed -pained her somewhat, but she had said to herself: "Men have not the same -way of loving as we have." Then, her dear task concluded, she addressed -herself to all the cares of her household, cheerful, and finding no duty -irksome. She was accompanied throughout her work by a phrase which she -used to repeat in a whisper: "He loves me, he loves me." Especially did -she occupy herself with her son, whom she now could kiss without -remorse. "No, dear child, I have taken nothing from you," she said to -him in her heart, and thanks to that power of sophistry characteristic -of happy love, she came to think in like manner respecting her husband. - -She had never done anything but esteem him, and she continued to esteem -him as before. Since the pretence of the doctor's order had freed her -from all hateful advances on Alfred's part, she ingenuously extended to -him the joy with which her heart was filled. She no longer made him any -of those bitter replies which, in connection with the pettiest details, -betray the unconscious animosity of a woman against the man to whom she -belongs, and who has not been able to win her love. Did he at table -utter, as he used to do, an idea that was not her own; did he allow an -awkward gesture or a clumsy question to escape him, she had no capacity -within her for becoming angry, all her faculties being employed in -calculating the hour at which Armand would be with her, and in depicting -to herself the happiness that his presence would bring her. The hour -struck, and Armand was there. She felt so fully satisfied that she no -longer thought of watching him. He told her that he loved her; he proved -it to her by sacrificing his life in society, the theatres, his club, -and spending as many as two or three evenings in the week with her. What -interest would he have in deceiving her, and how could she do otherwise -than surrender herself to this divine felicity? - -When the morning of a day selected for one of their secret meetings -arrived, she had not the strength to superintend her household. The -expectation of happiness was so keen that it bordered upon pain. On -these mornings, as on the first of them, she was absorbed, feverish and -prostrate by the fireside, in prolonged reflection, and in her excess of -feeling experienced an anguish that relaxed to delight when she had -reached the little suite of rooms in the Rue de Stockholm. These were -still the same; for having been obliged at their third meeting to take -other rooms in the same house, she had entreated Armand to return to the -former ones, to those which had witnessed her first intoxication. - -To do this it had been necessary to take the lodgings no longer by the -day, but by the month. Armand had at first declined to do this, -affirming that he had good reasons, but in reality because he knew by -experience how greatly a movable place of meeting that is changed on -each occasion facilitates ruptures, and then--although he was generous -and rich he felt, without fully acknowledging it to himself, that there -was rather too great a difference between the twenty-five francs that -Madame Palmyre demanded for an afternoon, and the four hundred -represented by a monthly hiring. He had yielded nevertheless, just -because a small money question was involved, and because he thought -himself shabby for having so much as thought about it. - -"It will only last six months after all," he had said to himself. - -But how delighted the confiding Helen had been by this concession! What -quick work it had been with her to transform the commonplace rooms into -a personal domain to which she brought all kinds of dainty feminine -objects, slippers into which to slip her naked feet, a lace shawl to -throw over her quivering shoulders, a few pieces of material for draping -the table and the backs of the easy chairs, a frame in which to place a -photograph of Armand. She had not suspected that each of these little -attentions had had the double effect of disquieting De Querne with -respect to the difficulty of future separations, and of proving to him -that he had to deal with a lady of experience. Like all romantic women, -Helen was occupied with the subtleties of the voluptuousness common to -herself and to her lover, as though with an anxiety suggested by -sentiment. What renders a woman of this kind perfectly unintelligible to -a libertine is that he, on his part, has accustomed himself to separate -the things of pleasure from the things of the heart, and to taste this -pleasure amid degrading conditions; whereas a woman who is romantic and -in love, having known pleasure only as associated with the noblest -exaltation, transfers to her enjoyments the reverence which she has for -her moral emotions. - -Helen approached with amorous piety, almost with mystic idolatry, the -world of mad caresses and embracings. This piety was centred upon the -man who had taught her to love, as upon a being above the range of all -discussion. It went for nothing that Armand, after the first days of a -self-abandonment produced by the novelty of physical possession, -multiplied the tokens of his egotism; his mistress found the means of -loving him the more for them. If he came late to their interview in the -Rue de Stockholm, she was so proud of having worsted him in the intimate -joust of love that she was almost grateful to him for doing so. If at -the last moment, and merely to suit his own convenience, he altered the -hour of their meeting, the gentle woman experienced a further pleasure -in feeling herself treated by her worshipped master as a slave, as a -thing which belonged to him, and which he disposed of according to his -fancy. - -Was this paying too dear for the ecstasy which she felt in ascending the -staircase of the house (ah, how little she cared whether she were looked -at now!) in hearing the creaking of the key (her own key, for she had -now one of her own) in the lock, in walking through the three rooms -wherein abode the whole of her passionate life, and above all in holding -Armand beside her, close beside her? Evening was falling, the objects -about them were growing dim in outline, and she lay in his arms, -listening to the distant roar of the town, the noise of the neighbouring -railway, and, beneath their windows, the circles of little girls -singing: "Il était une bergère." Then she would give her lover kisses -so tender that he would ask her almost with anxiety: - -"What have you got to trouble you?" - -"Why, I have got you," she would reply. - -Ah! why, why is passion not contagious? And what a monstrous thing it is -that of two lovers one should be able to feel so much and the other so -little! - -So little! And yet the young man in these crafty interviews allowed -himself to speak to his mistress as though he were madly in love with -her. Was it in order to beguile with talk the real dryness of his heart? -Was it that the vibration of his troubled nerves was completed in -phrases as full of tenderness as he was lacking in it himself? If he had -had less power of analysis, he would have believed himself in love with -Helen, for when beside her he was seized with fits of the most violent -desire. But he knew that once out of her presence he would experience -nothing but a moral aching, an infinite weariness, a sense of the -uselessness of things, and, to sum up, a renewal of that torpor of soul -which the fever of the senses galvanised without dissipating. As for -Helen, she drank in every word coming at such moments from Armand's -lips, like a liquid that would enable her to traverse with intoxication -the space separating her from the next meeting. - -It was, nevertheless, in the course of one of these talkings on the -pillow, he leaning on his elbow, and she lying against his breast and -watching him, that the first words of disenchantment were -pronounced--words after which she began to see her Armand no longer -through the mirage of her dreams, but such as he was, with the -frightful, deathly aridity of his soul. - -"Ah, how I should like to have a child by you!" she had murmured to him -in the middle of one of these contemplations--"a child who had these -eyes," and she raised her hand to touch her lover's eyelids; "who had -these lips," and she brushed them with her fingers. "How I should love -him!" - -"I do not wish for it," replied Armand. "I should feel too sad to see -him kissing as his father another than myself." - -"But that would not be!" she exclaimed. - -"It could not be avoided," he replied. - -"I would go away with you," she said, "and I should be forced to do so. -How could Alfred keep me, now that I never give myself to him?" - -While she was uttering these words, he looked at her, thinking to -himself: - -"She, too! What strange desire is it that impels them all to give out -that they have ceased to belong to their husbands?" - -And, in spite of himself, he smiled his evil smile, the smile with which -he had greeted other analogous confidences made by other lips, and this -smile had always been sufficient to prevent the women who had drawn it -upon themselves from returning to the subject. They have such facility -in changing a falsehood! But Helen, who did not speak falsely, could -endure neither the smile nor the look which accompanied it. Was it not -in order that she might never see them again that she had given herself -to her lover? It was the first time since then that she had encountered -the distrust which caused her so much pain at the beginning of her -connection with Armand, and loyal as she was, brave and straightforward, -she persisted: - -"You do not believe me capable of belonging to two men at the same time? -Say no, my dear love; say that you have not such an opinion of me. From -the day on which I became your mistress, I ceased to be Alfred's wife." - -"I am not jealous," said the young man; "I know that you love me." - -"Say that you are not jealous, because you are sure that I am only -yours." - -"If you wish it, I will say so," he replied, rendered somewhat impatient -by her persistence, and being especially but little anxious about the -prospects of paternity, flight, and drama which Helen's sudden words had -just opened up before him; and such irony was impressed upon his words -that the unhappy woman became silent. - -"He does not believe me," she thought; "he does not believe me!" - -On returning home that evening, Helen felt sad, even to death. She -withdrew to her own room, and, under pretence of a headache, went to bed -instead of coming down to dinner. She wept much. She could see dimly -through her grief what a difference there existed between Armand's love -and her own. "Ah!" she said to herself, "of what has he judged me -capable? He does not love me." And, seized again by the terrible dread -from which she had suffered on the very evening of the day when she had -given herself to him, she said again to herself: - -"He is right. What I am doing is so wicked. But he ought to understand -that it is for his sake, and so excuse me." And she pressed her forehead -upon her pillows, falling suddenly, as very impassioned souls do, from -extreme felicity into extreme anguish. - -This first perception was a very keen one, but it did not last. Upon -reflection, Helen compared her grief with the reason which had provoked -it. The sight of the disproportion between cause and effect sufficed to -calm her, the more so that Armand's eyes, when they met again, expressed -that ardour of desire in the fire of which her heart ever expanded. The -young man had quite understood the pain caused to his mistress by his -doubt, and had said to himself: - -"Why torment her? She lies to me in order to please me the more, and I -am angry with her for the lie. 'Tis too unjust!" - -This reasoning, which was a secret flattery to his pride, had the result -of making him more tender towards Helen. But when the period of lucidity -has begun in the case of a heart that loves, it does not close so -rapidly, and a few days after this first shock Helen was to endure a -second. - -This time her lover and she had met, as they sometimes did, to walk -together in one of the avenues in the Jardin des Plantes. Helen was very -fond of the peaceful, country-like park, with its fine trees reminding -her of those in the grounds of the Archbishop at Bourges. She was -especially fond of the place where she had been waiting for Armand, the -long slender terrace the parapet of which runs along the side of the Rue -Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire. She sat down on a bench, from which she could -follow the hands of a large clock placed against one of the inner -buildings of the Hôpital de la Pitié. The melancholy courtyard of this -house of griefs, with its pruned and leafless trees, the gloomy bars on -the windows, and the old and dilapidated colouring of the walls, pleased -her as a contrast to the young and happy intimacy of the dear romance of -her love. She was sensible of a delightful lethargy in bringing back her -thoughts to herself, while the great omnibuses went heavily down the low -street almost beneath her feet. Some children were playing in the grove -of the labyrinth, and their shouts reached her, causing her to renew -far-off impressions obliterated by the years. - -At last she perceived Armand at the end of the terrace, and she rose to -meet him, prettier than usual, as she knew from her lover's glance, -thanks to the contrast between her toilet and the humble -landscape--between her pink complexion and the dark leafage of the -cedars. Then they walked in the quiet portion of the gardens, that -portion which is set aside for plants--near trees two hundred years old, -whose aged trunks, plastered like walls, rested on supports of iron. -Whether the winter sky were bluish or veiled with mist, there was always -sunshine so far as she was concerned, when Armand was there. - -They were wandering, then, side by side, in one of the avenues of this -vast garden on a dull afternoon early in February, and Helen was telling -her lover the story of the wife of one of Alfred's colleagues who had -just been cast off by her husband, on his discovering that she had two -lovers at once. - -"The rest," said the young man, with his evil smile, "have them in -succession. The difference is a slight one." - -"The rest?" said Helen, who suddenly felt again the melancholy emotion -of the previous week; "you do not believe that of all women?" - -"Nay, I have no bad opinion of them," he replied. "I believe that they -are weak, and that men are deceivers. They find many men to swear that -they love them, and they believe one out of every ten. That makes a -pretty fair reckoning in the end." - -"Then you think that there is no woman in existence who has had only one -love?" - -"Few," said Armand. "But what does it matter?" he added gaily; "at each -fresh intrigue they fancy that they have never loved before, and it is -half true, like all truths--they have not loved altogether in the same -manner." - -A question rose to Helen's lips. She wished to ask: "And I? What do you -think me? Do you believe that I have loved before you? Do you believe -that I shall love after you?" She dared not. Once more she was cruelly -impressed by the unknown element in her lover's character. No, it was -not she whom he doubted--not she, more than another. The man did not -believe in any woman. But how is love possible without belief? Is there -any sort of tenderness possible without trust? She did not answer -herself on these too painful topics, but she prolonged an involuntary -analysis of her relations with Armand, and suddenly light was thrown -within her upon many of the details which she had not interpreted. - -Reflecting upon the distrustful characteristics which alarmed her in -this man, she in a retrospective fashion understood the silence with -which on certain occasions he had greeted her outpourings. She -remembered him listening to her while she spoke of her country life, and -of her moral solitude. "I was keeping myself for you beforehand, without -knowing you," she had said. He had made no reply. He had not believed -her. Another time she had talked to him of the future, and of the joy -that she felt in thinking that they were both young and so had many -years in which to love each other. He had made no reply. He had not -believed her. When she told him that, but for her son, she would have -gone far, very far away, that she might consecrate her entire life to -him alone, he kept silence; he had not believed her. Ah! his -incredulity, his horrible incredulity! She encountered it now even in a -quite recent past, but where she had not suspected it! Or no, was she -deceiving herself? Was it that Armand had believed in her so long as he -loved her, and was beginning to believe in her no longer now that he -loved her less? - -Did he love her less? She did not admit for a moment that he had not -loved her at the beginning of their connection. He was an honourable -man, not a love criminal. He would not have asked her to be his had he -not been drawn to do so by all the forces of passion. Then, to explain -Armand's incredulity, she reverted to the young man's past, to the -mysterious deceptions of which her husband had formerly spoken to her. - -"A woman has spoiled his heart," she said to herself. - -At the thought of this she was pained by a different pain. She pitied -Armand more, and she was jealous with a dim, vague jealousy. Then she -asked herself: - -"Will my love ever have power to restore to him the faith that he has -lost?" - -Absorbed as she was in these thoughts, nothing of which she expressed to -the man who was their object, she no longer studied the impression which -she herself produced upon her lover. When Armand came to dine in the Rue -de La Rochefoucauld, and all three of them--he, Alfred, and -herself--remained to spend the evening in the little drawing-room, she -lapsed into abysmal silence. Alfred delighted, as a mathematician, in -abstract discussions, and set forth social, political, and economic -theories to the young baron, who listened to him with visible weariness -depicted upon his features. Then a moment would come when Helen, -emerging from her reflections, looked at him. She saw this expression of -weariness, and failed to comprehend its immediate and trifling cause. -"He is not happy with me," she would say to herself, and immediately -afterwards, with even greater simplicity, "He is not happy." So she -reflected, she who had given herself to him to obliterate a wrinkle of -melancholy upon his brow, she whose thoughts and feelings had but a -single aim: his happiness! - -At other times, Armand would come, and at the first glance she discerned -that while away from herself he had passed through periods of sadness. -Then she felt quite paralysed. She trembled to speak to him, to utter a -word that, coming from her lips, would displease him. An indefinable -uneasiness took possession of her, a fear of showing her soul to the man -she loved, that was all the more painful, for the fact that she had at -first surrendered herself with such deep delight to the charm of feeling -aloud in his presence, and this uneasiness with her now went even to -their interviews in the Rue de Stockholm. - -It was not that in the little home she would find her lover less -distracted with her beauty, less passionate than in the days which had -followed upon the complete surrender. But his kisses, and the sort of -frenzy with which he embraced her now, made her afraid. She dreaded to -feel the contrast between the ecstasy caused to her lover by physical -possession, and the evident weariness of soul which he displayed in -their almost daily interviews. It seemed as though the young man were -striving to electrify his heart with the desire for her person. When -Helen perceived this cruel truth, the enchantment of the hours of -meeting suddenly ceased. Sometimes she longed for these meetings with -the gloomiest ardour, that she might at least hear her lover's voice -lavishing upon her those phrases of intoxication which, at the beginning -of their intercourse, had been the adorable music that had exalted her. -Then she dreaded these same interviews, and their caresses into which -the senses perhaps entered more than the heart. - -"Ah! my Armand," she had ventured to say to him, "you love my person -more than you love myself." - -"Nay, do you not give yourself to me in giving me your person?" he had -replied. - -Heavens! how gladly would she have asked him: "And you, do you give -yourself entirely to me?" - -She had paused upon this question. Why interrogate him? Did she not know -that he would coax her with these soft blandishments of speech which do -not reveal the depths of the heart? Would she succeed in deciphering the -meaning this living enigma of a man's character, set thus before her for -weal or woe? Cruel heart! would it never yield her its secret? Kisses, -however, may be more tender than he who gives them, soft looks may -conceal a soul like a veil--and she was so thirsty for truth! - -But whence came all this moral anxiety that preyed upon her? Nothing had -to all appearance occurred between them, and already she was alternately -asking herself: - -"Does he love me as much as at first? Does he love me? Has he ever loved -me? Can he love me?" - -And every minute she struck upon some trifling fact that heightened her -doubt. She ceaselessly encountered that mistrust which degraded her, -that irony which bruised her, that dryness of heart which reduced her to -despair. Some of their friends from Bourges would arrive in Paris, and -Alfred would say to De Querne: - -"Do not come to-morrow evening; you would be too much bored. We are -having some acquaintances from the country." - -"When I am going to be in your way," the young man would say to Helen -next day, "why do you not give me notice yourself, instead of doing it -through your husband?" - -"To be in my way?" she would ask. - -"Oh! why deceive me? You have had some flirtations over there for which -you blush here. You do not want me to verify your familiarity with this -man or the other. But what can that signify to me since you did not know -me? What does signify is to see you deceiving me." - -Deceiving! always deceiving! This word recurred in Armand's -conversations--indefatigably; she read it in his eyes, his gestures, his -thoughts. Did she find herself obliged at the last moment to fail at one -of their meetings in the Rue de Stockholm, she knew that he would not -believe in her excuse. But a man of that kind--no, such a man cannot -love. - -"Ah, love me, love me!" she would murmur feverishly as she drew closer -to him after passing through one of those crisis of anguish in which she -had felt how little her lover's heart belonged to her. - -"Why, I do love you," he would reply, without understanding the agony of -which this agony was a last sigh. _She_ understood that the word had not -the same signification to him as to her, and the whole of the inward -tragedy whereof she was the silent, grief-stricken heroine, burst forth -one frightful day. Like a captive who, during his sleep, has been bound -by his conquerors to a corpse, and awakes to discover himself chained to -this horrible companion, she found herself, a living heart, a heart -susceptible to love, and happiness, and life, fastened to a corpse-like -heart, icy, moveless--slain! - -When the reality of this came before her, she quickly flung herself -back. All that she had believed genuine was deceptive, all that she had -believed full was empty; but she would not acknowledge this to herself. -She treated as chimeras those almost indefinable tokens which enable a -tormented soul to penetrate another to its remotest depths. She loved -Armand, and she wished to love him. Was not her entire life staked now -on this card? It was only four months since she had become his mistress. -What! four such short months! It is a horrible thing that in so short a -time one can pass, without any visible shame, from the sublimest -hope--that of making amends for all the injustice in a man's destiny--to -the bitterest conviction of impotence. Scarcely four months, and he was -not happy, nor was she. Would she never again ascend the incline down -which she felt herself falling? - -She caught glimpses of the future with unconquerable anguish. Ah, if it -were true that he could not love, what would become of her. She now -existed only through him; she could not exist otherwise. And he seemed -to have no suspicion of the crisis of sorrow through which she was -passing. It was her own fault; why did she not show him all her soul? -That again she was unable to do. Would she ever be able? And when her -grief caused her excessive suffering she murmured: "Strange being, why -have I loved you? And nevertheless I cannot regret that I have done so." - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Alfred Chazel had been quite aware that a mysterious drama was being -played in his household. He had been sensible of it, dimly at first. It -has not been sufficiently remarked how much the peculiar nature of -imagination, when developed by the habits of the mind, prevails over -sensibility itself, and modifies it. Alfred had an altogether -mathematical intellect, very skilful in abstract reasonings, very -unskilful in the perception of the real. He was as little acquainted -with his wife's character after several years of married life as he had -been on the day when he fell in love with her during a visit to Monsieur -de Vaivre. But it was not only Helen's soul, with its depths, and -complexities, and singularities, that was unknown to him; it was her -whole life. Just as he had accepted the principles of conduct of the -middle class to which he belonged, so had he accepted its ideas; and to -the credit of the French provincial middle class it must be said that -their morals are, relatively speaking, very pure. The men have, perhaps, -in their youth low pleasures. But the married women who cause themselves -to be talked about are immediately pointed at in such a way that the -number of them is very small. - -Alfred had on this point preserved the impressions received in his own -family, impressions which no experience had corrected; for very chaste -men are like very virtuous women, and no one reposes in them those -confidences which illuminate the unclean depths of life, the grossness -hidden beneath sentimental phraseology, the sensual egotism dissembled -beneath the hypocrisy of pretences. The notion of suspecting Helen of -having a lover could no more occur to him than the notion of suspecting -her of theft or forgery, and much less the notion that she had for lover -De Querne, his own companion in childhood. - -Towards the latter he entertained a feeling of friendship all the more -intense that there was blended with it an element of admiration. When -they were studying on the same form at school, he used to look at him, -and the refinement of Armand's manners, his beauty, his intellect, his -halo of social superiority, inspired him with a sort of fetichism. -Himself so modest, so hard-working, so akin to the people, he had -vaguely considered his friend as a being of a somewhat different -species; and when a very clear vision of a difference of this kind -produces neither hatred nor envy, it gives birth to an almost blind -enthusiasm. Never had Chazel judged De Querne. He had become so -habituated to taking him as he was, that he did not even ask himself -what manner of friendship Armand was giving him in return for his own. -When they had separated, and the young baron used to send about two -hastily scribbled pages in reply to the interminable letters from his -old companion, the latter would say to himself: - -"Armand is very fond of me, but it is wearisome to him to write. It is -only natural. He is such an agreeable fellow, and so much sought after;" -and this was all the complaint of an excellent heart that was ever -deceived by a trifling exhibition of sympathy. - -At every visit that he paid to Paris he met with the same reception from -Armand--a clasp of the hand, an invitation to luncheon, to dinner, to -the theatre. These tokens of comradeship, at once indifferent and -cordial, appeared to him proofs of loyal affection. Not having observed -Armand any more than, once married, he was to observe his wife, he could -not measure the depth of the abyss which from year to year yawned still -wider between his old classmate and himself. He knew not how to -recognise the visible signs of radical indifference: the absolute -dumbness of the young baron respecting himself, his looks of inattention -during their conversations. - -While Alfred, for example, was detailing to him the beginnings of his -love for Mademoiselle de Vaivre, the innocent privacies of his furtive -wooing and his hopes, Armand would smoke a cigar, and think of the loves -which had crossed his own life, amid all the studied elegance and -corruption which at Paris make a woman of pleasure so complex a thing, -an extreme attained in the art of refining upon voluptuousness. He could -by anticipation see in the young girl loved by his friend an awkward and -undesirable creature, with red hands, badly-made dresses, and white -stockings. - -Like all men in whom the source of sensibility is not flowing and rich, -he discovered pretexts for disgust in the trifles of petty external -fact, and he involuntarily despised Chazel for not being disgusted like -himself. This contempt was even so continuous, that it prevented him -from looking seriously on the life of this worthy student, this prize of -social excellence, as he used to call him in his absence. The -astonishment caused him by Helen's distinguished appearance, had merely -prompted him to say to himself below his breath: - -"It's only ninnies like him that ever get hold of such a woman as that." - -Alfred had trembled to know the judgment passed by his friend upon his -wife, and had been enraptured to find that she pleased him. Armand's -constant presence in their home, after they had settled at Paris, caused -him intense joy. He became still more attached to his friend, because he -appreciated the woman he himself loved so dearly, and to the latter -because she appreciated his friend. - -"I knew he would please you," he used to say ingenuously to his wife. -"He is such an affectionate fellow, for all his sceptical ways." - -And he would tell her how, in the days of their early youth, the elder -Chazel had been in want of ten thousand francs to pay a brother's debts, -and how Armand had immediately lent them. - -For the first few months Helen listened to these praises with brilliant -eyes, and a happy soul; she found in them reason for loving still more -the man she loved. Since she had been the young man's mistress, these -same praises darkened her countenance as they wounded her love. Did not -the husband's trust degrade the lover? If Alfred's ingenuous sensibility -discovered in this sign, as well as in many others, a metamorphosis in -his wife's character, he was incapable of discerning its secret cause. -It was just this too delicate sensibility which rendered it intolerable -to him to think continuously of evil instincts, disgraceful actions, -treacheries. There is hardness of heart in all distrust. The admission -of evil tortured Chazel, and he forced himself not to think about it. - -What, however, was the matter with Helen, for she was not the same? He -had begun by believing her seriously ill, after the visit to the doctor, -which had passed off as Helen had foreseen. He had accompanied her, had -waited in the drawing-room of the celebrated practitioner, who was a -friend of Armand's, and had afterwards been too modest to ask her for -any details. He was one of those men who shroud the feminine nature in a -deep veneration, to whom the matters relating to the sex are confined -within inaccessible mystery, who have never looked upon complete -nakedness. Let him who will reconcile women's pretensions to refinement -with the profound contempt which most of them feel for such men, while -the purest have in them a slight weakness towards the wicked fellow who -has seen and done everything. Everything? They do not know what this is, -and they dream about it. - -Although deeply in love with Helen in the physical meaning of the term, -Alfred had found a species of pleasure in sacrificing to the -requirements of a health so dear, pleasures which she had never shared; -but having scarcely any points of comparison, he had come to dream no -more. Yes, this renunciation was sweet to him--sweet and yet useless, -since Helen's countenance was shadowed every day, and she was evidently -suffering. When Alfred saw her absorbed in indefinite silence, when he -was aware of the thinness and paleness of the cheeks that he had known -so full and rosy, he gave way to unexpressed pity. - -"What is the matter with her?" he would then ask himself. "What if she -is in serious danger, and dares not tell me, that she may not make me -anxious?" - -The result of these reflections was that his ingenuousness and -trustfulness prompted him to venture upon exactly the same procedure -that would have been dictated to him by suspicion. Helen had thought it -necessary to speak to him on several occasions of fresh visits to the -doctor, in order to avoid further attempts at intimacy. - -"Well," said Chazel to himself, "I will go to the doctor;" and one -afternoon towards the end of that winter he again found himself, this -time alone, in the waiting-room, an apartment furnished like a museum -with that wealth of knick-knacks which is characteristic of modern -interiors. - -The French windows opened upon the garden of the old house, the -ground-floor of which was occupied by Dr. Louvet. The latter belonged to -that generation of society scientists who visit the hospital in the -morning, receive their clients in the afternoon, and find means to be as -witty as idlers in a drawing-room at ten o'clock in the evening. -Further, they are intelligent enough to prepare for the prolonged -waitings of their fair patients an adornment wherein the latter may find -something of what they have left at home, and an aspect of things -similar to that to which they have been accustomed. Alfred involuntarily -felt uncomfortable in this vast room which, with its tapestries and -wainscotings and pictures, appeared to be intended rather for lordly -receptions than for the use of suffering humanity. - -He experienced a feeling of relief on entering the doctor's room, in -which there was nothing but books--a contrast skilfully contrived by -Louvet, who was as able in stage management as he was excellent in -diagnosis. He was a man still young and very fair, with a face that -suggested somewhat the traditional type of the Valois, and dark eyes of -singular penetration. He was slight and pale, and when he placed his -finger against his temple--a familiar gesture of his which was -reproduced in a fine portrait, by Nittis, that hung in the room--he -presented a strange blending of extreme delicacy and studied posture, -which women especially found imposing. - -"How is Madame Chazel?" he asked in the polished and detached tone which -he always affected. - -"Well, doctor," said Alfred, "it is precisely about her health that I -have come to consult you." - -"And why has she not come herself?" asked the physician. - -"She does not even know of the step I have taken," replied the husband. -"She causes me much anxiety. You know how she is wasting away; you have -seen her several times lately." - -Doctor Louvet listened in the attitude of his portrait, with his eyelids -half closed. Although he was completely master of himself, as became a -man accustomed daily to receive the confidences of many persons deprived -of hypocrisy by the presence of danger, he was unable, on hearing these -words of Chazel's, to restrain a movement of his eyelids. Rapid as was -this movement and the glance which accompanied it, it could not escape -poor Alfred, whose whole powers of attention were at that moment -concentrated upon the doctor's face. Why did that glance cause him a -little shiver, and tempt him to ask: - -"When have you seen my wife?" - -But it was a question impossible to put. Moreover, the physician was -already making his reply. - -"When Madame Chazel did me the honour to consult me last"--and this word -expressed both everything and nothing--"she appeared to me to be -suffering more particularly in the nervous system." - -And he entered into lengthened details respecting the delicacy of the -feminine organisation, dwelling upon the contrast between the life to -which his patient had been accustomed in the country and the life of -Paris. Lacking in observation as Alfred might be, his habit of reasoning -with precision forced him to recognise the vagueness of this talk, and -he asked somewhat heedlessly: - -"And you have no observation to make to the husband?" - -"None," replied Louvet with a half smile, "unless it be to spoil our -dear patient a good deal and to contradict her as little as possible." - -Alfred's heart sank within his breast, and while the liveried servant, -who waited fashionably in the physician's ante-chamber, was assisting -him to put on his overcoat, he was already being gnawed by this thought: - -"Helen has deceived me. It was not the doctor who ordered her to live -apart from me. She has come to have a horror of me; but, what have I -done to her?" - -What had he done to her? A deep melancholy took possession of him from -the time of this visit to Louvet, of which he was very careful not to -speak. What was the use of adding another pain to those which Helen -already felt? For she suffered, as he could see--but why? Ingenuously he -made it his study to find out the wrongs that he had done her. What -frightened him most was that he could almost palpably feel the whole -mystery in his wife's character. This is one of the most cruel trials -that can come to a loving husband. When she was beside him, and alone -with him, drawing out the stitches in her tapestry, he used to look at -her and ask himself of what she was thinking. - -Of what? All his superiority of education availed him nothing in the -presence of this silent creature whose mere presence troubled him in so -obscure a fashion. The desire of her person, a desire the satisfaction -of which he was incapable of demanding as a right, paralysed him with a -sort of nervous suffering which, united to natural timidity and to the -anxiety respecting this increasing paleness, was growing into a -veritable torture. And then, when Armand arrived in the middle of such a -silence, a comparison was inevitably instituted on Alfred's part between -his friend's easy manners and his own constraint, and especially between -the difficulty which he found in talking to Helen and the abundance of -words that came to the Baron de Querne. Helen, too, appeared to make the -same comparison, for in Armand's presence she took an interest at once -in what was being said. - -These visits gave Chazel an uncomfortable feeling; he experienced a -vague impression that he was in the way in his own house. He had several -times remarked when it was he himself who interrupted a _tête-à-tête_ -between Armand and his wife, that the conversation suddenly ceased on -his arrival; he recognised this by the brightness in Helen's eyes. On -such occasions, that he might not give way to the vexation which he -felt, he used to engage in those already mentioned abstract -disquisitions. He saw that his old comrade had become more of a friend -to his wife than to himself, he was hurt by it, he reproached himself -for feeling hurt, and by the mere fact that he reproached himself, -reflected about it. - -He thus grew accustomed continually to unite the thoughts of his friend -with that of his wife. But when we depict to ourselves simultaneously -the images of two living persons, it is not long before we depict them -acting upon each other, and in spite of himself Alfred came to consider -the relations which united Armand to Helen. To ascertain the cause of -his wife's suffering he had proceeded by elimination, instinctively -studying as a problem the data that he possessed concerning her, and -every time that he dwelt upon the mystery, he always struck upon a -thought which he used to drive away, and which came back again. At other -times he asked himself whether she had not confided the reason of her -grief to De Querne, was on the point of questioning his friend, and then -abstained from doing so. - -"It would not be delicate," he thought to himself; "if she says nothing -to me, she has her reasons for it." - -One day, however, he saw her so pale, so downcast, that he took courage. - -"You are suffering, Helen," he said; "will you find a better friend than -I am to whom to confide your troubles, whatever they may be?" - -"Nay, I have no troubles," she had replied, and she spoke falsely once -more. - -Why were her eyes then filled with that moisture which speaks of -suppressed tears? Ah! it was because the loving kindness of her husband -was a torture to her in her torture, were it only by its contrast to the -frigidity of another man, the memory of whom was then passing through -her heart. Why did the same memory pass at the same moment through -Alfred's imagination? She, however, kept this memory before her mind, -while he repelled it. - -"Helen," he said to himself, "is an honourable woman. Armand is an -honourable man. What right should I have to insult them with suspicion? -He takes an interest in her; did I not desire that it should be so? She -is attached to him--and why not? Can there not be honourable friendship -between a man and a woman?" - -Such were the habitual reasonings by which Alfred sought to stifle the -growing viper of suspicion. But the more he reasoned in this way, the -more his suspicion augmented, since by reasoning about his distrust he -thought about it, and in consequence rendered it more present to his -mind. He was striving against these inward thoughts one afternoon of -that same month of February, when returning on foot from the Orleans -terminus, whither a piece of duty had led him. The weather was fine, the -pale, fresh azure of the cool winter days was floating over Paris, and -although it took him out of his way, Alfred entered the Jardin des -Plantes, in order to enjoy his walk a little. At a turning in one of the -main avenues of the garden, his heart beat more quickly, for walking -slowly under the bare trees, and talking together in an absorbed -fashion, he had just perceived a woman who had Helen's figure and a man -with the figure of Armand. - -Yes, it was indeed they. He knew so well his wife's easy gait, and that -other somewhat lagging step which reminded him of so many strolls in a -college quadrangle, not very far from this spot. But why was he seized -with acute pain at this meeting? What could be more natural than that -Helen should walk thus with Armand, what more natural or more innocent? -Do people who wish to do wrong come in this way into a public garden? -They were not even arm-in-arm. Yes, but why had not Helen mentioned at -luncheon that she was going to walk with Armand? Did she not know that -he would think nothing of it? Hiding from him? Why? - -"I will go up to them," he thought. "I will speak to them, and soon see -whether she is confused. But no; it would look as though I had followed -them. Perhaps they have met by chance? What if I were now to follow -them?" - -The thought of such espionage sickened him. - -They were still walking in front of him in that vast avenue which runs -beside the bison enclosure and the bear-pits. Overhead, the gigantic -trees curved their naked boughs, the blackness of which stood out sadly -against the blue sky. Chazel felt his limbs shaking beneath him, and -sank upon a bench. He told himself that he must either look upon this -meeting as a most natural thing, and in that case it was childish not to -speak to his wife and her friend, or else--and it was just this second -hypothesis whose sudden thrusting into his mind paralysed him. - -"All," he said to himself, "will be explained on her return." - -Some minutes passed away in this anguish and irresolution. The couple -disappeared in the direction of the little hill that leads to the -labyrinth. Chazel was almost happy at their disappearance. It provided -him with a pretext for not acting immediately. And, in fact, he went out -of the garden by the opposite gate, saying to himself, in vindication of -the impotence of will to which he had just fallen a victim, that it was, -moreover, the surest way of arriving at a certainty. If Helen spoke to -him in the evening about this walk, the walk was, as he believed it to -be, innocence itself. If not--but what sort of ideas was he again taking -into his head? - -The shock had been so great that, instead of returning home, he walked -about for part of the afternoon. The advent of the moment when he would -see his wife again was now what he desired, and at the same time what he -most dreaded. He was on the point of turning back and entering the -garden again, but it was too late. - -He stepped upon the deck of one of the boats that ply on the Seine, and -there, mingling with the crowd of lower middle-class folk, he watched -the water breaking against the arches, and shattering against the quays, -the construction of which he mechanically examined; and he followed with -his gaze the huge lighters, with the clean little painted houses -standing in the centre. The air became keen, but he did not notice it -until he had reached Auteuil. He landed under the viaduct, amid the din -of the fair which every afternoon attracts such a strange tribe of -prostitutes and their followers. He returned on foot along the -interminable parapet. His anguish was so great that he could not -remember having ever experienced anything analogous to it. His heart was -paining him in his left breast, so that it seemed as though breath would -fail him. Night was falling fast, the winter night, whose oncoming is so -melancholy. The death struggle of the light is so cruelly like the agony -of thought! - -Here he was at last at his own street, in his own courtyard, in front of -his own door. He did not ask whether his wife had returned, but he went -straight to her room, and knocked modestly. Helen's clear voice said, -"Come in." He was in her presence, and involuntarily he looked at her -feet. She still wore her walking boots, with that trifle of dust on them -which shows that a woman has gone on foot. Ah! how he would have liked -to question her! But instinctively he grasped that which constitutes the -powerlessness of all jealousy; what is the use of entering, with a woman -who is mistrusted, upon a discussion turning upon this very mistrust? -She will not destroy it by saying "No," seeing that there is no belief -in her. - -"Where do you come from so late?" Helen asked tranquilly. No, never had -a being capable of falsehood such beautiful eyes, and such a beautiful -smile. - -"Guess," he said, with more calmness. She was, no doubt, going herself -to tell him of her walk, and as she was silent he went on: - -"From Auteuil. I walked because I did not feel well. And you?" he -questioned, with an anxiety grown terrible once more. - -"I have been shopping," she replied. - -Ah! why had he not the courage to tell her that she had just uttered a -falsehood? He sat down with the sharp point buried still deeper in his -heart. She let the conversation drop, and resumed her book. - -"A frightful novel that Monsieur De Querne lent me," she said. "It is -the story of a woman who deceives her lover, and does so while loving -him. Authors don't know what to invent nowadays." - -Her eyes shone as she uttered these words. She had pronounced the word -"lover" with an intonation which distressed Alfred. She seemed to impart -a mysterious depth to those two syllables. Ah! he would have given his -blood at that moment to have her speak to him of her walk! After all, -she had perhaps attached no importance to her reply. But neither then, -nor at dinner, nor during the evening that followed, did she breathe a -word about it. About ten o'clock, Armand arrived in his dress coat; he -was going out afterwards. She received him with the words: - -"You have been quite well since yesterday?" - -Ah, the deceiver! the deceiver! - -Alfred had seated himself at the corner of a table under the pretence of -having some papers to examine, and from time to time he watched them -conversing, those two beings whom he loved best of all the world. Was it -possible that a criminal mystery united them, and at the expense of -himself, whom they had betrayed? This Armand, whom he had seen playing -in his schoolboy dress--had he been his brother he could not have loved -him more. What nobility of brow! what grace of gesture! And this was the -man who was a villain, for to deceive such a friend as himself was -villainy. - -And she, with her medallion-like profile, with her modesty and proud -reserve! No; it was he, Alfred, who was losing his senses. A walk in a -garden--what could be more innocent? Perhaps--for he knew that she was -charitable, and so did Armand--yes, perhaps, they were both going to -visit the poor. But, then, why this reticence? why this deception? And -why did he himself keep silence? To this he could have given no reply, -except that speaking was beyond his strength, just as acting had lately -been. - -And Armand and Helen conversed with tranquillity. He listened to their -voices uttering words of unconcern, and all his dim suspicions, all his -repressed doubts, came back simultaneously to his soul. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -When Alfred Chazel had said good-night to Helen as usual and was left -alone, he began to suffer with an intensity of which he himself could -not have believed himself capable. He had now no longer any need to -discuss the fact. His wife had lied to him. The clearness of this simple -fact prostrated him. He could hear her say in that voice whose slightest -inflections he knew so well: - -"How have you been since yesterday?" - -The last four syllables rang pitilessly in his ear and to the depth of -his heart. He had just lost, never, never again to recover it, complete -trust in that gentle voice, in these beloved eyes. There are no such -things as petty insincerities; a person who has once deceived may always -deceive. The perception of this natural law, the same perception which -had prevented Armand from believing in Helen, was torturing Alfred at -this moment. Liar! Liar! When he came to the utterance of this word, he -gave forth an outbreaking of grief as he paced to and fro about his -study, to which, as often of an evening, he had withdrawn. - -On one of the walls was displayed a long blackboard, covered with a -medley of algebraical formulæ. Between the two windows stood a white -wooden table constructed so as to facilitate writing in a standing -position. Another low table, intended for correspondence; a bookcase -filled with tall mathematical volumes; engraved likenesses of Lagrange, -Fresnel, Cauchy, and Laplace; a leathern divan, and a carpet, completed -the furniture of a room, the abstract, peaceful aspect of which -presented a strange contrast to the disturbed countenance of the man who -was walking about in it at that moment; and the contrast symbolised only -too well the drama that was being enacted in the existence of a man born -for study, for prolonged and painful thought, for happy labour, and -constrained to action by the sudden revelation with which he had just -been visited. - -Yes, the necessity for action was present and inevitable. To rest at the -suspicion which was tormenting him at that moment was what he could not -do--neither morally, without losing self-respect, nor physically, for -the pain of it was too great. As he raised his head with a gesture of -despair, his eyes encountered the board; he perceived the signs of his -calculations traced in chalk with that absolute equality of lettering, -that absence of thick and thin strokes, which imparted an appearance of -incomparable lucidity to his writing. The sudden sight of this changed -the current of his grief. - -"Let us reason out the thing," he said aloud, and involuntarily he -recovered for subservience to his passion all the methodical habits -contracted by his intellect. "Yes," he went on, "let us reason it out." - -He sat down beside his fire in an easy-chair, and, with his forehead -resting upon his hands, gathered together all his thoughts, which were -not long in shaping themselves to the following dilemma: - -"There are two alternatives. Either the walk and the falsehood are to be -explained by some petty, innocent motive, a visit of charity or a chance -meeting, and they have not spoken to me about it owing to a false dread -of displeasing me; or else, the walk and the falsehood indicate that -there is a mystery between Helen and Armand. Let us speak out and say -that they love each other. There is no means of avoiding the -alternative. In the first case, I should have to scold Helen for -believing me to be so childishly jealous; in the second--" - -Here his imagination paused, being taken unawares. There was within him -no anticipatory prevision of a misfortune of the kind. The practical -rules, received and accepted in his youth, upon which his whole life was -based, did not afford an answer to this cruel hypothesis. On the other -hand, he had for the determining of his will neither that dread of -public opinion which serves to guide nearly all husbands in similar -crises, nor the startling physical vision, that besetting, unendurable -vision which maddens a jealous man by showing him sexual union, fleshly -abandonment, irredeemable pollution. - -The fact that Helen and Armand loved each other did not for a moment -signify to Chazel that she was the young man's mistress. It signified -that she had given him her heart. But then what was his duty as her -husband? For lack of previously adopted principles, he suffered himself -to be led away by the mania for absolute, ideal theories that is -characteristic of mathematicians. - -"My duty, if I am becoming an obstacle to her happiness, is to sacrifice -myself. She must be left free; all must be given up." - -He thought immediately of his son; he could see the little gestures, the -pretty face, the bright eyes of the child whom he had already moulded in -his own likeness. - -"Ah!" he said to himself, "I have no right to forsake him. But to take -him with me--to deprive his mother of him?" - -The tragic nature of this possibility disconcerted his intellect afresh, -and like a timorous swimmer who has ventured a few fathoms too far, he -speedily returned to the place where he could keep his footing, where -his reasoning stood firm close to the facts. - -"I am losing my head," he groaned. "The question is, does she love him? -Does she not love him?" - -He had risen once more, and was walking with a more hurried step than -before. - -"How can I find out? How? how?" he asked himself, and the emotion of -uncertainty became so insupportable to him that he said to himself: "Let -there be an end of it. I will come to an understanding with Helen--and -at once." - -He looked at the clock which was pointing to midnight. He had been in -these throes for an hour. He left his study with the lamp in his hand. -The narrow wooden staircase, which was covered with a red carpet, was -devoid of sound and light. All the servants were in bed. He went down -the steps of the staircase leaning on the bannisters, his legs -trembling, his lips parched, his throat choking. He was in front of the -door of his wife's bedroom. He gave two slight knocks with the back of -his hand. There was no reply. He turned the brass handle and leaned -against it. The door was double-locked, and the key was inside. - -"She is asleep," he said to himself. - -The action of descending the stairs, and then of pressing against the -door, had used up the feverish impulse produced by excess of -uncertainty. Instead of knocking again, he paused, motionless. - -"She is asleep," he repeated to himself; "if I awake her, what shall I -say to her?" - -He remained standing against the wall, with the lamp at his feet, -listening. Only the murmur of nocturnal Paris reached him, and he -reflected. He could see by anticipation the manner in which Helen would -receive him. She would be lying in her bed, her plaited hair rolled -about her head, while the lace of her fine night-dress quivered at neck -and wrist. - -At the thought of this, Alfred experienced a thrill of amorous emotion -that restored to him the timidity with which the desire of his wife's -person always overwhelmed him, and he continued to picture the scene. - -"What shall I say to her?--'You have lied to me.' And what will she -reply?" - -He foresaw the countless pretexts that Helen could advance to explain -her walk. - -"I shall ask her: 'Are you in love with Armand?'" - -He felt himself incapable of being the first to articulate the words in -that way. Moreover, what might not the result of the question be? If it -were not true that she was in love with Armand, he would inflict useless -pain upon her, which would aggravate still further their divorce of -intimacy. What if it were true? She would not acknowledge it. She had -lied just now. What would another lie cost her? - -Irresolution proved the stronger. He went up to his study again without -having made a fresh attempt. There was a lull for a few minutes, such as -succeeds to acute crises. It was one o'clock in the morning. - -"I will go to sleep," he said to himself. "When I awake it will be time -enough to make up my mind." - -As was usual with him, he arranged a few papers, carefully covered up -the fire to avoid accidents, and was almost tranquil as he got into bed. -But scarcely was he there before his anguish began again, more torturing -than before. The avenue in the Jardin des Plantes again extended its -vault of naked branches beneath which Helen and Armand passed along. -What were they saying to each other? The well-known voice uttered again -the fatal syllables, "Since yesterday!" Ah! Liar! liar! the deceiver! - -Once more the necessity for action pressed in its inevitableness upon -this purely speculative nature. His thoughts distributed themselves -again into two groups. - -"Either they love each other or they do not love each other. If they -do?--If they do not?--How can I find out? From her? From him?" - -The thought of coming to an explanation with De Querne presented itself -abruptly, and as this thought, while satisfying the need for acting, -deferred the action for several hours, Alfred began mentally to muster -all the arguments that told in its favour. - -Such an explanation would not involve any of the drawbacks which must -follow a conversation with Helen. If Armand and she did not love each -other, everything would remain as it was, since she was in ignorance of -her husband's suspicion and of the step that he had taken. If they were -in love with each other, he would extort the acknowledgment of the fact -more readily from the loyalty of his friend. The latter at least had not -lied to him. Could he have replied otherwise than as he did to Helen's -phrase, that simple phrase that was so terrible to himself, Alfred: "How -have you been since yesterday?" To receive the young man with these -words was tantamount to a prohibition to speak. - -Again, there are suspicions respecting which one friend has no right to -keep silence towards another. If he, Alfred, were to learn that Armand -had harboured an insulting distrust of him in his heart without speaking -of it, would he not feel deeply wounded? Would he not consider such -silence an unwarrantable affront? Well, then, he would not offer this -affront to De Querne. He would go to him with open hand and heart, and -show him all his trouble. Such a step had further in its favour the fact -that it would involve practical results. He might ask his friend to come -to the Rue de La Rochefoucauld less frequently. If he were mistaken in -his distrust, and if the real cause of Helen's grief had been confided -to Armand, he might speak of it without indelicacy on that occasion, in -the course of the conversation. - -During the whole of that long night he turned this plan over and over, -and in the end it impressed itself upon his will. Towards morning, he -fell into that dark overwhelming sleep which follows upon excessive -deperditions of nervous energy. Upon awaking, he again found himself -face to face with his resolution of the night before; he foresaw, unless -he acted, a day worse than that horrible night, and at nine o'clock he -was ringing at Armand's door, not without a thrilling of his whole -heart, yet with decision. These abstract souls, to whom action is so -repellent, are capable of energy, provided this energy be sustained by -reasoning, just as impassioned souls derive their force from blind -impulse, and arid souls from a clear perception of self-interest. - -Many days had gone by since Chazel had entered the rooms in the Rue -Lincoln. The valet who answered his ring, an old servant of the De -Querne family, was the same who formerly used to come to the school to -take Armand away for his holidays. The few words that this man uttered -when asking about his master's old companion with the familiarity of -former days, brought real comfort to Alfred. He experienced an awakening -of memories that to him was equivalent to an impression of friendship. - -"The baron is in his bath," the servant went on, "but if Monsieur Alfred -will walk into the drawing-room," and he opened the door with attentive -assiduity, "and read the papers," and he handed them. Then kneeling in -front of the fire to put on a fresh log, he asked: - -"Will Monsieur Alfred take tea with the baron?" - -These trifling attentions softened Alfred; in them he found as it were a -palpable renewal of the intimacy in which he had lived with Armand. The -aspect of the room heightened this first impression still more. He knew -the room well; he had seen it forming year by year, and furniture being -added to furniture. At every visit he was aware of some slight -alterations. - -"Stay, that's new, is it not?" he would say to his friend, who used then -to explain to him the convenience or rarity of his recent acquisition. - -He went up to the low bookcase, and by the look of the binding -recognised some books which must have been college prizes. He took one -out and saw the stamp of the Vanaboste School printed on the green -shagreen. He replaced the volume, and the courtyard of the school was -revived before his mind. What delightful hours had been spent in walking -round that yard with Armand--an Armand who, despite the years, resembled -the Armand of to-day; and to convince himself of the fact, he proceeded -to look at a profile of his friend done by Bastien-Lepage, in the -refined and exact manner of this master's portraits. From the portrait -Alfred passed on to the photographs scattered over the mantelpiece; the -comrades, living or dead, that they represented, had been known by him, -ay, by him also. - -Ah! from the most insignificant objects in the apartment there issued a -voice to protest on behalf of the friendship that united De Querne and -himself. After the anguish of the night before, this atmosphere of -settled affection operated powerfully on Alfred's heart and brought him -relief. - -"How well it was I came," he reflected, throwing himself into an -easy-chair, and looking at the fire, the flames of which were assuming a -joyous brightness: "I will tell him everything in a straightforward way: -what is the good of artifice! And I have full confidence that everything -will be explained." - -He had reached this stage in his meditations, when he felt a hand laid -on his shoulder. It was the hand of Armand, who had just come in. But -Alfred's absorption had been too great to admit of his being disturbed -by the noise of the door. The young baron was wearing a handsome morning -jacket of black quilted silk, light trousers, and thin patent leather -shoes, while all about him there floated the fresh odour of a scent -which Alfred suddenly recognised. This same delicate aroma was diffused -around her by his wife in the morning hours when she went about in those -loose dresses which best indicated the suppleness of the lines of her -person. The fact that Helen and Armand made use of the same perfume was -sufficient, in Alfred's present condition of soul, to make the soothing -influence of youthful memories give way once more to the indefinable, -the vague and torturing suspicion of the night before. He looked at his -friend, but the latter seemed to be occupied solely with the -preparations for his breakfast. The valet had wheeled a little movable -table up to the fire, and arranged upon it a silver urn, a cup, slices -of toast, butter and honey. - -"Another cup for Monsieur Chazel," said Armand. - -"Monsieur Alfred has refused already," said the servant. - -"Then you will allow me," Armand resumed in a cheerful tone. - -Sitting down, he poured the black tea into the cup, and then the hot -water, calculating the proportion between them just as though his friend -had not been present. Was this the attitude of a man who had a secret to -conceal? - -"No," said Alfred to himself, "if there were any mystery between Helen -and him, my visit would put him out, he would want to know the reason of -it. Are you not astonished," he went on aloud, "to see me so early in -the morning?" putting his question with that incapacity for -dissimulation which is characteristic of very sincere people, and which -causes them almost involuntarily to continue outwardly and verbally -their inmost thoughts. - -"I suppose you have some little service to ask of me," replied the -other, "and I am quite ready to perform it." - -Then to himself: "Poor Alfred is too ingenuous. He wants to know why I -am not astonished. Well, I certainly ought to be so, and should be -expecting a question from him about Helen--what else could it be about? -She would not believe me when I told her that he was growing jealous. -Well, we'll lie as well as we can, since so much is due to her and he -buttered a slice of toast, not without a certain melancholy at this -necessity for lying, for he had preserved the haughtiness of personal -pride which so often outlives true loftiness of feeling. - -"Yes," Alfred resumed, in a tone of voice the seriousness of which -revealed how deeply he felt the present interview, "you are my -friend--my friend. Yes, I believe it, I know it." - -It might have been thought that he was questioning himself the better to -assure himself of his own sincerity. He again repeated, "I believe it," -looking at Armand as he had never ventured to look at him in his life -before. His eyes no longer expressed anything of that awkward timidity -which in all arguments caused Alfred to feel beaten beforehand, even -when he was right a hundred times over. - -"And it is because you are my friend," he went on, "that I came to you -to-day. Armand, you see in me the most unhappy of men." - -The other raised his head, which, as though to pour some more tea into a -cup that was already half full, he had bent down beneath his friend's -gaze. He looked straight at the loyal man whom, in that very room on the -eve of the first assignation, he had in thought held so cheap. Chazel -had allowed his eyeglass to fall. His clear eyes showed the very depths -of his soul. In them there was legible pain, so terrible and so genuine -that it rendered touching and tragic a situation which, at any other -moment, Armand would have considered very ridiculous--that, namely, of a -deceived husband suffering from suspicion of the deception in the -presence of the very man who has deceived him. No, it was simple, naked -human suffering--that real suffering which grips your vitals like the -shriek of a passer-by when crushed by a carriage at a street-corner. -Armand suddenly felt this sympathy of humanity, then immediately -afterwards a secret feeling of uncomfortableness at the thought that he -was himself the cause of this visible suffering; and he listened to -Alfred, who continued speaking. - -"I have come to tell you things that people do not talk about, but you -must listen to me. I am very unhappy, my friend, and for very vulgar -reasons. Ah! there is nothing romantic in my story. It is comprised in a -single line: I love my wife and my wife does not love me. How and how -greatly I love her you cannot understand--no, not even you. I am a -timid, awkward fellow, I know, and have always known. When quite a young -man, I pictured in my dreams the ideal face of a woman. I called her my -madonna--but I am talking nonsense to you. Let me go on. It was she who -comforted me for the rest--those who all treated me with scorn--and it -was she that I loved. When I saw Helen, I found in her a likeness to -this chimera such as I had never met with. Do not smile. Just understand -me. I married her. At first I was quite sensible of the fact that she -was not very happy. I said to myself: Time will bring everything right. -Time has brought nothing right. The martyrdom that it has been to me to -see her dull, wearied, and sad, and to be able to do nothing for -her--ah! no one shall ever know. Especially since we have been living in -Paris, I can see that she is sinking into still greater melancholy, that -her poor face is growing thin and her eyes hollow. She is suffering and -wasting away before my eyes, every day a little more, and I am unable to -do anything and am ignorant of the cause. Can you understand what a -torture it is to see a woman loved as I love her passing away hour by -hour by my very side, and not even to know the reason?" - -He had risen as he uttered these words. In proportion as the phrases -came to him, they swept away the plan of discourse which he had prepared -on his way from the Rue de La Rochefoucauld to the Rue Lincoln. He had -allowed himself to feel aloud. He passed his hand across his eyes and -went on: - -"I am wandering. Why do I tell you all these things? I have come to ask -you whether you know what is the matter with her." - -And he stopped in front of Armand, who also rose. The latter was trying -to guess the object of his old companion's tirade. He was aware that in -a conversation of this kind the chief point is to abstain from informing -one's interlocutor of what he may not know. To Alfred's abrupt question -he replied in the vaguest of formulas: - -"Why, how could I know any more than yourself?" - -"Armand," said the other, going up to him and laying his hands upon his -shoulders, "do not deceive me. I am able to hear anything; I am ready -for anything. Yes, if Helen loved some one, I should efface myself, I -should go away. I should take my son with me, and allow her to begin her -life anew. A revengeful husband--how I despise such a man as that! -Either he does not love--and then for what does he take revenge? For a -wound dealt to his pride? What pitifulness! Or else he does love, and -has only to bring about the happiness of the woman he loves at the cost -of his own. Ah, I have not the ideas of the world! Answer me, Armand, is -Helen in love with any one?" - -"I tell you again. How should I know?" - -"Ah!" exclaimed Chazel, taking his friend's arm and grasping it with all -his strength, "who can know if not you? Did you consider me blind to -such a degree as not to see that you were becoming her most intimate -confidant? If she does not talk to you about herself, her life, her -feelings, what do you say to each other in your endless conversations? -Why do you become silent when I appear, if you are not speaking of -things that you do not want me to hear? Why do you hide from me?" he -continued violently. - -"We hide from you?" said Armand. - -"Be silent," returned Alfred, laying his hand upon his friend's mouth, -"do not say what is false. I can endure falsehood no longer. I must have -the truth, whatever it may be. I saw you yesterday in the Jardin des -Plantes, in the main avenue. I was there--I saw you. You were walking -together, and in the evening she said to you: 'How have you been since -yesterday?' You do not hide from me? Repeat that now. Ah, why have you -both lied to me?" - -"You are right," replied Armand, "we ought to have spoken to you about -it immediately. That is the way in which the most innocent things assume -an appearance of mystery." - -While affecting the most absolute calmness, he said to himself: "Helen -is saved." Logical on this point with his everlasting distrust, he used -at every meeting to agree with his mistress upon a common explanation to -be given in case of surprise, and he went on aloud: - -"Madame de Chazel was returning from a visit of charity; I met her in -the garden, and we walked together for a little because the weather was -fine. She asked me to say nothing about it to you, because you would -scold her for going in that way into the low quarters of the town." - -And it was true that Alfred, still a provincial in this respect, used -often to speak of the dangers that a woman might incur alone in out of -the way corners in Paris. - -"You have the means of ascertaining whether I am telling you the truth," -added De Querne. "Take a cab, go home, and ask Madame Chazel. I shall -not have time to forewarn her, shall I? You will see whether she makes -you the same reply." - -"For what do you take me?" said Alfred, "I have a horror of such spying -ways. I am already too much ashamed of having spoken to you in this -way.--Armand," he said, advancing towards his friend, "give me your word -of honour that Helen and you are not in love with each other." - -"Madame Chazel and I!" exclaimed De Querne, "nay, I give you my word of -honour that not a word has passed between us that was not one of simple, -honourable friendship. In my turn I will ask you: 'For what do you take -me?'" And with the secret loathing of all his pride he added inwardly; -"What mean actions a woman can make a man commit!" - -"Then I ask your forgiveness," returned Alfred, "for I suspected you. -Ah! I am not wronging you; I did not believe that there was anything -between you. No, I think too highly of you both. But I thought that she -might have formed an affection for you and you for her. She is charming, -and you, Armand--why you have all that I have not! You are handsome, -refined, witty. And I, I have only this," he said with a heart-broken -gesture, striking his breast above his heart. - -"Heavens! what I should have suffered had it been true! Just think, to -have lost both her who is my entire life, and you whom I liked so much! -You do not know, Armand, how sincerely I am your friend--just let me -tell it you for once. At our age these protestations are ridiculous--but -what is ridicule to me? With my father, and before I knew Helen, you are -the person I loved most. I am of the Newfoundland breed; I must have -some one to be attached to. Throughout my youth you were that some one -to me. When we were children, I should have liked you to have a -sacrifice to ask of me, something very difficult, almost impossible of -execution. You were in my eyes like a more fortunate brother. I was not -jealous of all your superior qualities; I was proud of them. When I got -married you were not able to come to Bourges. Well! will you believe it, -my heart throbbed when I introduced you to my wife in Paris? If you had -not been pleased with her I should have been so unhappy. Think of that -my friend, my dear friend," and he clasped his hands, "and you will -excuse me for having said anything painful, or wounding to you. You and -she, to lose you both! Ah! I should have gone away. I should have -sacrificed everything to your happiness. But it would have killed me!" - -He sank into the easy chair as though exhausted by the emotions that he -had just experienced. His agitated face revealed too clearly the -excessiveness of his grief, and Armand felt unspeakably moved by looking -upon such a spectacle of sorrow and weakness. By truthfulness of soul, -Alfred had just re-established between them the true nature of the -situation. Husbands are not so often ridiculous, as the proverb says, -but by reason of the deceived vanity which is at the bottom of nearly -all their bitterness, or of the triumphant vanity which is at the bottom -of their fancied security. But Alfred, face to face with Armand, was -trust face to face with treachery, serious love, ready for the most -tragic sacrifices, face to face with the depraved fancy of pride and -sense that scruple had restrained. - -And Armand was silent. Alfred's affection and esteem smote him as with a -hand. Ah! how he would have liked to have said to this man: - -"Yes, I have lied to you. I have robbed you of your wife. I had the -excuse that I did not know how much you loved her and how much you loved -me. Choose now the reparation that it may please you to require, and I -will grant it you. Let us put an end to it." - -Yes, but what of Helen? The secret of adultery does not belong to a -single individual. To his duty towards Alfred was opposed another -duty--a duty of honour also, and one freely contracted--and he was -silent, feeling a very child in the presence of this honesty which -suffered and wept before him, honesty possibly deceived and certainly -simple. But a man who entrusts you with his pocket-book, and whom you -rob of the bank-notes in one of the pockets of it, is also deceived and -simple; only, on the other hand, you are a thief. Whatever Armand's -superiority to Alfred might be, he found himself, by the mere fact of -his own treachery and his friend's good faith, in that condition of -humiliation which is intolerable to all higher natures. It was an -experience that lasted for only a few minutes, but it was a very bitter -one. - -"Do not pay any attention to this complaining of mine," Alfred resumed; -"my nerves are unstrung. I really do not know why I am like this, seeing -that I have found with you the certainty that I needed. Ah! thank -you!"--and he sprang forward to kiss his friend as brother kisses -brother. Under this kiss Armand could feel the blood rising to his face. - -"Come," he said in confusion, "calm yourself." - -"Nay, I am calm," said Alfred; "you have been so good, you have listened -to me with so much heart. Alas!" he added mournfully, "how is it that I -cannot have an explanation with Helen like that which I have had with -you? In her presence I feel so embarrassed, so constrained." - -"And," replied Armand, who perceived the possibility of sparing his -mistress a cruel scene, "you also take an exaggerated view of trifles. -Shall I tell you my opinion about Madame Chazel? And this opinion has -been confirmed by all the conversations that I have had with her. What -she is suffering from is the change in her mode of life. The atmosphere -of Paris, the habits of Paris, the people of Paris, are all enervating -to her. She needs great consideration. Take my advice and spare her all -discussion. Be gentle with her." - -"You are right," said Alfred, who remembered having heard almost the -same words in the mouth of the doctor, and this coincidence succeeded in -momentarily tranquillising him. He shook his head, and uttered the -following words, at which Armand felt no inclination to smile: - -"I am an egotist; I see nothing but my own grief. But Helen has -confidence in me. You see that I am jealous no longer. Speak to her of -me; tell her how much I love her, how I desire only her happiness. -Explain it all to her; she will believe you. God! I would give my whole -life for a glance of tenderness in her eyes when she looks at me." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When Alfred Chazel had left the drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln, Armand, -being left alone, felt the need of seeing clear within himself. The -visit from the friend of his childhood had brought him a strangely -uncomfortable feeling which he was unable to shake off either during the -close of that morning, or during the afternoon, which was entirely taken -up with going about from one place to another. By a line alleging an -imaginary excuse he had released himself from the appointment made with -Helen the evening before, and in his room as well as in the cab which -drove him from one neighbourhood to another, he had the courage to -question himself frankly. - -He strove to beguile with physical motion the indefinable and unbearable -sadness with which the scene that he had gone through continuously -overwhelmed him. He went from tradesman to tradesman, paying bills that -were in arrears, leaving cards at houses in which he had not set foot -for months, and unceasingly he reverted to this questioning of the -recesses of his conscience: Why was he so greatly shaken by a natural -event which it was so easy to foresee, and which, when all was said, did -not result in any disastrous consequence? - -But no; he could not think of Chazel without feeling an inward wound, -bleeding and keen. His pride had been stricken to its deepest depths. -He, who since their common adolescence had in thought treated Alfred as -an inferior creature, he, who had robbed the poor wretch of his wife -without the slightest remorse, he now had suddenly been crushed with -generosity by this man, had been almost outrageously contemned. There -was no means of rebelling against it, of standing out against it. Of the -two it was he, Armand, who was playing the unworthy part, and he was -pained by it in the baser portions of his being, in that pride in taking -the first place, which, from their childhood, had been manifested in the -pettiest details. Did they enter a restaurant, or take part in a country -excursion? It was Armand who sought to pay, just as he sought to surpass -at every game, and to win prizes at the distributions. Vanity had -prevented him from choosing a career. Vanity again had inclined him to -intrigues with women. Thus he was humiliated to the very soul. - -But his painful sensations proceeded at the same time from a more noble -cause. The cord of pity had thrilled within him at the sighing forth of -the terrible lament to which he had listened for an hour. Aridity of -soul was not an essential part of Armand de Querne's nature. It was -caused by the fact that with him emotion passed through the brain before -it reached the heart. By a rooted deformity to be found in all -intellectual lives, he must needs give himself reasons for feeling in -such or such a manner. The powerlessness to love of which he was a -victim proceeded from this peculiar disposition. He had never been able -to believe in the truth of any woman's heart, and as a consequence he -had always given himself reasons for not loving any of them -unreservedly. - -Such a nature is the most miserable of all, for it prompts those who -possess it to the worst acts of egotism without securing to them the icy -and unconscious serenity of true egotists. Thus it was that the young -man was able to become Helen's lover without a scruple, and to tread -upon friendship as tranquilly as upon the carpet in the room where they -met; and yet Alfred's suffering had just moved him to the inmost fibre. -Ah! the reason was that he did not dispute the sincerity of this -suffering; he had touched it as though it were an object, and as he -believed in it, he felt it. - -At the same moment, and for the first time, he perceived the real scope -of his conduct. If he had only suspected the depth of Chazel's love for -Helen! If he had known with what ardent friendship this man had been -attached to himself, Armand! But, people form ideas concerning a person, -and proceed to no further verification. They say to themselves: "This -man is nothing." They make no more account of his existence than that of -a beast or a plant. And then they find themselves face to face with a -heart that beats and that has been stricken, with a happiness -that was living and that has been slain. What misconceptions lie -at the root of our errors! And how many of the latter are merely the -misunderstandings--but the irreparable misunderstandings--of others! - -Armand de Querne pursued these thoughts the whole day, and at the end of -them all, encountering him in a continuous fashion above all the rest, -was the image of Helen, and again of Helen. For whom had he betrayed -Alfred's confidence? For Helen. To whom had he so lightly sacrificed the -memories of his childhood and his youth? To Helen. In whose interest had -he just pledged that shameful word of honour? In Helen's. Now the young -man had in his feelings towards his mistress reached that moment when -the slightest contrariety is so exaggerated as to become almost -unbearable; what, then, was to be said of such a humiliation? He had not -deceived himself when, on the very eve of the first assignation, he had -recognised that he could never love her. - -He had at first passed through a sufficiently sweet period of -intoxicated pleasure, during which he had abandoned himself to the charm -of having a delightful mistress, as endearing as she was pretty, as -submissive as she was impassioned. But even at that period he -entertained no illusions regarding the nature of the feelings with which -she inspired him or regarding their duration. As to the demonstrations -of affection to which Helen surrendered herself, he looked upon them as -a display of romanticism to be accounted for by long residence in the -country among bad books and absurd dreams. - -"She is a Madame Bovary," he said to himself, and with this simple -phrase he had answered everything. - -When once the malady of disbelief has assailed a tormented heart, every -fresh detail serves as food for it. Helen's transports and fits of -melancholy, her utterances, and her silences, had served for weapons -against her. Did she abandon herself to her feelings with the ardour of -a deeply affected soul? He thought badly of her; she was a libertine and -nothing more. Did she shroud herself in melancholy reserve? He thought -badly of her; she wanted to produce an effect, to assume an attitude. -Did she question him respecting himself and his wife? What tyranny! Was -she silent? What hypocrisy! - -For all this, and by a seeming inconsistency such as characterises the -facile kindliness of the indifferent when anxious to save themselves -useless shocks, Armand had lent himself to the requisitions of Helen's -passion. To evade petty contradictions, he had laid aside many of his -habits. He declined dinner after dinner, deferred visit after visit, -distanced his appearances at the club, in the Rue Royale, where formerly -he used to show himself nearly every day. "You are never to be seen -now." "I thought you were abroad." "You rascal, what good fortune are -you hiding from us?" Such were the phrases with which he was greeted by -nearly every one he met at the corner of a footpath, on the threshold of -a restaurant, in the lobby of a theatre. - -These phrases had at first made him smile. They now caused him a vague -regret for his former mode of life. In proportion as habituation -deadened his pleasure in the possession of Helen, did he surprise -himself remembering with longing the insipid diversions of his freedom, -which, as soon as they were renewed, he was again to look upon as -hateful drudgery. All these different shades of feeling were beginning -to have the effect of rendering his connection with Helen burdensome to -him, and that long before the scene, the cruel recollection of which was -persecuting him now. But the scene once passed through, how could he -maintain his actual relations with his mistress? - -No, a thousand times no. He could not do it. And first with respect to -himself. - -"Upon my word," he said to himself, "I will despise myself up to a -certain point, but not beyond. So long as he had not spoken to me--" - -He paused upon this thought, then went on aloud with an evil laugh: - -"Ha! ha! so long as he had not spoken to me, it was exactly the same -thing. Yes, but I did not feel it as I do now. I have had enough of all -this lying. Pah! Pah!" and there was a physical bitterness in his mouth, -almost a real nausea at the thought of deceiving Alfred again, after the -step that the other had taken so loyally and so affectionately. - -"And then," he reflected, "I cannot do it on her account. When jealousy -has been roused, it is never completely lulled again. Alfred would -understand it all in the end. He would follow his wife or have her -followed. Then, behold a surprise, a scandal, and the unhappy Helen -loses at a blow her position, her child, a part, doubtless, of her -fortune, and all to be constrained to live with me who do not love her, -and whom she does not love." - -In order to give force to the plan of a final rupture which was already -being sketched in his brain, he took pleasure in considering this last -thought. No, Helen did not love him. She thought that she loved him, as -she had probably thought she loved Varades and the rest; for there must -have been others, in conformity with the axiom that a man is never a -woman's first or second lover. - -"If we break, there will be a tearful scene to be gone through, she will -spend a few melancholy weeks, enabling her to say to her next lover, -with eyes raised heavenwards, 'How I have suffered, love!' or else to -her most intimate confidante, 'Oh! men! men!'" - -There was a moment of base merriment; then his reflections began again. - -"What strange animals women are! Here is a fellow who has a heart, -frankness, and fidelity, as they call it; he can love--which is another -of their expressions--and his wife must deceive him--for whom? For a -cynic like me who am just the opposite. And if it had not been I, it -would have been some one worse. It is humiliating to one's vanity, but -refreshing to one's conscience--yes, it would have been some one else." - -And a few minutes later: - -"What fine reasoning, too, in order to justify myself! Suppose one -applied it to assassination! If I do not kill you to-day you will die -sooner or later in some other fashion. The truth is that adultery is a -great pollution. Pah! Pah!" - -He returned home, turning these melancholy conclusions over and over. -When he was again in his drawing-room and in front of the easy-chair in -which Alfred had sat that morning, he felt still more incapable of -continuing to be Helen's lover--no, not two days, not a single day -longer. - -"We must put an end to it and break with each other, and that -immediately," he said aloud. - -He sat down at his table to write to Helen, but a note asking merely for -an appointment, for to break with her by letter and leave such a weapon -in her hands would be madness. Why not withdraw without seeing her again -as he had done in the case of more than one mistress? It was impossible -under the circumstances; it would be necessary also to renounce ever -seeing Alfred again. He must therefore resign himself to a rupture by -means of a scene. - -The most important point was the choice of a locality. At her own house? -And what if she had hysterics and some one came in? In the Rue de -Stockholm? But what if she threw herself into his arms and the fever of -the senses led him to take her once more, only to leave her afterwards -like a clown, after possessing her? Once more, no. - -"This is the best place after all," he said to himself. "The fact that -the servant is at the door will be enough to restrain me from yielding -to her. And if she has an hysterical attack, I have my little travelling -medicine chest." And he scribbled a note absolutely correct in form. Had -Alfred intercepted the missive he would have found in it nothing but an -offer very natural, considering their somewhat exceptional degree of -intimacy, to show Helen some albums for the choice of a costume for a -fancy dress ball. In order to justify the meeting at his own house, he -alleged the size of the albums and the difficulty of transporting them. - -When he had sent this letter, melancholy took possession of him. A -sudden vision showed him in anticipation the gladness that Helen would -feel on the receipt of this note. The two occasions on which she had -visited the rooms in the Rue Lincoln had been holidays of the heart to -her. What a deception was there awaiting her on the morrow! - -"Come, come," said Armand with energy. "In one short month I shall be in -London for the season. On my return they will be spending their holidays -away from Paris. This ugly story will have a better ending than many -others. Poor Alfred! There is still time to act as an honourable man." - -He said this to himself, and our miserable hearts are so ingenious in -duping themselves, that while he said it he believed it. - -It was a little after two o'clock in the afternoon of the following day, -when Helen Chazel entered this same drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln -where the day before her husband had spoken, and her lover reflected, in -a manner that would have prostrated her soul with despair had she been -able to know their words and thoughts; but she was aware of but one -thing--her deep joy at seeing her lover again after so long a time. The -past forty-eight hours had seemed endless to her. When passing in front -of the servant she had experienced a slight impulse of nervous emotion, -although she had her veil over her face, and the man would probably -never know her name. Joy at this meeting prevailed--joy and also -anxiety. Since she had lost the intoxicated certainty of the early days -of their love, she never parted from Armand without asking herself: - -"How shall I find him next time?" - -And now again, while he was relieving her of her muff and cloak, she was -at once enraptured and uneasy. She took off her veil and then merely -said to him: "How do you do!" laying her head upon the young man's -shoulder and looking at him. This look was sufficient to enable her to -discern on his countenance the premonitory tokens of the impending -conversation. He had said nothing to her, and already she knew that he -had not brought her to show her albums, that the excuse of the preceding -day for not seeing her was a false one, that an important event had come -to pass. - -But what event? On the occasion of their walk in the Jardin des Plantes, -just two days before, he had been more coaxing, more loving, less -reserved than was his wont. She had almost ventured to feel aloud in his -presence. A sudden transition had again ruffled the intimacy between -them. What was he going to say? He had forced her to sit down without -giving her any other caress than the stroking of her hair with his hand, -and he began to speak to her, relating Alfred's visit of the previous -day, the result of their explanations, and the meeting in the Jardin des -Plantes. - -"You reproached me for being over-prudent. You see now whether I was -wrong in telling you that he was growing jealous. What did he say to you -in the evening?" - -"Nothing," she replied. - -Although this birth of jealousy on Alfred's part, and the evidence of -his deception towards herself were facts of weighty importance to her -security, what chiefly concerned her at that moment was to ascertain how -her lover had defended his love--their love--and she asked him: - -"What did you say to him yourself?" - -"If I alone had been involved," returned Armand, "you can understand -that I should not have resorted to subterfuge in the presence of such -loyalty. In short, I have wronged him, he has a right to every -reparation, and I should have felt it a great relief to offer him such; -but you were implicated, and I gave him my word that there had never -been anything but the relations of friendship between us." - -He paused for a moment, and then went on with visible irritation. - -"As it has never been our custom, neither his nor mine, to have two such -words, one true and the other false, he believed me, and for the moment -he is quieted." - -She listened to him and looked at him, while he himself looked at the -fire, his elbows upon his knees, and his chin on his hands. She was -asking herself: - -"If we were driven to such an extremity would he love me sufficiently to -go away with me, to give me all his life and to accept mine?" - -She was silent, absorbed in the expectation of that which was to follow, -and which she could not yet foresee. On his part, he employed his last -phrase in continuation. - -"He is quieted--for the moment," he repeated, and he emphasized the last -three words. "But our relations will be rendered very difficult ones. -You see, when a man is not suspicious, everything that should serve as a -proof against, serves as a proof for. When a man is suspicious, the -contrary happens. Am I right?" - -He was embarrassed by the silence in which she continued to look at him. -Leaning back in her easy-chair, her hands extended on the two arms of -it, her lips parted, she watched, panting as it were, for a gleam of -tender emotion on her lover's face. She read on it nothing but the dry -reflectiveness with which men set forth the data of a piece of business. -His voice especially--that voice whose slightest tones she knew, the -voice which always made its way into the remotest chambers of her -heart--ah! that voice had a cruel, almost metallic harshness. Well! -'twas another episode to join to the tale of her prolonged martyrdom, -the torture of a living creature chained to a dead soul wherein that -which caused her to writhe in anguish did not awake so much as a -vibration. Nevertheless, to this question, "Am I right," she replied in -a voice choking with anxiety: - -"It is possible; you are a better judge of such matters than I am." Then -with an effort: "And what conclusion do you draw?" - -"First promise me," replied Armand, "that you will not take ill what I -am going to say to you. Be persuaded that I shall never have any object -in view but your own interest. You do not doubt this?" - -Why did Helen bow her head at these simple words as though she had -plainly read the fatal words of rupture on his lips? Why was she on the -point of crying out like the woman condemned during the Terror: - -"Sir executioner, a moment longer." - -Ah! why does the heart that loves possess this second sight which -increases misfortune by the anticipation of them? - -"We must endure a separation for a short time," the young man resumed, -"until Alfred's suspicions have been set at rest--four or five months, -perhaps six, but not more. I will make all easy for you by leaving Paris -myself, although it is very inconvenient for me to do so just now. But -your peace is the first thing to be considered, is it not?" - -He continued speaking, but she had ceased to listen to him. It was not -danger that she perceived before her. What was danger to her? Only one -misfortune existed for her, that of seeing Armand no more. He spoke of -separation for four or five months, perhaps six, just as he would have -spoken of the beauty of the day, of a new play, of the paying of a -visit. To him it appeared a very simple matter to be absent from the -town in which she lived, to lay aside the sweet custom of their daily -interviews! No, no, the man did not love her. - -"And you announce this news to me calmly like that," she said; "and if -you were to love me no longer after this absence, what would become of -me? What would be left to me." - -"I entreat you," replied Armand impatiently, for he felt that the lead -in the conversation was slipping from him, "not to let us confuse the -questions at issue. Just now we have to deal with your husband's -jealousy and your own safety. Is an absence necessary? Yes or no? -Everything turns on that." - -"But what if I suggest another plan to you," she asked. "My husband is -jealous--be it so. My safety is compromised--be it so. Then, take me -away with you. I would rather lose everything and keep you." - -And she devoured him with her eyes as she uttered these words. He was -obliged to show the bottom of his heart this time. She was in one of -these crises in which one stakes all to win all, to learn--yes to learn -the truth, to hold it, clasp it, feel it as though it were a body, -should death be the consequence! - -"You know better than I," he replied, "that I cannot do that, and the -reason why I cannot. You were forgetting your child. A wife may be taken -from a husband, but never a mother from a son!" - -"Ah!" she exclaimed, "why do you not tell me that you have ceased to -love me? Why these phrases and this circumspection? Do you think that I -am not brave enough to look reality in the face, whatever it may be? I -swear to you, Armand, that it would be less cruel on your part to tell -me everything at once. Armand, say that you have ceased to love me; I -will not be angry with you, and will go away quite alone with my grief. -A grief that you have caused will still be something of yourself; but do -not leave me in this horrible uncertainty, do not speak so coldly of -going far away from me if you love me. Heavens! what I am enduring!" - -Her mouth was distorted with emotion, her breath came short, and tears -started from her eyes, big, heavy tears that flowed down her cheek one -after another, leaving what looked like furrows behind them. - -"It is just as I expected," said Armand to himself, and these tears, -instead of softening him, enervated him even to anger. He did not -sympathise with this grief as he had sympathised with Alfred's, perhaps -owing to that difference between the sexes which brings it to pass that -a woman's grief is not always as intelligible to us as that of a -fellow-man; at times, also, the feeling of cowardice that we feel when -giving pain to a mistress so provokes us, by lowering us in our own -eyes, as to exclude tenderness. He had risen, and was walking about the -room, thinking to himself: - -"Why not put an end to the whole thing at once?" - -Then he added aloud: - -"I really do not know what it is that makes you cry. In what I have said -to you there was nothing that did not breathe the deepest affection for -you." - -How could she have failed to notice that already he no longer made use -of the word "love." - -"But since you require me to speak frankly to you, I will obey you. No; -it is not only on your own account that I request this separation, but -also on my own. There is now a barrier between us, Helen, that a man of -honour cannot cross." - -"What is it?" replied Helen, finding strength enough to raise her pale, -tear-stained face. - -"The unqualified trust of another man," he answered brusquely. "When -Alfred came here, to this very spot, he did not speak to me of his -jealousy only, he displayed such esteem and friendship towards me as I -forbear from describing to you. He suspected me, and he came to me with -open heart. There is no bitterness, no bitter sentiment in that heart, -but beauty of feeling, straightforwardness and sincerity of friendship. -No, Helen, I can deceive that man no longer. I should despise myself too -much if I did." - -"Well! and what of me?" she cried, rising in her turn. This praise of -her husband by her lover completed her distraction, and anger was -overtaking her. "Did I not trample upon all that, in order to come to -you? Do you think that I was born for treachery and falsehood? Did you -hesitate for one moment about asking me to deceive this honest man, this -confiding friend, when you wished to have me? Ah! you are not ashamed of -it on my account and you are on your own! I forbid you to speak of -honour, and perjured faith, and betrayed friendship. You have no right -to do so, seeing that it is upon yourself, upon yourself, understand, -that it all recoils. Did you entreat me to be yours? Answer in your -turn, yes or no?" - -"Pardon me," returned Armand. "Let us go back to the facts. We loved -each other. You were not a young girl so far as I know. I was not a -youth. We were not making our first entry upon life--we were both -persons of experience. Is that not so? We knew where we were going. I -owed it to you not to compromise you. Did I speak of you to any living -soul? I owed it to you not to disturb your peace? I am disturbing it and -I withdraw. As to my conscience, permit me to be the sole judge of what -it enjoins and what it forbids." - -"And in six months," replied Helen, "will your conscience be more -accommodating? Come, be logical and frank. It is not a momentary -separation that you want but a rupture. Let me at least hear you say as -much since you desire people to esteem you." - -"Yes," replied the young man brutally, exasperated by the revolt of a -woman usually so gentle and submissive. - -"So you thought that you were free from all duty towards me?" she -continued. "You were leaving me all alone in that way. You were going -away. You would have written me five or six letters, and then that would -have been the end. You would have uttered these fine phrases to -yourself: 'We knew where we were going.' 'She was not a young girl.' 'We -were both persons of experience.' I should be curious to know," she -added with that mournful irony which is imparted by rising frenzy, "just -what you understand by that." - -"What would be the use?" he said. - -"I want to know," she returned vehemently. "I have a good right to know -at least what you think of me." - -"Do you believe that I am not acquainted with your life?" - -"With my life," Helen questioned, crushed by a kind of stupor, which the -young man took for terror at this sudden revelation. - -"Do you wish for facts?" he returned harshly. "Well, you shall have -them. Have you forgotten your intrigue with Monsieur de Varades!" - -"Ah!" she cried, "nay, that is infamous. Monsieur de Varades!" And she -passed her hands wildly across her forehead. "Tell me that you did not -believe that, I entreat you. My love, tell me that you did not think -that of me. Oh! tell me, tell me, tell me!" - -"I did believe it," he replied, his heart closed to the wail of his -mistress by that keen, insidious jealousy of the past which, by a -strange anomaly of his nature, had always caused him some pain when by -her side, although he did not love her. - -"Then," said Helen, frozen now by this reply, "if you believed it, why -did you never speak of it to me? If the thought of it governed you when -you asked me to be yours, if you considered that you had less -responsibility towards me by reason of it, why did you entertain no -doubt about it? Were you sure of it? Had you seen it? Was there not a -chance against it being true--a chance, a single chance? Why, are you -not aware that it is a crime to take all a woman's heart, and to keep -thoughts of that kind in one's own?" - -"Tut!" he replied, shrugging his shoulders; "you would have thought me -perfectly ridiculous if I had not been your lover. Your past belonged to -you alone, and I had no right to call you to account for it any more -than for your future. As to the present, I know you well enough to be -sure that you are not a woman who would take two lovers at the same -time." - -"'Tis a great honour," she replied in an almost stifled voice. She was -pale as death. The egotism and insensibility of the man she loved -paralysed her with such horror that her tears would no longer come. She -felt but one desire: to leave this man, to see no longer those eyes and -those lips--those lips that she had loved so well, and which had always -lied so to her, since from the very first day he had believed this -without proof! Mechanically she resumed her cloak and muff, and fastened -her veil. - -"Good-bye," she said. It would have been impossible for her to continue -the conversation just then, so choked was she with indignation. - -He did not try to detain her, and also said: - -"Good-bye." - -She left the room, and he accompanied her, without a word being spoken -on either side, to the outer door. The latter once closed, he returned -to the drawing-room, where no trace of the tragic scene enacted in it -remained but the disarrangement of the easy chair that had been pushed -aside by Helen as she rose. - -"All has passed off better than I expected," he said to himself. "How -easy it is to pin them to the wall with a little fact! Well! it is -over." - -"It is over," he repeated aloud with that strange feeling both of relief -and of distress which accompanies the interruption of love. "She was -very pretty," he reflected to himself. "Now we must be on the look out -for revenge. But what revenge? She has not a note in which I speak -familiarly to her. I shall have the trouble of taking away all those -trifles of hers at Madame Palmyre's. I will have them returned to her -later on, when we have reached the stage at which she can say to me 'You -gave me great pain,' with the letter of my successor in her bosom, -between the chemisette and her skin." - -He sat down again in front of the fire, from which he drew a few sparks. - -"Ah!" he continued, "the after-taste of life is too bitter!" - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -REVENGE! Such was scarcely the subject of Helen's reflections while -returning from the Rue Lincoln. The sudden blow which she had just -received had been too heavy a one to leave room within her for any other -feeling but that of the most continuous and crushing grief. At the -dinner table, during the evening, then during the night when alone in -her own room with every light extinguished, and sleepless, then during -the day that succeeded to that night, and during the other nights and -days that ensued for a fortnight afterwards, what she perceived -unremittingly and with the same cruel, uninterrupted clearness was the -brutal fact that had at last been grasped in its indisputable reality, -the fact that her lover had never loved her! - -Not for a moment? No, not for a moment, seeing that when he had -possessed her for the first time, he had believed himself in the -possession of the former mistress of Monsieur de Varades, and perhaps of -others. The smiles and reticences and unresponsiveness and mistrust on -the part of Armand were now clearly accounted for, and her whole being -rebelled against the murderous injustice, as she compared what she had -given with what she had received. What! the tender refinements of her -dreams, the noble madness of her dear love, the idolatry of her -ecstasies, the sincerity of the sacrifices made without regret or -remorse to give happiness to the man she loved, all this wasted upon a -lie, upon a void, as vainly as the leaves driven by the wind along the -walks of the old garden in which they had walked together, as uselessly -as the motes dancing in a sunbeam on the edge of the window in the -little room during those afternoons devoted to their loves. - -Devoted to their loves? Yes, she had loved deeply, madly, and alas! for -nothing--to find herself looked upon as a woman that passed from one -intrigue to another, as one that had loosed her robe for this man and -for that, as one that collected sensations, just as others collect fans -or trinkets. Ah! she could not endure the injustice of it. To be -deprived of the sight of Armand--for on the day following the -explanation that had proved so tragical to her, Alfred had received a -line from his friend announcing a temporary absence necessitated by -business of importance--yes, to be deprived of the sight of Armand was -an anguish to her, but she possessed a weapon against this anguish: the -contempt with which she had been inspired by her lover's poverty of -heart, by the implacable egotism of the man that the last conversation -had revealed. - -How should she ever accustom her heart to the iniquity of this same -being whom she had so greatly loved. He had parted from her abruptly, -and unworthily, but the recognition of the extent of her love for him -would not have caused her so much suffering as she had endured. The -martyrdom, the intolerable martyrdom consisted in the impotence of her -love, not to command a return, but to make itself merely understood. She -was like one under sentence of death who is willing indeed to die, but -whose worst agony is the powerlessness to exclaim before death: "I am -innocent." - -How keenly he had made her feel the arrogant outrage inflicted by his -honour as a man, for it was in the name of this honour that he had -sacrificed her. Ah! had he loved her, how lightly he would have held -this honour, just as she had lightly held her own; but how could he have -loved her since from the very first he had believed her guilty of -deception? She used to come and say to him: "I have kept myself for -you," and he used to say to himself: "After Monsieur de Varades!" All -the proofs of her affection--and how she had lavished them upon -him!--had been shattered against this invincible conviction, and yet, -heavens! her affection was real, as real as the life which had begun -only on the day when she had come to know him. And she could hear his -voice saying: - -"We were both persons of experience. Do you believe that I was not -acquainted with your life?" - -Oh! what injustice, what hideous injustice! She sobbed her heart out at -the thought of it. She came and went, a prey to continual fever, finding -no more rest for her poor burning head than for her poor bleeding heart, -and inwardly given over to a medley of emotions--despair for happiness -that was lost for ever, keen regret for her absent lover, frenzy at -having been misunderstood in the noblest and most genuine of her -feelings. To repent of having belonged to this cruel Armand before the -hour of her supreme deception, was what she could not do. Love, sublime -love had impelled her to the act, as sublime as itself. Sublime love! -"No," she now exclaimed, "blind, insensate love!" - -And she walked to and fro, at random, in her room like a caged animal, -and ever, as against an irrefragable wall, she struck against this -thought: - -"What was the use of having loved like that? What was the use? Ah! the -lying, lying, lying!--" - -What served to complete her provocation in the mortal crisis through -which she was passing was the tender and untimely solicitude of her -husband. As he had no suspicion of the drama that was being enacted in -this distempered soul, he would chance to say to her, in the belief that -he was holding out an agreeable prospect: "We will make a trip as soon -as I am free. Perhaps Armand will come with us." Or perhaps: "I am -surprised at not having heard from Armand. Has he not written to you?" - -"No," she would reply. - -Alfred now reproached himself for the explanation that he had had with -his friend, feeling persuaded that the latter had gone to travel only in -order to spare his jealousy. He thought about his wife's melancholy, he -found it ever more inexplicable, and he told himself that he had -deprived her of one of her few relaxations. She, on the other hand, was -profoundly sensible of angered pride on thus encountering her husband's -trust, which contrasted too sharply with the distrust of her lover. And -then these plans of travelling together, which Alfred called up, were -they not the very ones that she had herself formerly cherished? They -showed her with only too great precision what might have been--those -summer months whose intimate holiday-making she had imagined beforehand. -They would have lived together by the seashore in one of the villages of -Normandy, where the trees grow green to the very margin of the blue -waves. Perhaps they would have seen together one of those Italian towns -whose mere names seem to shroud a promise of happiness with light. And -then there came nothing but freezing solitude, nothing but desertion! He -had not written her a note since their rupture, not a line of pity. But -why should he have pitied her? Doubtless he believed her already -comforted, perhaps in the arms of another. Why not? He had deemed her -capable of having Varades before himself. Two lovers, three, ten, what -matters the total if there be more than one? - -From day to day the keen pain of this injustice became more keen within -her, and the pain resulted in a mad and morbid thought, yet the only one -that could satisfy somewhat the despair that raged in her heart. Yes, in -those hours of anguish she conceived the criminal thought of indeed -committing frightful actions, since she had been deemed capable of them, -of being like the image that Armand had formed of her, like that fast -and facile woman whom he had believed himself to possess. - -Moral life, like physical life, has its suicidal fevers, its damning -frenzies. There are moments when we are driven at all costs to renounce -our inner personality, to assassinate it, to become another being. It is -especially injustice that produces these crises, mysterious yet so -necessary, and so natural that even children, like animals, are subject -to them. Are not the best rendered the worst by being beaten without -having deserved it? The more Helen was sensible of having been -irredeemably misunderstood, the more a frightful attraction impelled her -to become just the opposite of what she had formerly been. A vertigo -seized her, and, as it were, a delirious longing for degradation. "'Tis -too foolish," she said to herself, "to have any heart." - -This appetite for destruction which works in all creatures -simultaneously with the sense of love, recoiled upon herself. She set -herself to attack her own inner nature systematically, as some men -intoxicate themselves, in analogous circumstances, glass by glass, in -spite of disgust and, so to speak, from a sense of duty. She began to -exhibit strange phenomena of nervous gaiety in the ordinary affairs of -life. She, who hitherto had detested light conversation, affected to -fill her talk with the most direct allusions to the things of love. She -sent for those works which, during the last few years, she had heard -spoken of as being the most audacious, in order to have them upon her -table. She was seized with a sort of frenzy for pleasure, and every -evening there would be a party at the theatre to which she brought -Alfred, and she would speak of her intentions of going again into -society, and interest herself with surprising activity in the disguise -that she was to wear at a fancy ball given by the Malhoures, a ball for -which Armand was to have chosen her costume. Her voice seemed to be of a -higher pitch. She laughed a more sonorous laugh, and at all the -demonstrations of this painful merriment Alfred, in spite of himself, -felt affected by an indefinable anxiety, so completely were her eyes -characterised by that extraordinary brightness, her gestures by those -nervous jerkings, and her words by that abruptness which occasion a -dread lest a woman capable of looking, gesticulating, and talking in -this way should suddenly be seized by a fit of insanity, and should -commit some extravagant and irretrievable action. - -She was stranger still on the morning of the day on which she was to go -to the Malhoures' ball. It was the first time since her quarrel with -Armand that she was going out for the evening. She did not come down to -breakfast. Alfred, seated at the square table with his wife's cover laid -opposite to him, and with his son on his right, ate without speaking, a -prey to the increasing distress inflicted upon him by the mournful -oddness of Helen's behaviour. She no longer seemed to be aware of the -little boy's existence. "Good morning, dear," "Good night, dear," and -that was nearly all. She, a mother usually so loving, seemed to have the -maternal instinct paralysed within her, and for the moment such was -indeed the case. - -A settled idea produces upon the heart the same effect as is produced by -a bright and motionless point upon our eyes; it hypnotises the being -which it sways, and limits its susceptibility to a tiny circle of -sensations. It was impossible for the unhappy woman to have any feeling -whatever in respect of her son, because in her condition of lucid -aberration it was impossible for her to be sensible of his existence. - -The little boy was raised on a high chair, and had that morning on his -face the sad, and at the same time perplexed expression of a child that -grieves without knowing why. A depth of undefined sorrow was in his -eyes; his father was aware, merely by observing the way in which he ate -with the tips of his teeth, that a hidden trouble was tormenting this -curly head. - -"Have you not been good this morning," he said to him, "that you are so -sad?" - -"Yes, I have been good," Henry replied, and was again silent; then -suddenly he said: "Papa, what does 'to prejudice' mean?" - -"It is a wrong done to a person unjustly. But why do you ask me that?" - -"Because Miette said the other day that someone had prejudiced her uncle -against her cousin." This expression, heard for the first time, and only -half understood, had struck his childish imagination, and he went on: -"Could anyone prejudice you or mamma against me?" - -"What notions are you taking into your head?" replied the father. - -He had just become sensible that his son was himself perceiving the -change in his mother's disposition. He looked at him, and felt that -inclination to weep which comes upon a widower at the sight of his -orphan child--a poor little thing who has lost the greatest of earthly -blessings, who does not suspect this, but who nevertheless forebodes and -guesses irretrievable misfortune. Father and son preserved silence, when -through the dining-room door, which had been left open, was heard a -voice, Helen's voice, completing an order to a workwoman. "For nine -o'clock then, punctually." She was engaged about her ball-dress. She was -not there where her glance, her smile, would have cast such a ray of -joy, and Alfred reflected upon the incomprehensible, and at the same -time unconquerable disaster which had brought them all there, himself, -his son, and his wife--especially his wife. Heavens! what was the matter -with her? - -He was still thinking of this many hours later, in the brougham that was -taking them both in the direction of the Rue du Bac, where the Malhoures -lived. She was in the corner of the carriage, with powdered hair and two -patches at the corner of her thin, pale cheek. The powder, and the -patches, and the dark touches that she had put round her eyes, in which -the flame of fever was burning, imparted to her beauty something -dangerous, and disquieting, and more inaccessible than ever to the man -who was sitting by her side, and looking at her without venturing to -speak. - -Her neck, mobile and graceful, issued from the furs which hid her -disguise as a flower-girl of the time of Louis XV. She wore pink silk -stockings, pink satin shoes, a flowered skirt, and in her soul was the -mortal blending of frenzy and despair of a woman who would ruin herself -with delight, for nothing--for the sake of being ruined and ruined for -ever! Through the brougham windows, the glass of which she had let down -in order to inhale something of the keen night air, she watched the -houses filing past, and the picture presented by Paris after the toils -of the day. The shops were flaming on the ground floor; the cafés were -opening their doors to customers; the wind was sending a quiver through -the gas flames that outlined the notices of the theatres. Along the -Boulevards, as in the Avenue de l'Opéra and in the Rue des Tuileries, -there was a moving crowd. - -Of what was this crowd in quest? Of pleasure, and of nothing but -pleasure. _She_ had pursued an ideal which had proved most false! It was -time to live like the rest. A woman's amusement consists of coquetry, of -intrigue. She would be a coquette. She would have lovers--yes, lovers. -She repeated these words, in thought, with strange passion, for the face -of the man she had loved had just appeared again before her -recollection, and with it the unbearable palpitation of the heart had -begun again. Ah! between that face and herself, between that memory and -her heart, she would put other faces, other memories! - -Yet, how he had mocked her! She now at certain moments felt a genuine -hatred towards him. By a sort of backward crystallisation, she -multiplied reasons for animosity round the thought of Armand that she -bore in her mind, and she calumniated him fiercely on her own behalf. -Did not his whole behaviour towards her bear the stamp of abominable and -daily calculation? When he had entreated her to be his under the -pretence that he would not believe in her love without this proof, was -it not that he would not fail where another had succeeded? Was it true -even that Alfred was jealous? This was doubtless a pretext devised for -the purpose of bringing about a rupture. And how carefully he had kept -the name of Varades to himself, to throw it into his mistress's teeth -only at the last moment, without giving her time to justify herself! She -ought to have spoken, to have looked for old letters, to have found some -testimony. But why? Would he have believed her for an instant? And -bruising herself afresh against the poisoned point of injustice, she -detested all men in this man, she envied those who mock the hateful -race, the jades who take the initiative in this duel of distrust and are -the first to betray. How glad she would be to have been one of them, to -have really had a dozen intrigues before that one with Armand, and to be -able to tell him so, and to degrade herself and him, and to pollute -everything within her and about her, her soul and her body, with a -pollution such as no water could wash away. - -She was enduring, while in this carriage, one of those tempests of -passion which she had to pass through several times in the day, and -especially at night, for she had not slept two hours out of the -twenty-four during the past three weeks. It was as though a tide of -bitterness were rising within her, and the whirling of her thoughts -became so rapid that all idea of ambient things was blotted out from her -consciousness; and she did not emerge from her dream until some -inevitable detail compelled her to action, such as Alfred's hand shaking -her arm as the brougham stopped, and his voice saying to her: "We have -arrived." The stupor of an awakening from sleep showed in her eyes, and -she recognised the Malhoures' gate. - -The house stood at the back of a courtyard and was one of those old -mansions such as are still found in that part of the Faubourg -Saint-Germain, with views behind over vast stretches of garden, while in -front there is the narrow, populous, noisy street. The house was let in -floors, and the Malhoures occupied the second. The lofty windows were -gleaming, and the shadows of the various couples were thrown in black, -moving silhouettes upon the luminous glass. Old Malhoure, as he was -familiarly called, was a professor in the École Polytechnique, a member -of the Institute, and tolerably rich by inheritance from his father, the -celebrated inventor. He had three marriageable daughters, and received -every Wednesday. Twice a year he gave a fancy dress dance. On these -evenings a general clearance was made. All the rooms, even the -_savant's_ study, were in requisition for the entertainment, and -although they were large and lofty apartments, they scarcely sufficed -for the number of the guests. - -People used to visit the Malhoures a great deal. Their house was in the -first place a centre of reunion for the great professor's former pupils -who were separated by their modes of life; intrigue also went on behind -the doors with important personages of the Academy of Sciences; finally -people were amused by the youthfulness of the three young ladies and the -good nature of their father, whose appearance--a legendary one in the -École--was in itself an element of mirth. He was huge and short, with -eyes hidden behind blue spectacles, a beard collar of greenish-white, -clothes of extraordinary cut, and a continual nodding of the head. -Though he presented this figure, it was pretended that the old man had -once been a lady's man, a gay dog, as the students used to say -facetiously to one another. At twenty-two, he had discovered a theorem, -which bore his name, and since then he had multiplied treatises after -treatises. When, wearied by fourteen hours of work, he went out in the -evening, he used to follow the young workwomen in the Quartier de -l'Observatoire, where he then lived. He used to heap up engaging offers -to entice them, but he was so ugly--so ugly--that they laughed -impudently in his face. The savant used to look round him to make sure -he was not heard, and then murmur as a supreme argument: - -"I am Malhoure, the inventor of the theorem!" - -After his marriage he had grown somewhat religious, but he had remained -very cheerful, especially when he had discovered some particularly -elegant formula during the day. Such was doubtless the case that -evening, for he was standing on the threshold receiving the guests with -his most cordial smile, although he did not recognise one person out of -ten; he had no memory for faces. By his side, and grumbling, was his -intimate friend, Professor Moreau, a calculator long and lean, and as -great a pessimist as Malhoure was an optimist. Just as Madame Chazel -reached the landing, and while she was leaving her furs in the care of -the servant, the two professors were speaking of a lady who had just -passed, wearing a dress as outrageously low as she herself was faded, -and old Malhoure was saying to his friend: - -"Well, geometry does not grow old. The square of the hypotenuse is -always young." - -"For my own part," replied Moreau, "I can see whether a woman is -hump-backed or blind of an eye, whether she walks straight or is lame. -But what difference there is between ugliness and beauty I have never -been able to conceive." - -The piano was playing a quadrille, the din of the dance filled the -rooms, and Malhoure clasped both of Chazel's hands, taking him for some -one else, and calling him "My dear, my very dear Arthur." Helen was -looking, with strange feeling of envy, at the professors, whose -conversation she had just overheard. They at least would never know that -continuous, settled torture which brings with it incapacity for a -thought foreign to itself, for study, for reading, for conversation! - -But she was already in the hands of Madame Malhoure and her three -daughters, all four being equally unreasonable, and having no object -save that of amusing themselves. The mother was dressed as Catherine de -Médicis, and the three daughters as a gipsy, a milk-woman, and a -Cauchois peasant. Their costumes savoured of work done at home, and -fashioned with chance materials after the engravings of the illustrated -papers, and the same held good of the toilets worn by these ladies' -friends. The men, on their side, seemed uncomfortable in their black -coats; several looked like people who had to get up early in the -morning, and were computing that every call from the piano robbed them -of a little of their sleep. - -The talk that was flying about in the warm atmosphere was astonishing by -contrast. Fragments of frivolous phrases alternated with thoughtful -conversation. - -"Don't talk to me of these new theories about space that has more than -three dimensions--" - -"Have you danced much this winter, mademoiselle?--" - -"Ah! what a genius Cauchy had, what power of analysis!--" - -"Mamma, will you allow me to stay for the cotillon?--" - -Alfred Chazel had lighted upon one of his old companions, and was -communicating to him a long-cherished project of a new algebra--that, -namely, of order--and Helen, assailed by the effusiveness of the -Malhoure ladies, was telling herself that it had been scarcely worth -while to take trouble about her dress. Thanks to the education received -from her step-mother, and also to her talks with Monsieur de Querne, she -had acquired tolerably accurate ideas concerning society. She -comprehended the distinction that separates true assemblies of the world -from middle-class carnivals such as she was now present at. -Nevertheless, as she was charming in her pale blue and bright pink -costume, and could read the triumph of her beauty in the envious glances -of many women, and the admiring gaze of the men, she gave herself up of -set purpose to that sensation of success so intoxicating to feminine -pride, even when it is a success that is despised; and she proceeded to -dance every dance that she might exhaust the inward torture by physical -activity, and she desisted only to visit the refreshment room and drink -a little champagne. The wine sent a trifle of light and sparkling froth -to her head that was so wearied by excessive thought. - -She was standing thus beside the table in the refreshment room, fanning -herself with one hand, and holding in the other the cup containing the -last golden drops of the drink whose vague enervation was pleasant to -her; her partner, an insignificant and sufficiently correct young man, -who was quite proud of having promenaded with her on his arm, was trying -to talk; he was speaking of the new play, a middle-class comedy which -Monsieur de Querne had cruelly ridiculed one evening, and Helen was -replying with praise of a work which hitherto on her lover's authority -she had considered detestable. At the mere mention of the actors' names -and the title of the play, she could see herself in a box beside him, -and a flame coursed through her blood as she suddenly heard close to her -a voice that completed her emotion--that voice?--no, but the voice of -Monsieur de Varades, of the man who had exercised so fatal an influence -upon the destiny of her love, the voice of him whose name Armand had -flung in insult into her teeth during the scene of their rupture. By -what cruel mystery of fate was the officer here, almost within two steps -of her, and talking without appearing to see her? - -Had she been able to reflect for a moment she would have deemed the -presence of old Malhoure's former pupil as natural as her own. Was she -not at this ball as the wife of an old fellow-student of De Varades? She -would also have reflected that living for months and months, as she had -done, apart from the society frequented by her husband, she was ignorant -of the movements of Alfred's companions. But in her present state of -morbid over-excitement, this sudden meeting struck her with a sort of -almost terror-stricken stupor, which was immediately replaced by a fresh -sweep of her secret grief, of that maddening grief which made her long -to cry _Fire!_ and _Murder!_ - -Without paying any further attention to what her partner was saying, she -looked with devouring curiosity at De Varades as though she had not met -him for years. He was a handsome fellow, slenderly built, and muscular -all over. The contrast in colour between his hair, which had become -nearly white, and his moustache, which had remained very dark, gave a -singular aspect to his refined head. A low forehead, a hooked nose, eyes -that were somewhat too small and close together, and a flashing glance, -in which bravery and temerity could alike be read, caused his -countenance to be vaguely suggestive of the profile of a bird of prey. -The stiffness, as of a uniform, assumed by the officer's evening coat, -which he wore in a military style, was all that was further required to -single him out and render him remarkable in an assembly wherein the -wearied race of the men of desk and study was predominant. Since the -audacious attempt at Bourges, Helen had never seen this disquieting -individual coming towards her without feeling dimly uncomfortable, so -sensible was she that in him she had an enemy capable of anything. And -now, a prey to a maddening ulceration, she would on the contrary have -liked him to approach her, to pay her attentions as he did formerly. - -Yes, to pay her attentions, and she would not be childish and silly as -she had been before. In her misery and madness, she went so far as to -regret her former behaviour! She had been a loyal wife, and what had -this done for her? Only brought her to an hour when nothing in the world -remained to her save an incurable wound in the most sensitive portion of -her heart. She drank a few more drops of champagne in order to relieve -her thoughts, and De Varades, off whom she never took her eyes, turned -in her direction. Did he see her for the first time, or had he perhaps -affected not to notice her? He bowed and came to greet her, with the -expression at once ironical, respectful, and freezing, with which he -used to accost her at Bourges; and instead of replying to it, as she did -then, with equal coldness, she had a light in her eyes and a smile on -her lips. She held out her hand to him, and after the first polite -formulas, immediately asked: - -"Are you passing through Paris?" - -"No, madame, I am living here," he replied; "I was appointed professor -at the School of War four months ago." - -"Four months, and you have not come to see us?" she said in a -coquettishly reproachful tone of voice. - -"No, but I heard about you," replied the young man, and to himself: "How -Paris has changed her!" He detested her deeply, first because she had -wounded his pride, and then by reason of the infamous conduct of which -he had been guilty towards her. He had boasted of having been her lover, -giving details in proof; it was not true, and he could not forgive her -for the irreparable wrong that he had done her. Ah! if the calumny had -only been like those others that are stated aloud and that it is -possible to grasp! But no, it passes from ear to ear and from lip to lip -until it reaches a man who might have loved this woman, and whose heart -is stayed, suddenly paralysed by the terrible uncertainty concerning the -answer to the question: "Has she that in her past?" - -To the young officer's credit it must be said that he had not seen so -far. He had yielded to the hideous spite of masculine vanity, and it was -again this vanity which, on Helen's unexpected reception of him, -prompted him to murmur an interrogative "Eh?" and immediately to begin -again the love-comedy that had formerly been played. A waltz was -sounding--the waltz of _Faust_, for the second of the young Malhoure -ladies was at the piano, and she, the artist of the family, liked people -to dance to classical subjects, whereas the eldest and the youngest, who -prided themselves upon being regular Parisians, doted on popular music, -and airs from the operettas and musical cafés. - -"May I have the honour of this waltz, madame?" asked De Varades of -Helen. - -"Was I engaged or was I not?" said the latter. "So much the worse! I -restore you your liberty," she added, addressing the young man who had -accompanied her to the refreshment room, but who through timidity did -not venture to remind her of the promise she had given of dancing with -himself; and immediately she was whirling round in the ball-room in the -arms of De Varades. - -She was whirling round, prettier than ever with the feverish pink that -coloured her cheeks and imparted to them a tint similar to that of her -stockings, her skirt, and her corsage. The two patches at the corner of -her cheek, her black eyes, and her powdered hair, clothed her with a -sovereign grace that, apart from feelings of pride, stirred old longings -in the young man's heart. He was speaking to her while they danced. She -listened to him with--strange contrast!--Armand's image before her -thoughts. "If he could see me," she said to herself, "he would have -doubts no longer, he would triumph. Well! what does that matter to me?" - -This strange inclination to act exactly contrary to her inmost nature, -which, when light and artificial is called spite, was exalted in this -distempered soul to the pitch of aberration, and she listened with a -pleased smile to what De Varades said to her. The latter, clever enough -to discern that something extraordinary was going on in Madame Chazel's -mind, and too desirous of requital not to take advantage of the -opportunity, had again begun to speak to her of his feelings. In -passionate terms he depicted to her his despair at Bourges when he had -displeased her, his vain attempts at self-consolation, his resolve never -to marry for her sake; he gave her to understand that she was the only -woman he had ever loved, and that he had sought an appointment at Paris -solely that he might meet her again. Never had he dared to tell her so -much at the period of their early relationships, and before his brutal -assault. But to all these falsehoods, repeated over and over again -during this first waltz, then in the square dances which followed, and -then in the quietude of the cotillon which they danced together, she -responded by such slight interjections of doubt as encourage avowals. -She seemed to be delirious for coquetry; she spent upon this flirtation -of an evening the fever that was preying upon her. Thus, a few hours -later, the officer, on his return to his small abode in the Rue -Saint-Dominique--a suite of apartments of which only two were furnished, -the others being filled with uniforms, weapons, and big boots--swore -inwardly as he undressed that he would carry this affair through with a -high hand. From his grandfather, who had served under the Emperor, De -Varades inherited the maxim that everything, in all circumstances, -should be ventured with women. And so, when he laid his head upon his -pillow before going to sleep, he had resolved to essay the possession of -Madame Chazel, no matter where, even were it on the couch in her -drawing-room, at the risk of a servant's entrance. "And this time she -shall not escape. She told me she was always at home between two and -four. Till to-morrow," he added, and closed his eyes on the sweet hope -of repairing his former wrong. - -Poor Helen! While this man, anticipating the temerity with which frenzy -for injustice endured had inspired her, was falling asleep over his -dangerous plan, she herself was watching, a prey to those memories each -one of which was hurrying her to some act of madness. Her husband had -been unlucky enough to say to her on their return to the Rue de la -Rochefoucauld after the party at the Malhoures': - -"I thought you had quite an antipathy to Varades, and you danced with -scarcely anybody else." - -"Does that make you jealous?" she had asked him abruptly. - -"No," he had replied, "but how is it possible to change one's -disposition towards people in this way?" - -"I am what it pleases me to be," she had replied. - -She might at that moment have been forbidden to throw herself into the -water, and in her rage for contradiction, and to relieve her nerves, she -would have hastened to the Seine. On entering her room again, she felt -so unhappy that she did not even undress. She walked about in her ball -costume until morning, and the champagne she had drunk, the bewilderment -of the party, the fund of despair upon which her soul had been living -for so many hours, all united to confuse her understanding. - -"Yes," she said to herself at certain moments, "'tis he that I must have -and no other--for the time being," she added with such implacability in -the imagining of ill as at dark moments relieves the heart somewhat, -"and when I have done it, when I am low and in the mire, then perhaps I -shall forget, and then all this will be over, over, over." - -And when her soul recoiled at the wildness of this monstrous plan, then, -that she might resume her inclination for the shame to which she was -being dizzily impelled, she pictured Armand to herself, she saw him with -his eyes and his smile, she heard his voice: - -"Do you believe that I was not acquainted with your life?" - -"Ah!" she would then exclaim like a wounded creature uttering a cry, and -she would stretch herself upon her bed with that whirl in her sick brow -which was intolerable to her. - -In the morning she had an hour's heavy sleep, visited with nightmare. At -about nine o'clock she rose to attend to household affairs, as was her -habit, indolently and with soul roaming elsewhere. Extreme fatigue and, -as it were, a dying languor had taken possession of her. After breakfast -she went up to her room again, and, in spite of herself, her hands -opened the box containing Armand's letters. There were not fifteen--she -counted them--and the longest of them had but two pages. She read them -again, as she did nearly every day, and their aridity showed to her even -worse than on former occasions. Every phrase in these notes might have -been quoted without compromising her to whom the notes were addressed; -and so there was not one that might have been traced in a moment of -self-surrender, or to give passage to the overflowing of a heart. She -had believed formerly that he used to write to her in this way out of -regard for her peace, and she had been grateful to him for it. - -Fool! Fool! He wrote to her thus because he did not love her, because he -had never loved her, and why should he have loved her, judging of her as -he did? In his eyes, what was she? A woman like all the rest! Of what -did he not believe her capable? Of making use, perhaps, of his letters -against him? Her soul was bleeding again at every pore. Ah! what remedy -was there, what remedy?--and as she was asking herself this question for -the hundredth time the servant entered and inquired whether she would -see Monsieur de Varades. The officer had kept his word, and had not lost -a day in taking advantage of the permission to come and see her which -she had granted him. - -"Show him into the drawing-room," she said; suddenly the memory of -Armand's injustice awoke keener than before, and the crisis of sorrow -through which she had just been passing resulted in one of those rushes -of frenzy in which she really no longer knew what she was doing. She -went into her dressing-room. With a little water she removed the traces -of her tears, for at the times when she renewed, one by one, the details -of her wretchedness, she used to weep, almost without perceiving it, and -mad, as it were, through grief, she went down to the little -drawing-room. - -"How kind of you to come to keep me company!" she said, holding out her -hand to the young man. Voluntarily she made him sit down in the -arm-chair in front of her, the one in which Monsieur de Querne used -generally to sit. How he had lied to her in that place! How he had -misunderstood her! It seemed to her that she was taking vengeance upon -him at that moment by this profanation of their common memories. She -herself took a seat on the couch which stood obliquely against the -fireplace, in which the remnant of a fire was burning. She looked at De -Varades with eyes that did not see him, but he, as he began to talk, -watched her with much attention. The obvious wildness that she -displayed, the almost incoherent rapidity of her speech, the element of -nervelessness that was manifested in her laughter, in her gestures, in -the movements of her head, all evidenced a woman that was half beside -herself. - -The evening before De Varades had inwardly said in explanation of her -coquetry at the Malhoures' ball: "She wants to make some one jealous." -Then he had not discovered any one wearing towards her the countenance -of a wounded lover. In the twilight in the little drawing-room he said -to himself: "'Tis she who is jealous, and wishes to be revenged." -Insensibly he caused the conversation to glide upon the same slope as on -the previous evening; he spoke to her again of his despairing and -melancholy feelings. She listened to him almost without reply, with the -thought of the indignation that Armand would feel after all, if he could -see her at that moment. De Varades meanwhile was reasoning thus to -himself: - -"What do I risk? Being shown the door once again as at Bourges?" - -He made up his mind to take advantage of the disquiet which, as he could -see, possessed her, and he rose and seated himself on the couch by her -side, saying to her: - -"Ah! I loved you dearly!" - -She turned towards him with a delirious expression which he took for the -frenzy of spite, and he seized her in his arms. Was it that kind of -momentary aberration which at certain moments prompts us to the -performance of actions in which later on we fail to recognise ourselves? -Was it the domination of a distempered will by a will that was cold and -steady? To what extent did that frenzy for degradation, that madness for -her own ruin which had haunted this hapless soul the evening before, -enter into her weakness? The fact remains that she did not defend -herself against the young man's embrace. He grew more bold, and she was -completely his. Yes, in that very drawing-room where formerly she had -shrunk in horror from giving herself to the man she loved, she suffered -herself, alas! to be taken by a man whom she did not love, and the -latter was stupefied both by the ease of his victory and by the -corpse-like insensibility encountered in this unlooked-for mistress, of -whom he had not even been thinking twenty-four hours before. - - -De Varades had been gone for a long time, and evening was falling. Helen -had remained in the same place, seated in the same corner of the couch, -as though dead. The enormity of the event that had just come to pass had -suddenly dispersed the hallucination in which grief had been causing her -to live during the past few weeks. What! she was the mistress of -Monsieur de Varades--she, Helen Chazel! No, it was not true, seeing that -she loved Armand. Where was she? What had she done? Impelled by what -madness? - -And through the supreme horror by which she was possessed on finding -that she was alive, and that all was true, a sudden idea rose in her -mind, the idea of seeing Armand. Why? She could not have told exactly, -but the desire had swooped upon her, irresistible; she felt that it must -be done, and not on the morrow, not that evening, but immediately. She -must speak to him, were she to fly from her home in order to find him -wherever he might be. At all costs she would see him. Had he returned to -Paris? She would ascertain. In ten minutes she had put on a fashionable -dress and a bonnet, had called a cab, and shivering with fever in a -corner of it--how great a change from the day on which a similar vehicle -was conveying her to the meeting with her lover!--was proceeding to the -Rue Lincoln. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The cab went slowly along the streets, and every moment Helen said to -herself: "Shall I see him again?" She was now facing the irresistible -thought, the mere appearance of which had hurried her to the immediate -quest of Armand when she had barely emerged from her horrible delirium. -She must be able to cry to this man that he had ruined her. Yes, she -must do this, and he must at last believe her and understand the infamy -of his behaviour. She would say to her former lover: - -"I am Monsieur de Varades's mistress, and you are the cause of it--you, -your injustice, and your desertion." And how could the man help -believing her when she went on to say to him: "Before knowing you I was -pure." - -This indisputable proof of the genuineness of her love, this proof which -she had so greatly desired, she now held fast, and she would not let it -go. Would not her present sincerity be a guarantee of her past -sincerity? If she acknowledged the guilt of to-day, what motive of -modesty, hypocrisy or interest could prompt her to deny that of -yesterday? This strange reasoning appeared to her to carry with it a -sort of obviousness from which Armand could not escape. He would believe -her, and this should be her revenge. "But how will he receive me? Yet, -what does it matter? I will spit my misery and my shame, and his -responsibility for them, into his face." - -Her distempered soul found relief in the audacity of this plan. She -hated Armand now, she trembled lest he should be absent, lest he should -escape her. "Faster," she said several times to the driver. Would she -ever arrive soon enough? She recognised the smallest details of the -road--the road traversed with such lightness of heart the last time that -she had visited him! And the scene which she had been obliged to go -through showed in her mind still more terrible and clear. During that -scene she had been choked with indignation. She had been unable to make -any reply. He could not have believed her then, but he should believe -her now. She would show him what had been the drama of her existence for -months past. She would at last lay bare all her heart's hidden wounds. -She would make him touch with his finger the work of death that he had -wrought, and she would depart, leaving him, if he had any honour left, -at least this hideous remorse, this poisoned arrow in his conscience. -Then she thought: "In what condition shall I find him. What has he been -doing since our rupture?" - -At last the vehicle stopped at the corner of the Rue Lincoln and the -Champs-Élysées. In two minutes Helen had gained the door of Armand's -house. How her voice shook as she asked the porter: "Is Monsieur de -Querne at home?" How completely the affirmative reply upset her. She -hesitated for a second in spite of the resolve she had taken; then she -climbed the staircase with deliberate foot. Her hand pressed the bell -without hesitation. A servant's footstep became audible. The door -opened. It was no longer possible to draw back. - -What had Armand been doing during that period in which she had been in -the throes of despair? Had she known, even when in front of the open -door, disgust would perhaps have restrained her and drawn her back. She -would have fled in horror from the threshold of the abode to which she -had come in order to defend, not her person, not her happiness, but the -truth of her former love, as we defend the memory of the dead. - -The young man had spoken the truth in his note to Chazel. A ten days' -journey had brought him to an estate which he possessed close to -Nantes--the De Querne family came from this town--and he had stayed -there to arrange some business respecting farm rents. Then he had -returned to Paris, persuaded that the rupture was a final one, seeing -that during those ten days Helen had not hazarded any attempt at -reconciliation. - -By a contradiction in his nature, too usual with him to cause him -astonishment, these early moments had been melancholy ones. He was one -of those men who are moved by memories after having remained nearly -indifferent to the reality, who become enamoured of the women whom they -cast off, just as they regret the places of which they tired when living -in them--a restless race, who know nothing of the present but its -weariness, and for whom the past assumes a unique and affecting charm -from the mere fact that it is the past. - -Armand had never loved poor Helen; he applauded himself for breaking -with her as for an action that was most reasonable, regard being had to -his own interests, and withal exceedingly meritorious, seeing that he -had responded to Alfred's generosity with similar generosity; but -neither the grounds of interest nor those of merit could prevent him -from thinking with painful emotions of the sweet and dainty mistress who -after all had never deceived him except for the purpose of pleasing him -the more. To be sure he doubted less than ever that she had had that -first intrigue with De Varades at Bourges, of which Lucien Rieume had -spoken to him. What more evident token could there have been of this -than the manner in which she had received the accusation? Immediately -she had bowed her head, and had, as it were, collapsed beneath the -insult. - -But even though he had had two, three, four predecessors, by what right -had he been indignant against her? Had she not displayed during their -connexion all the loyalty of which such amours are capable? Had she ever -manifested so much as a trace of coquetry towards any one? Had she made -him jealous for but a single hour, with jealousy such as women of the -world, more abandoned in this than abandoned women themselves, do not -hesitate to inflict upon a lover, in order to gratify the pettiest -impulse of vanity, to please a man who has some claim or other to -celebrity or who has merely been noticed by another woman. No, Helen had -been perfect towards him. The consciousness of this pleased and at the -same time tormented him, for, if she flattered his pride, she also -rendered more present to him the faded charm of a love which he had not -been able to enjoy at the time when he dreaded its obligations. - -But what he regretted in Helen, even more than her gracious tenderness, -was her physical person. From the time that he had become her lover he -had, contrary to all his principles, remained entirely faithful to her, -and this fidelity increased in him the exactitude of the memory of the -senses. He could again see in thought the room in the Rue de Stockholm, -and on the pillow that refined head, its eyes laden with mysterious -voluptuousness. Slight and scarcely observed details recurred to him: a -certain fashion that she had of leaning her pretty face over him, the -aroma which hung about her kisses and their special flavour. - -A yearning then seized him, against which he employed the infallible -remedy to which he was accustomed. He felt that he must place between -Helen and himself bodily shapes that might afford his senses a pasture -of beauty, bosoms fit to serve for the modelling of cups, sinking -shoulders worthy of statues, supple hips, slender legs, and skilful -caresses. Such instruments of forgetfulness abound in first-class houses -of pleasure. The young man used them on this occasion, as on others, -even to excess, so that when Helen rang at the door in the Rue Lincoln, -she had come to be almost as great a stranger to him as though he had -never known her. - -He was turning over the leaves of a book, lying rather than sitting in -an easy-chair, and waiting until it should be time to dress in order to -rejoin some dinner companions at the club. He was in that condition of -pleasing weariness which heartless pleasure always brings to men who are -wise enough to ask nothing of women but the enjoyment of palpable -beauty. Helen and the intrigue of the previous months were, so far as he -was concerned, shrinking into a background that each day made more -inaccessible than before. It was another chapter to be added to the -others in the mournful romance of gallantry in the course of which his -feelings had been exhausted without being expended. - -Already, as he thought about it, he had ceased to feel anything more -than a sick spot in his heart. He was sorry for having so greatly -misunderstood Chazel, but a satisfied conscience softened this sorrow. -Had he not unhesitatingly sacrified to his friend's confidence all the -pleasure that his intrigue might still have brought him? Accordingly, he -experienced the most disagreeable of surprises when, after being -informed by his servant that a lady wished to speak to him, he saw -Helen. She had not taken the trouble to put on a veil. He perceived at a -glance her wasted countenance, her discoloured eyes, her bright and -steady gaze, her bitter lips. Mechanically, he pushed an arm-chair -towards her, which she declined. - -"It is not worth while," she said, "what I have to say to you will not -take long. I shall not take up much of your time." - -"Well," he thought to himself, "another scene. It shall be the last." - -The complete absence of physical desire resulting from his recent -debauches, made him singularly dry and hard. He reflected that it had -been very stupid on his part not to close his door against her, and he -forthwith determined to enter into no explanations, and to keep her at a -distance by the employment of the most commonplace politeness. - -"I feel quite put out," he said to her, just as though there had never -been anything but the most official relations between them; "I ought to -have called on you after my return, and then a dozen wretched trifles -prevented me. You know how it is when one is on the point of going away. -I expect to be in London towards the end of the month." - -"Do not trouble yourself to make excuses," Helen interrupted, shrugging -her shoulders; "what is the use? Why should you have come? To avoid -compromising me? I will dispense with such delicacy on your part. To -tell me again that you do not love me, and have never loved me, and to -see me suffer? You are not a monster. All that you had to tell me you -told me. Do not be afraid," she added with a nerveless smile, "it is not -to resume our former conversation that I am here." - -She paused as though the words that she was about to utter were already -burning her lips, the lips parched by so many feverish nights. She had -spoken in so bitter and withal so grave a voice that the young man felt -a pang. On seeing her again he had expected a pleading scene, the eager -appeal of a forsaken mistress who entreats for but a day of the old -happiness, and the solemnity of Helen's accents heralded a prayerless, -hopeless revelation, tidings such as to her appeared of tragic -importance. Was she going to tell him that she was pregnant? Or had she -in an hour of wildness confessed everything to her husband? She remained -silent, and it was his turn to be impatient. - -"Speak," he said, "I am listening to you." - -"In that last conversation, which once more I have no wish to resume," -she went on, "you told me that you were acquainted with my life. You -even entered into particulars by mentioning a name, the name of Monsieur -de Varades. You asserted that this man had been my lover." - -"I told you what had been told to me," he said with emphasis. - -"And that you believed it?" she questioned. - -"As people do believe such things," he returned; "you misunderstood me, -or else I expressed myself badly, very badly." And he thought: "She is -going to produce some letter or other from her pocket, witnessing to De -Varades's deep respect for her." He recollected having written similar -letters to former mistresses, to be shown to one having special -privileges. "A foolish discussion," he sighed to himself, "but how is it -to be avoided?" - -"Well," she retorted with strange energy, "if you are told that now, you -may believe it, and reply that you have it from a sure source." And -looking at him with an air at once of triumph and of despair, she added: -"I am Monsieur de Varades's mistress, do you hear?" And she repeated: "I -am Monsieur de Varades's mistress." - -Armand listened to her repetition of these words by which she was -inflicting dishonour upon herself, and his feeling was one rather of -pain than of sorrow. It appeared to him as well piteous as insane that, -impelled by some sickly appetite for drama and emotion, she should thus -come and tell him of the renewal of her amour with her former lover. On -the other hand, he had not, at the period of his first suspicions, been -in possession of an absolute, indisputable assurance respecting the -guilty nature of the relations between Helen and De Varades, and now she -had come to denounce herself to him in so brutal a fashion that he could -not help feeling a spasm of base jealousy; and he replied with -involuntary abruptness: - -"You are perfectly free; how do you think that concerns me? Unless," he -added, cruelly, "I can be of use to you?" - -"Don't play the wit," she went on more violently still. "You owe it to -me to listen to me; the least a man can do is to listen to the woman he -has ruined. For you have ruined me; yes, you, and I wish you to know it. -Ah! you thought that I was lying, that I was showing off to please you, -when I told you that I had never had a lover before yourself; will you -believe me now when I tell you in the same breath that I am to-day -Monsieur de Varades's mistress, and that I was not so before? I have met -him again, and I have given myself to him. Do not ask me why, but it is -a fact. You see that I am not seeking to play a part, that I am not -afraid of your contempt, that I have not come to renew relations with -you; but it is equally true that I have degraded and polluted all that -is in me. And when I gave myself to you I was so pure! I had nothing, -nothing on my conscience! I had kept myself for you alone, as though I -had known that I was one day to meet you. Ah! that is what I want you to -know. A woman who accuses herself as I am doing now has nothing left to -be careful about, has she? Why should I lie to you now? Tell me, why? -You will be forced to believe me, and you will say to yourself: 'I was -her first love; she did not deny herself because she loved me. She loved -me as man dreams of being loved, with her whole heart, her whole being, -and not in the present merely, but in the past. And see what I have made -of the woman who loved me thus--a creature who has ceased to believe in -anything or respect anything, who has taken a fresh lover in caprice, -who will take a second and a third--a ruined woman.' Yes, once more, it -is you who have ruined me, and I want, I want you to know it, and it -will be my revenge that you will never more be able to doubt it. Ruined! -Ruined! You have ruined me--you! you! you!" - -She had hurled forth these words in a panting voice, drawing closer to -Armand as she went on in a convulsion of frenzy, and in the tone of her -voice, in her looks, in the whole of her agitated person, there was that -levelling power of truth against which doubt in vain tries to stand. The -kind of frightful, dishonouring proof of her former purity resting upon -the cynical avowal of her present infamy became irrefutable through the -evident exaltation which possessed her and which did not suffer her to -conceal anything in her thoughts. But what rendered this reasoning still -more decisive to the man listening to the miserable confession with a -blending of astonishment and terror, was the sudden crisis of emotion -wrought in her after she had spoken. Passion, sated by this frantic -utterance, suddenly gave way to despair. All at once she looked at -Armand with eyes in which the flush of indignation was drowned in tears, -and uttering a shriek she sank upon the floor. - -There, stretched at length, she began to moan. It was a slow, continuous -sob, the dull, uniform wail of a dying creature. It came up, up to -Armand, and this supreme wail gathered into itself the echoes of all the -wails that she had stifled, of all the sighs that had been checked on -the margin of her heart. It was the throes of many days breathed forth -in a last appeal. If on coming into contact with Alfred's distress, -Armand had experienced an irresistible feeling of sorrowful humanity, -how much the more and with how much greater power was he visited with -this feeling now, on coming into contact with the distress of the woman -lying thus on the ground? The frail and potent tie which had united him -to this vanquished being, the unconquerable tie of mutual -voluptuousness, suddenly bound him to her anew. He believed that he had -forgotten her, and here, beneath the two-fold influence of unconscious -jealousy and physical pity, he was again finding within himself feelings -of which he had deemed himself no longer capable. A passionate impulse -prompted him to fling himself upon his knees, and he strove to raise her -as though she had been his mistress still. - -"Helen," he said, "recover yourself. In pity to me do not weep in this -way. Stand up." - -She obeyed, and slowly turned towards him her swimming eyes and parted -lips. An expression of unspeakable gratitude passed across her mournful -countenance. He seated her in an arm-chair, placing himself at her feet -to wipe away her tears. Then she was able to speak again. - -"Ah!" she said, "all is over--over! Ah! never again--! You do not know, -Armand, how I loved you, how I love you. Ah! why have I done what I did? -You see, I was like a madwoman. I could do nothing, I could do nothing -but love you. You were my whole life, my whole faith, all that to me was -noble and good. And then, suddenly, it all failed me! I have suffered so -greatly! I could always hear you saying those frightful words to me. It -was like a knife turning every moment in my heart. I wanted to forget -you, to forget myself, to destroy everything, unhappy woman! What have I -done? Why did I not come to entreat you to take me back again, to -believe in me? I should have found words to convince you. Now, all is -over. Do not touch me; I loathe myself." - -And she freed herself, and repulsed him. He perceived that she had just -seen the other, her new lover. Then she went on passionately: - -"No! tormentor! tormentor! 'Tis your fault. Yes, 'tis you who flung me -there. Had you any right to treat me so? Answer. What wrong had I done -you? When had I deceived you? Why did you doubt me? No, my love. 'Tis -you who are so good, so kind, whom I love so much. Forgive me! Forgive -me! Grief is killing me!" - -Thus she lamented, revealing by the reciprocation of her alternately -reviling and loving utterances the incoherence of the feelings whose -tempest was shaking her. Then came relief from this frenzy, and she -said: - -"Let me weep a little. It eases me. Do not speak to me. Presently." - -And he left her side. How powerless he felt in presence of this outbreak -of despair. He began to pace backwards and forwards in the room, which -was being invaded by the melancholy of the twilight; and Helen's sobbing -had grown quite humble now, quite low, almost like that of a little -girl. Instead of the frantic rebellion that there had been at first, -there was a long sigh, ceaselessly broken and ceaselessly resumed, which -completed the young man's perturbation. He no longer tried to comfort -her, and he tried no more to contest the cruel evidence that had become -fixed within him, never more to leave him. Pity for such agony, -shivering horror at such irretrievable pollution, and the sight of the -cruel injustice which he had committed, blended together to torture him. -But what more than all beside overwhelmed him, and laid upon his heart a -weight which he could feel would thenceforward be irremovable, was the -feeling of his own terrible responsibility for the ruin of this woman. -What! it was through knowing him and loving him that the unhappy woman -had sunk so low! Helen's instinct had not deceived her; he could doubt -no longer. He believed her, and in all respects. He believed that she -had really loved him. He believed that before meeting him she had been -pure. He believed that frenzy at an iniquitous desertion had led her so -far astray as to throw her into the arms of another, and that he, -Armand, was the cause, the sole cause of it all. He continued to walk up -and down, and every time that he turned to retrace his steps he could -see between the dismally lighted windows that sunken form, that face -standing out so pale against the background of shadow! What had become -of his indifference before Helen's entrance? And his power of negation, -what had he done with it? People do not dispute with a death-rattle, and -he had been present at the death of a soul. It was too true that she -asked for nothing and wished for nothing, unless that he should see her -heart laid bare; he had seen it, he saw it still and the blood that -flowed from the wound inflicted by himself. How long did they continue -thus without speaking, he still walking, and she still weeping? In the -end he went up to her, took her hand with a shudder at feeling this -soft, damp, cold hand, raised it to his lips, and let fall upon it the -first tears that he had shed for years. In the depths of the abyss of -despair in which she was lying, she could still find pity for her -tormentor's tears. "Do not weep," she said to him, and drawing him to -her, she passionately covered his face with kisses. He could feel -burning lips traverse his eyes, his brow, his mouth. Then she disengaged -herself from him. She rose. Once again had she just seen the other. - -"Ah," she exclaimed, in anguish, "I cannot even comfort you now. -Good-bye, good-bye," she repeated, "and this time it is good-bye for -ever." - -She passed her hands over the young man's hair, and over his face, as -though to convince herself of the real existence of the countenance she -had loved so dearly, and then she broke away, hastening towards the -door. - -"Where are you going?" he asked her. - -"I am flying from you," she said wildly, and already she was out of the -room. - -The outer door had closed after her and he had not found energy enough -to follow her. He remained standing on the spot where she had left him, -as though he had been smitten with a stroke of paralysis. A terrible -dread suddenly sent an icy shiver through his whole body. What if Helen -in the frenzy of her despair had fled from his house in order to kill -herself? For a moment he had before his eyes a horrible -hallucination--the shadow of a quay, the great, dim, moving sheet of -river, and a woman's body rolled along in the icy water. In his turn he -rushed away. He descended the staircase four steps at a time. On the -footpath there was a woman going in the direction of the Champs -Élysées. He hurried after her. It was not she. He reached the Avenue, -which was filled with a swarm of passengers and vehicles. How could he -find her in such a crowd? How guess in what direction the unhappy woman -had fled. A drizzling rain was falling. He hailed several cabs in vain, -and not until he had reached the crossways could he stop one. He gave -the driver the address in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, and on the way -he, too, knew an anguish driven to the point of madness. But he was -already at the foot of the street and in front of the little house. It -was with a trembling of his entire heart that he drew the bell at the -door, and asked the servant whether Madame Chazel had come in. On -hearing the man's affirmative reply he nearly fell to the ground in the -excess of his emotion. And forthwith--for the play of the passions -constantly causes us to conflict with these countless trifles of -existence--he felt like a fool in presence of the man, who stood aside -to let him pass. How could he endure Helen's presence at that moment, -or, more than all, Alfred's? He stammered out a sentence alleging that -he had forgotten a piece of business, and saying that he would return in -the evening. He threw himself again into his cab. - -"The thought of her son has saved her!" he said to himself. "I am at -least not a murderer!" - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -A few days after this scene, Armand sent Chazel a letter dated from -London in which he made his excuses for not shaking hands with his -friends before his final departure. To set foot again in the little -house in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, to see again the two beings whose -lives he had broken, but who both had nevertheless only words of trust -or forgiveness for him, to be present once more at those moral throes -whose every sigh echoed in intolerable fashion to the very depths of his -soul--this effort had been beyond his actual energy. He had said to -himself when thinking on the one hand of Alfred's probable melancholy, -and on the other, of Helen and of the life that she would lead amid such -a bankruptcy of all modesty and feeling: - -"It is horrible, but I cannot help it. I must forget it." - -And to put petty facts, in accordance with one of his favourite maxims, -between himself and his grief, he had hastened his journey to England. -During the years of his cruelly idle and empty life, he had done his -best to beguile weariness by cosmopolitan wanderings. He had thus formed -three or four social centres for himself through Europe. In London, -especially, he had a life ready made, rooms in Bolton Street, off -Piccadilly, two clubs in which to find hospitality, and twenty houses in -which to be received as a friend. But this year, when settled as usual -in the three furnished apartments reserved for him, he felt incapable of -entering immediately upon the whirl of society. "I will leave my cards -in a few days," he said to himself. - -The few days passed by, and he had the same repugnance to seeing his -acquaintances again. He allowed a week to glide away in this manner, two -weeks, three, and he continued to experience an unconquerable aversion -to all conversation and all friendly meeting, to all things and all -persons. He went so far as to walk only in the evening, the more surely -to evade the human face. If he went out in daylight, it was to take one -of those two-wheeled cabs, the driver of which is perched high up -behind, and the horse in which trots so quickly. - -Without an object, he had himself driven at random through the -interminable streets of the huge city. Small, dark houses succeeded to -small, dark houses, squares with railings and miserable trees, open -spaces with discoloured statues, and boundless parks with herbage -browsed by flocks, opened up at distant intervals. Over the monstrous -ant-hill extended the vault of a sooty sky. Sometimes the said sky was -wholly drowned in a yellow fog; at other times the mist broke in pelting -rain, or else there was a dim, cold azure in which coal-dust seemed to -be floating. A population was hurrying along these streets, but Armand -did not recognise a single face, and he would go on thus for whole -hours, alone with his thought as when he awoke, and dressed, and -ate--with that thought which was always present and was always similar -to itself. - -And what was it that was shown him by this fixed and torturing thought? -Unceasingly, unceasingly Helen, and the terrible confession during their -last interview showed itself in all its details, and he could see the -act which she had avowed in terms so pitilessly precise and clear. She -was evoked before him in the arms of De Varades; for he told himself -that after the first crisis of despair she must have relapsed again, and -the vision inflicted upon him a feeling which he again compared to a -weight upon his heart, crushing it with sadness. - -This dull weight had descended upon it on the day when she had lamented -so tragically in the drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln. And, as on that -occasion, he endured an unbearable oppression in knowing himself to be -the cause of this woman's misery. After the present intrigue with De -Varades, doubtless she would have others. Is there ever a check on that -slippery incline which leads from the second lover to the tenth? When -the habit and power of self-respect, that unique principle of all -dignity, has been lost, what dike can be opposed to the invading flood -of temptation and curiosity? Helen was beautiful and would be courted. -Her successive falls occurred by anticipation now beneath his eyes, he -could do nothing to prevent them, and it was he, as she had exclaimed -through her tears, it was he who had ruined her. - -In presence of the image of this woman's life, he felt as though set -over against a being for whom he had poured out poison with his own -hands. The mortal discomposure of the face, the cold sweat, the terrible -convulsions, how could these be prevented when the fatal drug was -flowing in her blood? The venom of adultery with which he had infected -this creature would accomplish its work of destruction. What excuse had -he for having done this? None, seeing that he had taken her without -loving her. Yes, if only he had loved her, if he had repaid her a little -happiness in exchange for the gift of her person! - -But to the inevitable humiliation of guilt he had united another ground -of humiliation, namely, the most cruel disillusion. Of a child rich in -hopes, and led astray by a generous seeking after the most elevated -feelings, what had he made? One undeceived and in quest of -forgetfulness. What would she be in a year, and then in another year, -and in yet another? He repeated the celebrated phrase: "_All the -perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand._" And he bent -beneath the weight of remorse, a weight so heavy, ah! so cruelly heavy, -that he was rendered incapable of any experience save that overwhelming, -continuous crushing beneath the thought of the act committed. - -"What an absurd machine man is," he thought, "and what contemptible -weakness this distress! To justify such remorse I should of necessity be -guilty, that is so say, responsible and free. Is not freedom an empty -word, as also in consequence good and evil, virtue and vice?" - -He had thought much on these questions in his youth, and had allowed as -accurate the chief modern arguments against the freedom of the will. He -studied himself that, by applying them to his own case, he might destroy -the moral misery that affected him. - -"What am I?" he went on; "the product of a certain heredity placed in a -certain environment. The circumstances once given, I could not but feel -as I felt, think as I thought, desire as I desired." - -And he decomposed his own personality into its elements, as he had done -only too often in his periods of "Hamletism," as he called his analytic -crises of inward paralysis. He recognised the first beginning of his -egotism in the absence of family life; he took cognisance of the fact -that college life had too early polluted his imagination, and the sight -of the slaughter in the civil war too early awaked his misanthropy. He -could see himself losing his religious faith by precocious reading, -becoming uninterested in all ambition for lack of a cause in which he -could believe, and because he was rich enough to live without a -profession. Then he watched the long, useless, and fatal series of his -love experiences unfold itself down to the hour when he had met Madame -Chazel. - -"How could I have judged of her otherwise than I did?" he went on. "She -in a measure threw herself at my head. Could I understand that this was -the madness of a romantic, irrational, but sincere nature? I thought she -was a woman like the rest. I thought so, and it was inevitable that I -should think so." - -He thrust the words expressive of necessity--"it was inevitable"--into -his heart, like a lever wherewith he might raise the weight of his -remorse, but the weight continued there still. His striving was in vain; -something within him that was stronger than himself constrained him to -consider himself the author of this woman's ruin. - -Then he exerted himself to devise some other process of alleviation. He -reverted in imagination to all the halting-places in their mutual -intrigue, and he passed along this road of perdition seeking for the -crossways, the moments when he might have entered and caused her to -enter upon a different route. Why during the first few weeks of the -Chazels' stay in Paris had he, when walking with Helen, taken pains to -assume a sentimental attitude towards her? That he might appeal to her -thoughts and influence them to curiosity. Could he have helped it? "No," -he replied, angrily; "seduction is a part of my nature, as the chase is -of the nature of a greyhound." - -A moment had come when he had perceived that Helen was beginning to love -him. Could he then have withdrawn himself from her life? Yes, if he had -believed himself to be her first love. But does a man command himself to -believe this or that, to think in one way or another? What would he not -now have given to judge of Helen as he formerly did, and this was -impossible just as it had been impossible that he should judge of her -during that period as he did now! - -On the night before their first secret interview, he could again see -himself hesitating and on the point of writing her a truthful letter in -order to break with her before the irreparable hour had come. But could -he have prevented such or such an image from beleaguering his thought -and restraining his pen? - -During the few months of their union he had not loved her, and his lack -of feeling had martyred her! But is emotion to be commanded, and -tenderness? If he had broken brutally with her, this was a further -effect of the potency of ideas over the human will. The perception -within him of his friend's sorrow had been stronger than that of his -mistress's. He grasped as through a magnifying glass the internal -mechanism of which his actions had been the visible sign, the final -result; he buried himself in this minute examination of his past. - -It was all in vain. The weight of his remorse was still there. He -succeeded in convincing his intellect, and the conviction did not -relieve his heart. His conscience, as the vulgar phrase has it, was -tormenting him. But what is conscience other than an illusion? A stone -that has been thrown, and that feels itself rolling without even knowing -that a hand has thrown it, might also believe itself to be the cause of -its own motion. Its conscience might reproach it for the crushing of the -grass-blades in its path. Remorse might start up in it. - -"If I had a spectre before my eyes in consequence of an hallucination," -Armand concluded, "should I place credence in apparitions? I should tell -myself that I saw a spectre, an empty form, that the condition of my -bodily organs inflicted the obsession upon me, and that would be all. -Let me suffer from my spectre if it must be so, but let me not believe -in it." - -Granted! Good, evil, remorse, conscience, freedom--all so many unreal -apparitions, so many bodiless shadows! But there was indisputable -reality in the ruin of a soul, and in the fact that a dreadful destiny -had made him the instrument of its ruin. A ruined soul? There are then a -life and a death of souls, something that fosters them and something -that destroys them, after the manner of spiritual damnation and -salvation. Then he thought of Helen's soul before the final disaster, -all the episodes of their common past recurred simultaneously to him, -and he interpreted and understood them. - -Now that he knew the truth concerning her, and the extent to which he -had misjudged her, the pettiest facts in that past were possessed of -unlooked-for significance. The mute moments of his sad sweetheart, her -melancholy, her effusiveness, showed to him in turn, and each memory -revealed to him at once his own ingratitude and the strength of the -feeling that he had inspired. How living was then that woman's soul! How -noble even in guilt! What richness in its sensibility! What fulness in -its emotions! What depth in its sorrow, and what magnificence in its -striving after an inaccessible happiness! And now, in the same soul, -what ineffaceable pollution! - -His reflections turned upon Alfred, and he recalled his last -conversation with the man he had so unworthily deceived. He too -possessed a living soul whence gushed, as from kindly springs, -tenderness and loyalty, all the forces of belief and love. Then Armand -directed his thought to himself: "Ah! It is I," he said, "I who have the -dead soul!" - -He retraced the course of his youth. He saw himself young and incapable -of devoting his activity to an ideal faith, a libertine incapable of -steadying his heart upon a passion--powerless for self-surrender, -belief, love! He went over the fatal list which had been drawn up -certainly no less by his vanity as a seducer than by his curiosity as a -debauchee. He sought again the names and countenances of the women who -had given themselves to him, from those who had been his in rooms of -infamy, where the mirrors of alcove and ceiling multiply the whiteness -of naked charms, to those whom he had possessed in modesty and who -required that endearments should be shrouded in the shadow of lowered -curtains. What had he made of the first and of the second, of the -impassioned and of the venal, of the romantic and of the depraved, of -little Aline and of Juliette, of Madame de Rugle and of Helen? -Instruments of sensation and nothing more. Could he remember a single -one to whom he had been good and helpful, and who was the better for -having known him? The prostitutes he had caused to commit an act of -prostitution among a thousand others. The adulteresses had lied once -more for him. His soul had not only been dead; it had spread around it -the infection of its own essential death. With his keen intellect, his -rare imagination, and all the implements of superiority that fortune had -placed in his hands, what work had he been accomplishing since his -youth? And all was to end in the moral assassination of a woman who had -believed in him! - -Then the weight increased in heaviness and he strove anew. - -"Life and death of the soul! Words! Words! A trifling cerebral -alteration and the soul is changed. The microscope would reveal the -slight disposition of cells which has it that I have never loved. But -why," he added "does this soul live by means of certain ideas and die -through others? Why? I do not know, and there are many other things that -I do not know. I talk of the brain. What is the brain? It is matter. And -what is matter? No one knows, no one understands. What is the use of -asking: Why this or why that? There is but one question: Why anything? -And the only thing we really know is that we shall never be able to -answer that question." - -He perceived the gulf of mystery, the abyss of the unknowable which -science shows to be at the basis of all thought and of all existence. -Beneath the problem of his own particular destiny, he touched upon the -problem of all destiny, and his moral pain was so intense that he felt a -temptation to interpret, in a consolatory sense, the mystery wherein he -felt drowned. Why should not the key to this enigma of life, -undecipherable by reason according to reason's own avowal, be one of -salvation, a key that should redeem the universal distress here below, -that should restore life to dead souls such as his own soul, and deep -peace to tortured consciences such as his own conscience? Why should -there not be a heart like to our own hearts and capable of pitying us at -the centre of that nature which has nevertheless produced us, us with -our bitter or tender manner of feeling, with our appetite for the ideal -and our infirmities, with our greatness and our depravity? - -"But then," he reflected, "God would exist. I might throw myself upon my -knees now in this hour of suffering, and say, 'Our Father, which art in -heaven.' Our Father!" - -When the young man had reached this stage in his reasonings, tears rose -to his eyes. He who had known neither father nor mother was caused -unspeakable emotion by this single phrase of the sublime prayer. - -Then he immediately grew steady again. Thoughts came to him that were -stronger than such mystic effusion. He was disputing with his intellect -against his heart, and his intellect was always victorious. The -objections to a belief in God, drawn from the existence of evil, took -shape before him. How reconcile a Father's goodness with that law of -reversion which wills it that the sins of some shall fall ceaselessly -upon others? Of Helen and himself, which was guilty? Himself. Which of -the two had committed a crime in love? Himself, by seducing this woman -without loving her, solely to satisfy a whim of pride, weariness, and -sensuality. Who was punished? Helen. Of the latter and Alfred, who was -guilty? Helen. Who suffered? Alfred. Thus the sin of each, if there be -sin, bears its poisonous fruit in the soul of another, and the same -solidarity governs all the relations of men among themselves. The sons -atone for the fathers, the just for the wicked, the innocent for the -guilty! Ah! how is it possible, in presence of this uninterrupted -transmission of misery, to believe in the existence of a principle of -justice and goodness in that obscurity beyond the day? - -"No," said Armand to himself, "just as errors are produced by the -combined necessities of circumstances and temperaments, so are the -consequences of these acts distributed at random--at least on earth." - -The mystic effusion then returned: "On earth? Can there be then another -world whereof this is but the symbol or the preparation? But how can any -link subsist between this and that? How can any help come in hours of -distress? Ah! if He were a heavenly Father, would not all suffering be -in his sight a prayer?" - -Through the tumult of all these contradictory thoughts, the unhappy man -perceived that grand, unique problem of human life which religion alone -can solve, that of knowing whether beyond our limited days, our brief -sensations, our fleeting actions, there be something which does not pass -away, and which can satisfy our hunger and thirst for the infinite. -Armand was perhaps to become religious again some day; at the present -moment he was not so, and he answered himself: - -"If there be nothing, why this terrible remorse? If there be something, -why am I unable either to conceive it with my intellect or to feel it -with my heart? How can I put an end to this unbearable anguish? How -raise the weight that is stifling me?" - -The principal incidents during these gloomy days were some letters from -Alfred, filled with affection and with complaints about his wife's -health, the sadness of his home, his anxieties for the future. Helen -therefore continued to be unhappy. - -"Ah!" thought Armand, "it is possible that the words 'good' and 'evil,' -'soul' and 'God,' have no kind of meaning. For thousands of years -philosophers have been disputing inconclusively about them, and -religions have been succeeding to one another and crumbling away. I have -measured the impotence of reason and I have not faith. But there is need -neither of reason nor of faith to know whether human misery exists, and -to know that we ought to do everything to avoid being the cause of this -misery." - -We ought! As though we were free! But free or not, let us be sensible of -this misery and pity it! When the young man entered upon the new path of -pity, he experienced, not absolute relief from his remorse, but a sort -of despairing tenderness which at last moistened his heart. He pictured -Helen to himself when quite a little girl in a past such as her -confidences had revealed to him, and he pitied her for her sad childhood -and her oppressed youth. He pitied her for her marriage and for the -moral divorce which had separated her from Alfred. He pitied her for -having known himself, Armand, for the words that he had uttered to her -and which she had believed, for the kisses which he had asked of her and -which she had given him. But especially for that second fall, for that -frenzy which had thrown her into the arms of Varades did he passionately -pity her, and for all the errors into which this first error would draw -her. He pitied her for her birth, for her existence, for her subjection -to an unconquerable fate! - -He was now more sensible of her life than he had been in the days when -she had been his, lost in emotion on his breast. By a strange kind of -soul-transposition he suffered from the sorrows of a mistress whose joys -he had been unable to share. He abode in thought within that sick heart, -and the feeling of pity became so strong and full that it overflowed -from him upon all life. - -When in the evening he walked along the streets and reached the sinister -corners of the Haymarket and Regent Street, the sight of the girls of -different nationalities wandering there in all weathers moved him to the -bottom of his soul. They walked in their dark toilets and accosted the -passers-by in every idiom. There were tall, heavy Germans, delicate -Frenchwomen, and Englishwomen recognisable by faces that had often -retained an expression of purity. The majority were old, with fierce -gleaming in their gaze. What lamentable adventures--criminal ones, -perhaps--had cast these foreigners, far from their native lands and -beneath an ever-gloomy sky, upon the pavement of these streets, -pitilessly traversed by the busy work of commerce? And the young, with -profiles as of angels--for there were some such--how melancholy to see -them pushing open the bar-doors, and drinking large glasses of brandy at -a draught! They came out with a little colour on their cheeks and -resumed their pilgrimage of infamy, warmed by the draught of alcohol -against the rude climate, the sudden showers, the penetrating fog. - -Armand watched them going and coming, accosting this man, abusing that, -and talking among themselves. There was a whole populace of these lost -ones passing through the streets. Yes, lost ones, for nothing can save -them any more than the prostitutes of luxury who go in pursuit of men -with diamonds and horses, or the adulteresses, those victims of the -search for new sensations. Nothing can save them, for there is nothing -that can save! Sometimes, however, the young man chanced to pass in -front of temples and to remember that thousands of beings believe in a -Saviour. - -"But if I do not believe in Him," he asked himself, "is it my fault? A -true Saviour would be one who saved even the incredulous, even the -renegades, even the rebellious, even those who do not repent, seeing -that they are most to be pitied! No, there is no redemption, and Christ -has died in vain!" - -Then he perceived life as the work of blind and destructive necessity, -of an evil force impelling creatures to ruin one another. Prostitution -below, adultery above, such are the products of the noblest of human -feelings--love. Civilisation appeared to him as a huge orgie where the -dishes are more numerous, the wines more heating, the guests a larger -crowd; but on what mystic plate will the bread of ransom be found by -those hungering for forgiveness? Meanwhile the orgie hums and roars, the -women offer the fruit of their red lips, a colossal hymn of mirth -encompasses the intoxication, every moment one of those present rolls -beneath the table, thunder-smitten by death who takes his victims at -random; he is so quickly replaced by another that his disappearance is -not even noticed, and joy plays on every brow and laughs in every eye. -Joy? Yes, provided that no thought be given to one's own distress, and -further that one's own misery be endured with courage; but the misery of -another--when can we find courage to endure that when we are ourselves -its cause? And suddenly his visions would fade away, and his theories -and dreamings, to give place to the sole image of Helen in agony, or -else of Helen depraved, and of these two images Armand could not have -told which tortured his thought the most. - -"Can I be in love with her?" he asked himself one morning as he was -rising, "and is what I am taking for remorse simply love?" - -He found it impossible to answer this question. When a man loves, he -conceives happiness as coming from the woman he loves, and how could he -imagine a single minute of happiness as coming from Helen now? He might -return to Paris, try to renew relations with her, carry her off, take -her to a land where everything should be strange to them, and where they -might forget! He felt that the worst follies committed for her would -remove nothing of his present anguish. Therefore he did not love her. - -But then, why this cruel throbbing of the heart at the mere thought of -the act to which despair had led her? Why this continual anxiety which -caused him at the sight of Chazel's letters to pause with trembling hand -before opening them, as though he were about to read some fresh intrigue -that had been at last discovered by the unhappy man? Why was he unable -to take a book, or sit down to table, or go out, or come in, without -having the spectre of this woman beside him. Yet he had not killed her, -he had not shed her blood with his hands. Why this unwearied recurrence -to their mutual relations with the everlasting reflection as a -despairing background: "If I had known?" If he had known the worth of -what she gave him when she was giving it to him, if he had felt as he -was feeling now when she used to come and rest so tenderly, so -sincerely, upon his heart, if he had had that in his heart towards her -which was in it now, then--then he would have loved her--he would have -loved her! - -That impotence to arrive at complete emotion, the martyrdom of egotism -to which he had been a victim, his lack of feeling, his barren rancour, -his vexation of spirit in solitude and distress, all his moral miseries -would have been brought to an end if he had had a simpler heart, if he -had understood, if he had believed! He believed in her now, and it was -too late. He understood her when she had ceased to be pure. He loved her -when she had endured pollution from the endearments of another. He was -discovering that he had passed by the side of happiness, now that the -enchanted palace which he had traversed without seeing it was closed to -him for ever. He was beginning to cherish her, like one dead to whom he -could never speak more. But one that is dead remains sheltered from -pollutions, and Helen? "All the perfumes of Arabia," he repeated, -rubbing his hand like the blood-stained queen. The weight was again on -his heart. How could he ever remove it? - -But what if this remorse were merely a mirage fostered by absence? When -children are afraid of a dim form at night, what remedy does their -father adopt? He leads them to the object of their terror, and by -touching it cures their panic. What if he, too, tried this remedy? What -if he saw Helen again, and with his own eyes measured the evil that he -had wrought her? "It is the only step that is left to try," he said to -himself one day, and he abruptly resolved to return to Paris. He had -spent more than six weeks in preying thus upon his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -What a charming and coquettish summer-like Paris Armand passed through -in going from the Rue Lincoln to the Rue de La Rochefoucauld on the day -after his return! It was two o'clock; a slight breeze was quivering -among the green leaves of the trees in the Champs Élysées, and the -carriages were driving gaily along. There was a light such as makes all -women pretty, but he had darkness within. - -His memories rose from the pavement to form his melancholy escort, and -especially those of that cold winter night when he had passed on foot -through the same avenue on the eve of their first secret meeting. An -entire year had not passed away since then. How swift is time, and how -it carries away chances of happiness with it! Certainly, he had been -mournful even to death on that night, but not with the same sadness as -to-day, and yet he recognised that to-day's sadness was of higher worth -than the other. He would no longer act as he had done. Had, then, his -remorse purified while torturing him? Is there, then, a source of -ennoblement in sorrow? But of what use is this nobleness if it only -serves to show what a criminal use we have made of our powers? - -He passed in front of the Marché de la Madeleine, and inhaled on the -warm wind the aroma of the bouquets and plants. He recollected that the -previous winter he used to bring violets to his mistress. On each -occasion she used to place one of these violets between the leaves of -some favourite book. There was one that was quite filled with these love -relics, one that she had lent one day with these words written in her -own handwriting on the first page: "Take care of my little flowers." It -was a childlike and charming token of the tender carefulness which she -bestowed upon the smallest detail of their mutual romance! And what had -he made of this passionate tenderness with which he had inspired her but -a means of perdition? - -At last he was in front of the door of the little house. He rang, and -had scarcely entered the narrow courtyard when a joyful voice cried: -"Monsieur de Querne! Monsieur de Querne!" and little Henry Chazel, who -was making ready to go out with his nurse, ran up to him to welcome him. -The child's reception increased still more the melancholy of his return. -Armand was pained by encountering the brightness of affection in the -eyes of the son of the woman whom he had tortured and the man whom he -had betrayed. - -"Is your father at home?" he asked. - -"He's gone out," replied Henry; "but mamma's at home. She has been very -ill while you were away." - -"And now?" - -"She is better," said the little boy. - -His nurse was already leading him away, and De Querne passed into the -narrow entrance-hall, and climbed the red-carpeted wooden staircase that -led to Helen's drawing-room. The aspect of things had not altered--those -things which had seen him so cheerfully plan and commit the crime in -love for which he had during the past two months been going through a -terrible expiation! How light had been his foot in clearing the low -steps of this staircase in the house of a friend of his childhood, when -on his way to outrage that friend! Whither without our knowledge do our -footsteps lead us? - -He was shown into the drawing-room where, like a robber, he had given -his mistress so many kisses as soon as the master of the house was gone. -Why had these actions left him indifferent at the time, and why did the -sick place of his sensibility bleed so cruelly for them to-day? The -servant had uttered his name when opening the door. Helen, who was -seated near the window, and working, raised her head, laying her work -upon her knees. He saw her face, which was still more worn than on the -day of their last interview, and her features became discomposed as -though she were going to be ill. Suddenly he perceived the ravages that -grief had wrought: the eyes were hollow, the lips drawn, the chin -wasted, and--a detail which touched him more than anything else--her -gray dress, a dress which he had known the previous summer, lay on the -shoulders in folds that witnessed to the decline of the whole of her -poor body. - -She did not say a word to him, and he, too, remained for a moment -without speaking. Mechanically he sought with his eyes for the low -arm-chair which he used formerly to wheel beside her, in order to talk -the better with her. This arm-chair had disappeared, as well as the -couch which formerly had stood crosswise at the corner of the fireplace. -They had spent so many intimate evenings together, seated, she on the -couch and he in the easy-chair! It was no doubt for the purpose of -forgetting those scenes of tenderness that the deserted woman had -banished these pieces of furniture from her home in this room. If he had -known the true reason of the change! - -He seated himself on a chair beside her, and taking her hand said to -her: - -"I have come to ask you to forgive me." - -She withdrew that little hand whose almost convulsive trembling he had -felt. She looked at him with eyes of singular depth. The dark point of -the pupil dilated strangely. Then in a low, almost stifled voice she -replied: - -"It is not for me to forgive you. If you have made me unhappy, it was -never your fault. Ah!" she went on, "I am greatly changed. I have been -ill, very ill, but I wished for my son's sake, and for yours also, that -you might not have that upon your conscience. I have thought so much of -you, during so many feverish nights! No, it was not your fault if you -were unable to believe me. Heavens! I have greatly pitied you!" - -He listened with infinite gratitude to these words of charity coming -from lips from which his injustice had wrung so many sobs. For a moment -this forgiveness coming to him from his victim melted to tenderness the -weight of remorse, the alleviation of which he had so long sought in -vain, and he said to her in tones of deep emotion: - -"What suffering I have caused you!" - -"Do not reproach yourself for it," she said, with that angelic mildness -which caused in him so strange a feeling at once of sadness and of -consolation--of sadness, for this mildness betokened so great a -shattering, of consolation, for the balm of this pity penetrated to the -most secret recesses of his wounded heart--"Yes," she went on, shaking -her head, "it is this suffering that has saved me, and it is through it -that I have judged my life. When we parted in the way you know, I -returned here nearly mad, I had to take to my bed for many days, and -unceasingly I found the eyes of the man I had deceived fixed upon me -with devotion and sadness! By what I suffered, I understood the -suffering that I had caused and the evil that I had spread around one. -The shame into which I had fallen appeared to me, and in the presence of -death I inwardly vowed to make every endeavour to become once more a -virtuous woman." - -She paused; he saw clearly that she wished to speak to him of the other, -to tell him that man had not been received at her house again; but -was not her silence after the last sentence sufficiently eloquent? - -"And then," she resumed, "that was again for your sake. To cause you -that remorse for having ruined me--ah! the distraction caused by -injustice could alone have impelled me to such unworthy revenge. But I -had seen you weep. I thought to myself: He will return to me some day if -he is suffering, and if he be not suffering, why cause him to suffer? -But no, he will return to me, and I will tell him to live in peace. -There is now nothing in my life but my duty towards my son and his -father, and you must know that I found strength for this resolve only in -the remnant of my affection for you. But I have perhaps the right to ask -you for a promise in exchange for what I have given you." - -She added in a deep tone: - -"In memory of me, for we must see each other no more, say that you will -never trample upon a heart, that you will respect feeling wherever you -may find it." - -He was silent. These last words, in revealing to him the transformation -wrought in this soul by its martyrdom, reassured him concerning the -terrible anxiety of those cruel weeks in London. After perceiving all -the ruin that may be multiplied by egotistical and mistrustful -injustice, he felt the supreme beneficence of pity. It was through -having pity for her lover's remorse, pity for her husband's love, pity -for her son's future, that Helen had been arrested in the fatal path. It -was from pity that she was blotting out all their sad and gloomy past. -It was further from pity for her husband and for her son that she might -perhaps find means to live a life of reparation if only he, Armand, -pitied and assisted her. - -Thus, the principle of salvation which he had failed to obtain from -impotent reason, and which the dogmas of faith had not given him, he now -met with in that virtue of charity which foregoes all demonstrations and -all revelations--though is it not itself the abiding and supreme -revelation? And he felt that something had sprung up within him through -which he might always find reasons for living and acting--the religion -of human suffering. - - - - - -THE END. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE CRIME *** - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Love Crime</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Paul Bourget</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 22, 2021 [eBook #65407]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE CRIME ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h2>A LOVE CRIME</h2> - -<h5>BY</h5> - -<h3>PAUL BOURGET</h3> - - - - -<h5><i>Author of a "CRUEL ENIGMA.</i>"</h5> - - - - -<h4>LONDON</h4> - -<h4><i>W. W. GIBBINGS, 18 BURY STREET W.C.</i></h4> - -<h5>1892.</h5> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="400" height="200" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>DEDICATION.</h4> - - -<h5>TO GASTON CRÉHANGE.</h5> - -<p> -Many days have elapsed, my dear friend, since our childhood, but they -have passed away without effecting any alteration in the affectionate -feelings we then entertained. In memory of an intimacy of heart and mind -which has never known a cloud, it is very pleasant to me to write your -name at the beginning of that one of my books which you preferred to all -the rest. It is further the book in which I have stated with most -sincerity what I think concerning some of the essential problems of the -modern life of our day. May this complete sincerity, by which you, the -truest and most loyal being I know, have doubtless been attracted, plead -in favour of the work with readers who would otherwise be startled by a -certain boldness of depicture and cruelty of analysis! -</p> - -<p> -For the rest, whatever may be the verdict of public opinion respecting -"A Love Crime," as I have called this minute diagnostic of a certain -distemper of the soul, it will always be possessed of one great merit in -my eyes, for it will have pleased you, and have enabled me once more to -subscribe myself, my dear Gaston, your ever faithful friend, -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">PAUL BOURGET.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>A LOVE CRIME</h4> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></h4> - -<p> -The little drawing-room was illuminated by the soft light of three -lamps—tall lamps standing on Japanese vases and bearing globes upon -which rested flexible shades of a pale blue tint. The door was hidden by -a piece of tapestry; two walls were hung with another piece, which was -covered with large figures. Both windows were draped with -curtains—drawn just now—of deep red colour and heavy of fold. -</p> - -<p> -The apartment thus closed in had a homelike air, which was heightened by -the profusion of small articles scattered over the furniture: -photographs set in frames, lacquered boxes, old-fashioned cases, a few -Saxon statuettes, books stitched in covers of antique stuff, such as -were coming into fashion in the year 1883. The wreathing foliage of an -evergreen plant showed in one corner. Close beside it, an open piano -displayed its white keys. An English screen with coloured glass and a -shelf on which tea-cups, books, or work might be laid, stood in folds on -one side of the fire-place. The fire burned with a peaceful crackling -noise which formed an accompaniment to the sound proceeding from the -tea-pot as the latter received the caresses from the flame of its lamp -on the low table designed for such service. -</p> - -<p> -The furniture of the somewhat crowded drawing-room presented that -composite appearance which is characteristic of our time, together with -the peculiarity that everything in it seemed to be almost too new. At a -first glance, certain slight indications would have seemed to show that -its Parisian aspect had been voluntarily aimed at. Objects were -contrasted here and there; there were, for instance, little -old-fashioned silver spoons; on the walls were two excellent copies of -small religious pictures, to which memories of childhood were certainly -linked, and which could have come only from an old country house. The -photographs, also, witnessed, by the dress and demeanour of the -relatives or friends represented, to altogether provincial -relationships. The feeling of contrast would have become still more -perceptible to one visiting the other rooms and finding everywhere -evident tokens that the persons dwelling in them had lived but a very -short time at Paris. -</p> - -<p> -This small-sized drawing-room belonged to a small-sized house situated -at No. 3½, Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The lower part of this street, -which descends in a very steep slope to the Rue Saint-Lazare, comprises -several private houses of very varied build, and a few retired dwellings -surrounded by gardens. The house containing the little drawing-room was -built for an actress by a celebrated financier under the Empire, at a -period when the Rue de la Tour des Dames harboured many princes and -princesses of the footlights. Too small to suit a wealthy family, too -inconvenient, owing to certain deficiencies in accommodation, for -tenants accustomed to the completeness of English comfort, it must have -proved quite seductive to persons accustomed to a semi-country life by -its attraction as a "home," as well as by the quiet pervading the end of -the street, which is rarely affronted by vehicles on account of the -difficulty of the ascent. -</p> - -<p> -During this November evening, although the windows of the little -drawing-room looked upon the courtyard, and the latter opened upon the -street, only a dim and distant murmuring penetrated from without, broken -by occasional gusts of the north wind. Judging by the whistling of this -north wind the night must have been a cold one. So, at least, opined a -fairly young man, one of the three persons assembled in the -drawing-room, as he rose from his chair, set down his empty cup on the -tea-tray with a sigh, and looked at the time-piece. -</p> - -<p> -"Ten o'clock. Must I really go to see the Malhoures this evening? What a -disaster it is to have a sensible wife who thinks about your future! -Never get married, Armand. Listen to that wind! I was so comfortable -here with you. Look here, Helen," he went on, leaning on the back of the -easy-chair in which his wife was seated, "what will happen if I do not -put in an appearance this evening?" -</p> - -<p> -"We shall be discourteous to some very kind people, who have always -behaved perfectly towards us since we came to Paris a year ago," replied -the young woman; she stretched out to the fire her slender feet, in the -pretty patent leather shoes and mauve stockings, the latter being of the -same colour as her dress. "If I had not my neuralgia!" she added, -putting her fingers to her temple. "You will make all my excuses to -them. Come, my poor Alfred, courage!" -</p> - -<p> -She rose and held out her hand to her husband, who drew her to him in -order to give her a kiss. Visible pain was depicted on Helen's handsome -face for a minute, during which she was constrained to submit to this -caress. Standing thus, in her mauve-coloured, lace-trimmed dress, the -contrast between the elegance of her entire person and the clumsiness of -the man whose name she bore was still more striking. -</p> - -<p> -She was tall, slender, and supple. The delicacy with which her hand -joined the arm which the sleeve of her dress left half uncovered, the -fulness of this arm, on which shone the gold of a bracelet, the -roundness of her dainty waist, the grace of her youthful figure,—all -revealed in her the blooming of a bodily beauty in harmony with the -beauty of her head. Her bright chestnut hair, parted simply in the -centre, half concealed a forehead that was almost too high—a probable -sign that with her feeling predominated over judgment. She had brown -eyes, in a fair complexion, such eyes as become hazel or black according -as the pupil contracts or dilates; and everything in the face declared -passion, energy, and pride, from the rather too pronounced line of the -oval, indicating the firm structure of the lower part of the head, to -the mouth, which was strongly outlined, and from the chin, which was -worthy of an ancient medal, to the nose, which was nearly straight, and -was united to the forehead by a noble attachment. -</p> - -<p> -The pure and living quality of her beauty fully justified the fervour -depicted on the face of her husband while he was kissing his wife, just -as the evident aversion of the young woman was explained by the -unpleasing aspect of her lord and master. They were not creatures of the -same breed. Alfred Chazel presented the regular type of a middle-class -Frenchman, who has had to work too diligently, to prepare for too many -examinations, to spend too many hours over papers or before a desk, at -an age when the body is developing. -</p> - -<p> -Although he was scarcely thirty-two, the first tokens of physical wear -and tear were abundant with him. His hair was thin, his complexion -looked impoverished, his shoulders were both broad and bony, and there -was an angularity in his gestures as well as an awkwardness about his -entire person. His tall figure, his big bones, and his large hand -suggested a disparity between the initial constitution, which must have -been robust, and the education, which must have been reducing. Chazel -carried an eye-glass, which he was always letting fall, for he was -clumsy with his long, thin hands, as was attested by the tying of the -white evening cravat, so badly adjusted round his already crumpled -collar. But when the eye-glass fell, the blue colour of his eyes was the -better seen—a blue so open, so fresh, so childlike, that the most -ill-disposed persons would have found it hard to attribute this man's -weariness to any excess save that of thought. -</p> - -<p> -His still very youthful smile, displaying white teeth beneath a fair -beard, which Alfred wore in its entirety, harmonised with this childlike -frankness of look. And, in fact, Chazel's life had been passed in -continuous, absorbing work, and in an absolute inexperience of what was -not "his business," as he used to say. Son of a modest professor of -chemistry, and grandson of a peasant, Alfred, having inherited aptitude -for the sciences from his father, and tenacity of purpose from his -grandfather, had, by dint of energy, and with but moderate abilities, -been one of the first at the entrance to that École Polytechnique -which, in the estimation of many excellent intellects, exercises, by its -overloaded and precocious examinations, a murderous influence upon the -development of the middle-class youth of our country. -</p> - -<p> -At twenty-two, Chazel passed out twelfth, and three years later first -from the School of Roads and Bridges. Sent to Bourges, he fell in love -with Mademoiselle de Vaivre, whose father, having married a second time, -could give her only a very slender dowry. The unexpected death, first of -Monsieur de Vaivre, then of his second wife and of their child, suddenly -enriched the young household. Appointed the preceding year to a -municipal post at Paris, the engineer found that he had realised a -hundredfold the most ambitious hopes of his youth. His wife's fortune -amounted to about nine hundred thousand francs, to the returns from -which were added the ten thousand francs of his own salary and the small -income which had been left by his father. But this competency, instead -of blunting the young man's activity, stimulated it to the ambition of -compensating in honour for the inequality of position between himself -and his wife. He had, accordingly, gone back to mathematical labours -with fresh ardour. Admission to the Institute shone on the horizon of -his dreams, like a sort of final apotheosis to a destiny, the happiness -of which he modestly referred to his father's wise maxim: "To keep to -the high road." -</p> - -<p> -Add to this that a son had been born to him, in whom he already -discerned a reflection of his own disposition, and it cannot fail to be -understood how this man would congratulate himself daily for having -taken life, as he had done, with complete submission to all the average -conditions of the social class in which he had been born. -</p> - -<p> -Did these various reflections pass through the mind of the third -individual—the man whom Alfred Chazel had called Armand, as he -contemplated the conjugal tableau through the smoke from a Russian -cigarette which he had just lighted—a liberty which revealed the -extent of his intimacy with the family? The same contrast which separated -Alfred from Helen separated him also from Armand. The latter looked at -first younger than his age, though he too had passed his thirty-second -year. If Alfred's carelessly-worn coat revealed rather the leanness and -disproportion of his body, the frock of the Baron de Querne—such was -Armand's family-name—fitted close to the shoulders and bust of a man, -small but robust, and evidently devoted to fencing, riding, -tennis, and all the sporting habits which the youths of the richer -classes have contracted in imitation of the English, now that political -careers—diplomacy, the Council of State, and the Audit -Office—are denied them by their real or assumed opinions. -</p> - -<p> -The quiet jewellery with which the young baron was adorned, the delicacy -of his hands and feet, and everything in his appearance, from his cravat -and his collar to the curls in his dark hair, and to the turn of his -moustache, drawn out over a somewhat contemptuous lip, disclosed that -deep attention to the toilet which assumes the lengthened leisure of an -idle life. But what preserved De Querne from the commonplaceness usual -to men who are visibly occupied with the trifles of masculine fashion -was a look, in a generally immovable face, of peculiar keenness and -unrest. This look, which was not at all like that of a young man, -contradicted the remainder of his person to the extent of imparting an -appearance of strangeness to one who looked in this way, although a -desire to evade remark, and to be above all things correct, evidently -influenced his mode of dress. -</p> - -<p> -Just as Chazel seemed to have remained quite young at heart, in spite of -the failure of constitution, so the other, if only in the expression of -his eyes, which were very dark ones, appeared to have undergone a -premature aging of soul and intellect, in spite of the energy maintained -by his physical machine. The face was somewhat long and somewhat -browned, like that of one in whom bile would prevail some day, the -forehead without a wrinkle, the nose very refined; a slight dimple was -impressed upon the square chin. It would have been impossible to assign -any profession or even occupation to this man, and yet there was -something superior in his nature which seemed irreconcilable with the -emptiness of an absolutely idle life, as well, too, as lines of -melancholy about the mouth which banished the idea of a life of nothing -but pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile he continued to smoke with perfect calmness, showing every -time that he rejected the smoke small, close teeth, the lower ones being -set in an irregular fashion, which is, people say, a probable indication -of fierceness. He watched Chazel kiss his wife on the temple, while -<i>she</i> lowered her eyelids without venturing to look at Armand; and -yet, had the dark eyes of the young man been encountered by her own, she -would not have surprised any trace of sorrow, but an indefinable -blending of irony and curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," said Alfred, replying thus to the mute reproach which Helen's -countenance seemed to make to him, "it is bad form to love one's wife in -public, but Armand will forgive me. Well, goodbye," he went on, holding -out his hand to his friend, "I shall not be away for more than an hour. -I shall find you here again, shall I not?" -</p> - -<p> -The young Baron and Madame Chazel thus remained alone. They were silent -for a few minutes, both keeping the positions in which Alfred had left -them, she standing, but this time with her eyes raised towards Armand, -and the latter answering her look with a smile while he continued to -wrap himself in a cloud of smoke. She breathed in the slight acridity of -the smoke, half opening her fresh lips. The sound of carriage wheels -became audible beneath the windows. It was the rolling of the cab that -was taking Chazel away. -</p> - -<p> -Helen slowly advanced to the easy chair in which Armand was sitting; -with a pretty gesture she took the cigarette and threw it into the fire, -then knelt before the young man, encircled his head with her arms, and, -seeking his lips, kissed him; it looked as though she wished to destroy -immediately the painful impression which her husband's attitude might -have left on the man she loved, and in a clear tone of voice, the -liveliness of which discovered a free expansiveness after a lengthened -constraint, she said: -</p> - -<p> -"How do you do, Armand. Are you in love with me to-day?" -</p> - -<p> -"And yourself," he questioned, "are you in love with me?" -</p> - -<p> -He was caressing the hand of the young woman who had thrown herself upon -the ground, and with her head resting on her lover's knees, was looking -at him in a fever of ecstasy. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! you flirt," she returned, "I have no need to tell you so to have -you believe it." -</p> - -<p> -"No," he replied, "I know that you love me—much—though not -enough to go all lengths with the feeling." -</p> - -<p> -The tone in which he uttered this sentence was marked with an irony -which made it palpably an epigram. It was an allusion to oft-stated -complaints. Helen, however, received the derisive utterance with the -smile of a woman who has her answer ready. -</p> - -<p> -"So you will always have the same distrust," she said, and although she -was very happy, as her eyes sufficiently testified, a shadow of -melancholy passed into those soft eyes when she added: "So you cannot -believe in my feelings without this last proof?" -</p> - -<p> -"Proof," said Armand, "you call that a proof! Why the unqualified gift -of the person is not a proof of love, it is love itself. It is true," he -went on with a more gloomy air, "so long as you refuse to be entirely -mine I shall suspect—not your sincerity, for I think that you think -you love me, but the truth of this love. Too often people imagine that they -have feelings which they have not. Ah! if you loved me, as you say, and -as you think, would you deny me yourself as you do? Would you refuse me -the meeting that I have asked of you more than twenty times? Why you -would grant it as much for your own sake as for mine." -</p> - -<p> -"Armand—" she began thus, then stopped, blushing. -</p> - -<p> -She had risen and was walking about the room without looking at her -lover, her arms apart from her body with the backs of her hands laid on -her hips, as was usual with her at moments of intense thought. Since she -had begun to love, and had acknowledged her feelings to Monsieur de -Querne she was quite aware that she must some day give up her beautiful -dream of an attachment which, though forbidden, should remain pure. Yes, -she knew that she must give her entire self after giving her heart, and -become the mistress of the man whom she had suffered to say to her: "I -love you." She knew it, and she had found strength for the prolonging of -her resistance to that day, not in coquetry—no woman was less capable -of speculating with a man's ungratified desire in order to kindle his -passion—but in the persistence of the duty-sense within her. -</p> - -<p> -Where is the married woman who has not fondled this chimera of a -reconciliation between the infidelity of heart and the faith sworn to her -husband? The renunciation of the delights of complete love seems at -first to her a sufficient expiation. She engages in adultery believing -that she will not pass beyond a certain limit, and she does in fact keep -within it a longer or a shorter time according to the disposition of the -man she loves. But the inflexible logic that governs life resumes its -rights. Soul and body do not separate, and love admits of no other law -than itself. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, the fatal hour had struck for Helen, and she felt it. How many -times during the last fortnight had she had this horrible discussion -with Armand, who always ended by requiring from her this last token of -love? She was sensible that after each of these scenes she had been -lessened in the eyes of this man. A few more, and he would lose -completely his faith in the feeling which she entertained towards him, a -feeling that was absolute and unreasoned; for she loved him, as women -alone are capable of loving, with such a love as is almost in the nature -of a bewitchment, and is the outcome of an irresistible longing to -afford happiness to the person who is thus loved. She loved him and she -loved to love him. Pain in those beloved eyes was physically intolerable -to her, and intolerable also mistrust, which betokened the shrinking -back of his soul. -</p> - -<p> -She had taken account of all this, she had looked the necessity for her -guilt in the face, and she had resolved to offer herself to her -"beloved," as in her letters she always called him, because "friend" was -too cold, and the word "lover" purpled her heart with shame,—yes, to -offer him the supreme proof of tenderness that he asked for, and now, -when on the point of consenting, she was impotent. Her will was failing -at the last moment. Was she going again to begin what she used to call, -when she thought about it, a hateful contract? Ah! why was she not -free—free, that is, from duties towards her child, the only being -whom she could not sacrifice to him whom she loved—free to offer this -man not a clandestine interview but a flight together, a complete sacrifice -of her entire life. -</p> - -<p> -All these thoughts came and went in her poor head while she herself was -walking to and fro in the room. She looked again at her lover. She -fancied she could see a change come over the features of the countenance -she idolised. -</p> - -<p> -"Armand," she resumed, "do not be sad. I consent to all that you wish." -</p> - -<p> -These words, which were uttered in the deep voice of a woman probing to -the inmost chamber of her heart, appeared to astonish the young man even -more than they moved him. He wrapped Helen in his strange gaze. If the -poor woman had had strength enough to observe him she would not have -encountered in those keen eyes the divine emotion which atones for the -guilt of the mistress by the happiness of the lover. It was just the -same gaze, at once contemptuous and inquisitive, with which he had -lately contemplated the group formed by Alfred and Helen. But the latter -was too much confused by what she had just said to keep cool enough for -observing anything. -</p> - -<p> -Then, as she had come back and was crouching on Armand's knees, and -pressing against his breast, a fresh expression, that, namely, of almost -intoxicated desire, was depicted on the young man's face. He felt close -to him the beauty of this yielding body, he held in his arms those -charming shoulders of which he had knowledge from having seen them in -the ball-room, he drank in that indefinable aroma which lingers about -every woman, and he pressed his lips upon those eyelids, which he could -feel quivering beneath his kiss. -</p> - -<p> -"You will at least be happy?" she asked him in a sort of anguish between -two caresses. -</p> - -<p> -"What a question! Why, you have never looked at yourself," he said, and -he began to extol to her all the exquisiteness of her face. "You -have never looked at your eyes"—and he again drew his lips -across them—"your pink cheek"—and he stroked it with -his hand—"your soft hair"—and he inhaled it like a -flower—"your sweet mouth"—and he laid his own upon it. -</p> - -<p> -What answer could she have given to this worship of her beauty? She lent -herself to it with a half-frightened smile, surrendering to these -endearments and to these words as to music. They caused something so -deep and withal so vague to vibrate throughout her being that she came -forth half crushed from these embraces, like one dead. It was not for -the first time that she was thus abandoning herself to Armand's kisses. -But no matter how sweet, how intoxicating these kisses, which she found -it impossible to resist, she had on each occasion been strong enough to -escape from bolder caresses. -</p> - -<p> -No, never, never would she have consented, even had there existed no -danger of a surprise, to yield thus in the little drawing-room, where -the portraits of her mother, her husband, and her son reminded her of -what she was nevertheless ready to sacrifice. Ah! not like that! And -again at this moment, when she saw on Armand's face a certain expression -of which she had so deep a dread, she found courage to escape, seated -herself once more in another easy chair, and opening and shutting a fan -which she had taken up in her quivering hands, replied: -</p> - -<p> -"I will be yours to-morrow, if you wish." -</p> - -<p> -Armand seemed to rouse himself from the sweep of passion in which he had -just been tossing. He looked at her, and she again experienced the -sensation which had already caused her so much pain, and which was that -of a veil drawn suddenly between herself and him. Yet, what could she -have said to displease him? She thought that he was wounded by the fact -of her shrinking from him, for was not the uttering of the words that -she had just uttered equivalent to giving herself to him beforehand, and -how could he be vexed with her for desiring that their happiness might -have another setting than that of her every-day life? But he had already -answered her by the following question: -</p> - -<p> -"Where would you like me to meet you? At my own house? I can send away -my servant for the whole of the afternoon." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, no!" she replied hastily, "not at your own home." -</p> - -<p> -The vision had just come to her that other women had visited Armand, -those other women whom a new mistress always finds between herself and -the man she loves, like the menace of a fatal comparison, like an -anticipated discrediting of her own caresses, since love is always -similar to itself; in its outward forms. -</p> - -<p> -"At least," she thought to herself, "let it not be amid the same -furniture." -</p> - -<p> -"Would you like me to request one of my friends to lend me his rooms?" -Armand asked. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head as she had done just before. She could hear by -anticipation the conversation of the two men. She was a woman, and -hitherto had been a virtuous one. She was only too well aware that the -manner in which she regarded her own love would have little resemblance -to that of the unknown friend to whom Armand would apply. In her own -eyes passion sanctified everything, even the worst errors; spiritualised -everything, even the most vehement voluptuousness. But he, this -stranger, what would he see in the affair but an intrigue to afford -matter for jesting. A shudder shook her, and she looked again at Armand. -Ah! how her lover's thoughts would have horrified her had she been able -to read them. It was very far from being De Querne's first affair of the -sort, nor did he believe that it was a first act of weakness on her -part. She had, indeed, told him that he was her first lover, and it was -true. -</p> - -<p> -But what proof could be given of the truth of such vows? The young man -had himself deceived and been deceived too often for distrust not to be -the most natural of his feelings. He had provoked this odious discussion -concerning their place of meeting only for the purpose of studying in -Helen's replies the traces left by the amorous experiences through which -she had passed, and mere curiosity led him to dwell upon a subject which -at that moment was stifling the young woman with shame. The scruples -that she displayed about not yielding to him in her own house seemed to -him a calculation due to voluptuousness; those about not yielding to him -at his house, a calculation due to prudence. When she refused to go to -the rooms of a friend: "She is afraid of my confiding in some one," he -said to himself, "but what does she want?" -</p> - -<p> -"Suppose I furnished a little suite of rooms?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head, though this had been her secret dream, but she was -afraid that he would see in her acceptance nothing but a desire to gain -time, and then—the necessity, if their meetings occurred always in -the same place, of enduring the notice of the people of the house, the -thought of being the veiled lady whose arrival is watched! Nevertheless, -although such a contrivance also involved a question of outlay which -horrified her, she would have consented to it had she not had another -feeling, the only one which, shaking her head with its rising fever, she -uttered aloud. -</p> - -<p> -"Do not misjudge me, Armand; rather understand me. I should like to be -yours in a place of which nothing would remain afterwards. What would -become of the rooms you furnished for me if ever you ceased to love me? -Why, I cannot endure the thought of it, even now. Do not wrong me, dear; -only understand me." -</p> - -<p> -Thus did she speak, laying bare the profoundly romantic side of her -nature, as also her heart's secret wound. Although she did not account -fully to herself for Armand's character—a character frightful in -aridity beneath loving externals, for in this man there was an absolute -divorce between imagination and heart—she perceived only too clearly -that he was inclined to misinterpret the slightest indications. She saw -that distrust was springing up in him with an almost unhealthy -suddenness. She had been quite aware that he suspected her, but she had -believed that this doubt proceeded solely from her refusals to belong to -him. -</p> - -<p> -It was on this account that she was consenting to give him this last -proof. "He will doubt no longer," she thought to herself, and the mere -idea of this warmed her whole heart. If only he did not give a guilty -construction to her replies? She rose to go to him, and leaning over the -back of his arm-chair, encircled his forehead with her hands. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she said with a sigh, "if I could know what is going on in here. -It is such a little space, and it is in this little space that all my -happiness and my misfortune are contained." -</p> - -<p> -"If you were able to read in it," the young man replied, "you would see -only your own image." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall read in it to-morrow," she said subtly. -</p> - -<p> -"To-morrow," he returned with a smile; "but what about the place of our -meeting? There is nothing left but furnished rooms or a hotel." -</p> - -<p> -Furnished rooms! A hotel! These words made Helen shudder. All the shames -of adultery appeared to her to be comprised in their syllables. There -was the hiring of a cab, with the driver's cunning smile; there was the -entry into one of those houses, whose thresholds have seen the passage -of so many furtive, quivering women; and, as a setting for her divine -passion, there was the furniture that had, perhaps, been utilised for -similar scenes. Yes, but there was also an element of anonymity, of -impersonality, of never-ending strangeness. And since all was pollution, -the former of the two alternatives carried with it the least. She was -too certain of Armand's refinement to think that he might take her to a -place which he had visited with others. She would have to endure -personal loathing, but nothing that would touch the very essence of her -feeling. It was accordingly with courageous resolution that she replied -to her lover. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you have time enough to find them in one morning?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," he said, after a moment's reflection. "I have in my mind a very -convenient house, where one of my English friends always used to stay. -See," he went on, "between eleven and twelve o'clock I will send you -some books and a note. I will give you the address of the house and the -number of the room, just as though you had asked me for the address for -one of your country friends. Don't let that prevent you, however, from -burning the note immediately. You will come at whatever hour you can; I -will spend the whole afternoon waiting for you, and, if you do not come, -I shall not be put out; I shall think that you have not been able." -</p> - -<p> -She listened to him with a mingling of pain and enchantment—pain, -because it would cost her so dear to keep her promise; and enchantment, -because all the trouble that he took to point out these details to her, -instead of enlightening her concerning the man's heart, appeared to her -a sign of his love, and their talk proceeded in the quiet drawing-room, -in front of the expiring fire, until the stopping of a carriage at the -door announced Alfred's return. -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye, my love," said Helen, taking Armand's hand and kissing it, as -she sometimes did with sweet coaxing; and she had already begun a piece -of work when Chazel came in, with a cheery "Well!" He looked at once -towards his wife with his loyal, honest gaze. -</p> - -<p> -How well Armand knew that gaze, one which had not altered from the days -of their childhood, when they were both at the Institution Vanaboste, -whence they followed the courses of study in the Lycée Henri IV.! The -establishment stood yonder behind the Panthéon, at the corner of the -Rue du Puits-qui-Parle, now the Rue Amyot. Yet it was not remorse for -deceiving the man whom he had known from quite a child that suddenly -made De Querne feel uncomfortable. It was the thought that Helen was -deceiving this confiding nature. Masculine egotism has such monstrous -ingenuousness. A seducer engaged in enticing a woman, despises the woman -for yielding to him, and forgets to despise himself for seducing her. -Meanwhile Alfred had taken Helen's hands. -</p> - -<p> -"I have bored myself conscientiously this evening; what will you give me -in reward?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -How his familiarity hurt her! How willingly would she have cried to this -unsuspecting husband: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you not see that I love another? Let me go away. I do not want to -lie to you any more." -</p> - -<p> -But two rooms farther off stood a little bed, beneath the white curtains -of which slept her son, her little Henry. Why was it that the picture of -this curly head was something too weak to arrest her on the fatal high -road to adultery, and yet strong enough to prevent her from seeing her -passion through to the end. She had a glimpse of the child while her -husband was speaking to her. It did not occur to her to scorn Armand for -having gained her love, although she was the wife of his friend. She -scorned herself for not loving him enough, since she did not love the -sufferings of which he was the cause, and, sustained by the thought that -she was doing it for him, it was with something like an impulse of pride -that she held out her forehead to her husband's kiss, and said -gracefully: -</p> - -<p> -"That's just like men; they must be paid, and immediately too, for doing -their duty." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></h4> - -<p> -It was half-past eleven o'clock when Armand de Querne left the house in -the Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The wind had swept away all the clouds, and -the sky was filled with stars. "What a beautiful night!" said Armand to -himself; "I shall walk home." It was a long way, for he lived in the Rue -Lincoln, in the upper part of the Champs-Élysées. Here, on the second -floor of a wing projecting upon a garden, he had rooms which he had once -amused himself with furnishing in quaint and exquisite fashion with all -kinds of old-fashioned trifles. But how long had he ceased to spend the -evening in this "home?" -</p> - -<p> -He was following the pavement of the Rue St.-Lazare, which, after quite -a narrow and slender beginning, suddenly, like a river swelled by -tributaries, widens after the Place de la Trinité, when it receives, -one after the other, the flood of passengers and vehicles drifting -through the Rue de Chateaudun, the Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, and the -Rue de Londres. Cabs were plying, omnibuses were changing horses, the -crowd was surging. Sometimes a girl came out from the corner of a -doorway, and with obscene speech accosted the young man, who put her -away gently with his hand. -</p> - -<p> -Was it the contrast between the intimacy of the little drawing-room and -the swarming infamy of the pavement? Armand felt deeply melancholy. He -could not help seeing Alfred's face again in thought, with Helen's close -beside it. Yet, was he jealous? No. Pictures of childhood came back to -him as they had done just before, but with increased precision, showing -him Chazel dressed in the uniform of the "Vanabosteans"—a small -jacket similar to that of the Barbistes. They always went side by side -in the ranks. Poor Chazel! he was not rich. The head of the -establishment had taken him as a foundationer, with a view, to making a -show-pupil of him—a machine for winning prizes in competitions. -How many times had Armand paid for him at the little wicket, when the -porter sold to the pupils sweetmeats, fragments of iced chestnuts, -cakes, and Parisian creams—tablets of chocolate having a thick and -oversweet liquid inside! -</p> - -<p> -They had gone through all their classes together from the fourth up, and -had together passed through the evil days of the Commune, when, on -returning both of them from the country, after the siege, they found -themselves blockaded in Paris. Alfred had afterwards entered the École -Polytechnique. And when he came on Wednesdays and Sundays to visit his -old schoolfellow, who had already crossed the Seine and begun to lead -the life of a rich and idle young man, how ludicrous he was in his -military dress, embarrassed by his sword, not knowing how to set his hat -upon his head, and invariably scarred with clumsy razor-cuts! -</p> - -<p> -While Alfred was at the School of Bridges, Armand was travelling. He had -gone round the world in the society of an amateur artist. On his return -he found that his friend was no longer at Paris. The letters passing -between them became rare. Could they have told why? Armand perhaps -might. There was only one point left in common between Alfred's life and -his own. Alfred had married Mademoiselle de Vaivre. They had made a trip -to Paris, and Armand well remembered how he had been deliciously -surprised by Helen's distinguished demeanour, when he had expected to -find her awkward, pretentious, and a fright. But at this period he was -taken up with another woman, little Aline, a mistress of his for whom he -had cherished the only genuine passion of which he was -capable—painful jealousy blended with delirium of the senses. -</p> - -<p> -Later on, some one had spoken to him of Helen Chazel, and told him ugly -stories about her. And who was it that had done so? Another -school-fellow—big Lucien Rieume, who had been educated at the -Vanaboste establishment like Alfred and himself—during one of -these <i>tête-à-tête</i> luncheons when an opening of the heart -usually accompanies that of the oysters between two college companions; -and Lucien—cordial, indiscreet, intolerable—had talked a -great deal, pouring out pell-mell whatever he knew concerning former -friends. Armand could again hear him chuckle, leaning forward somewhat -with kindled eye and humid lip: -</p> - -<p> -"Poor Chazel, he hadn't a head worth a fig! It seems that his wife is -tricking him. I heard the gentleman's name: Marades, Tarades—just -wait a moment—yes, De Varades, an artillery officer. It was the talk -of Bourges. He was never out of the house." -</p> - -<p> -It was an unfortunate trait in Armand's character that he was unable to -withstand the tempting of mistrust. When evil was asserted to him, he -preserved an indelible impression of it. He did not altogether believe -in it, and yet he believed in it sufficiently for a suspicion, and a -busy suspicion, to be planted within him. When the Chazels had come to -settle in Paris, ten months previously, and Armand had begun to interest -himself in Helen, the scruples of an old friendship might perhaps have -been stronger than his freak of curiosity if big Rieume's words had not -risen before his recollection. -</p> - -<p> -"Really," he had said to himself, "it would be too foolish,"—a -criminal phrase which serves men for the justification of many a dastardly -action. Helen had not been slow in displaying towards him a kind of -passion which he had attributed to the natural exaltation of a -provincial. "I am the first Parisian who has paid her attentions," he -had said again to himself, and as she possessed charming gracefulness of -gesture, so sweet an expression of countenance and such an air of -complete refinement and nobility about her entire personality, he had -taken a pleasure in completing her education in elegance, thinking to -himself that she would be a delightful mistress. -</p> - -<p> -But for many days she had refused really to become his mistress, and her -resistance had made him obstinate. He had become bent upon overcoming -her, recollecting the officer and telling himself that the officer had -not been the only one. A few skilful conversations with Alfred had -taught him that at one time Varades had really been a constant guest at -the house; was he not the same year's student at the École -Polytechnique as Alfred himself? Armand had lost his doubts, and in -Helen's refusals to be his, he had seen nothing but coquetry. Now, in -this respect like all men who hold the strange ethics of seducers, -Querne considered coquetry in a women a justification for the worst -behaviour. At last the long siege was about to issue in the coveted -result. Madame Chazel had granted him an appointment for the following -day. Twenty-four hours more and he would have a new mistress, as -desirable and as pretty as those whose memory was the most flattering to -the pride of his recollection. Why then did he, instead of being happy, -feel so deeply melancholy. Was it remorse for the treason to his friend? -</p> - -<p> -His friend? Was Alfred really his friend? Yes, that was understood -between themselves, as well as in the eyes of others. But a friend is a -man who knows you and whom you know, to whom you show your heart and who -shows you his. Would he ever bring the tale of one of his hopes, his -joys, his sadnesses, to the calculating machine that bore the name of -Chazel? Had the latter ever confided a secret to him? So much the -better, too, for the ideas of this worthy schoolboy who seemed to look -upon life as the prolongation of a college task, must be silly enough. -It was their college life that continued to link them together, and the -recollections of their childhood. Their childhood? Turning down the Rue -Royale and arriving at the Champs Élysées, Armand suddenly recalled -the ranks of Vanaboste's school, on Thursdays, as they walked three and -three under the superintendence of a poor wretch of an usher who strove -to hide himself among the groups of people, so as to seem a passer-by -like the rest and not a watch-dog charged with the duty of looking after -a flock of schoolboys. -</p> - -<p> -And what a flock it was! The majority had pale complexions, hollow eyes, -an enervated exhaustion of the whole being that spoke of secret -excesses. How much ignominy and baseness was there in that community, -the eldest in which were nineteen years of age and the youngest eight! -Within the walls of their prison, as within the walls of the great -Lycée to which they repaired twice a day, nothing was thought of but -the infamous amours existing between the elder boys and their juniors. -Of these unnatural loves, some were partly sensual, and had for their -theatre all the deserted corners in the house, from the dormitories to -the infirmary. And of the French youth confined within similar colleges, -how many were participators in this lewdness, while the rest defiled -their imaginations, although they repelled it! Among these college boys -there were also elevated and chaste connexions. The perusal of a certain -eclogue of Virgil's, a dialogue of Plato's, and a few of Shakespeare's -sonnets had excited the more literary of them, and Alfred Chazel, being -then in the third class, had one day received a piece of poetry written -by a sixth-form boy, beginning with the following astonishing line, -which had made them laugh like mad creatures: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"Alfred, my pale Alfred, my love, my sweet."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -"Ah! what a horrible, horrible, place!" thought the young man, as he -recalled this blending of turpitude and puerility. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred and he had belonged to the small number of those who had remained -untouched by the infection. But to him at least, all the advantage due -to this disgust was that it had led him when quite young to the pursuit -of women, and his initiation into natural pleasure had been effected in -the most degraded prostitution. -</p> - -<p> -"And these are the youthful recollections that I should respect," said -Armand to himself. "What duty do I owe him because we were galley slaves -together?" -</p> - -<p> -No, a hundred times no, it was not on Alfred's account that he felt so -melancholy as he hastened his steps and, this time with semi-brutality, -repulsed the love-beggars who accosted him with their unvarying phrases. -Ah! he knew this unconquerable melancholy only too well. Only too often -had it visited him, gnawing him in the diseased portion of his heart, -from the time that the income of thirty thousand francs coming to him at -his majority had permitted him to live according to his fancy; and this -fancy had immediately taken the direction of sentimental experiences. -Such melancholy, sharp and severe, he had experienced, even when quite a -youth, every time that he had found himself on the eve of a first -love-meeting with a new mistress, even though she had been the most -coveted. It was like an anguish-stricken apprehension—a dull, dim -agony of soul. -</p> - -<p> -At first he had attributed this strange phenomenon alternately to -physical timidity, to remorse at his own unworthiness of the feelings -that he might inspire, and to hankerings after purity. Now he knew the -true explanation of these momentary sorrows, these keener crises of the -great sorrow which formed the gloomy background of his life. It was, -alas! the more present and palpable certainty of his impotence to love. -At this very moment he was asking himself: -</p> - -<p> -"Am I really in love with Helen?" -</p> - -<p> -He gathered and heaped together the whole of his inmost sensibility, -like a physician seeking with his fingers for the painful spot of a -diseased limb. But the spot of love, which it would have given him such -sweet pain to meet with, Armand could not discover. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he answered himself with terrible sadness, yet -courageously—for, with all his failings, he had energy enough to -venture upon self-knowledge—"no, I am not in love with Helen. I -desire her because she is beautiful; I have paid my addresses to her -because I feel bored; I have grown obstinate about it because she denied -me. Pride, sensuality, and romantic twaddle—that's the top and -bottom of the whole affair. Then what is the good of it? What is the -good? Why renew such an intrigue as that with Madame de Rugle?" -</p> - -<p> -And all the amours into which his depraved liking for seduction—the -fatal vice of his youth—had impelled him, came back into his memory, -with the monotony of their pleasures, the bitterness of their ruptures, -the sickening void of their duration. What was the good of this one or -of that? What was the good a year or two ago of amusing himself by -winning the love of Juliet, governess to the children of a house at -which he was received? What was the good of that comedy played to little -Maud, the pretty Englishwoman whom he had met at a watering-place? -</p> - -<p> -"I dreamed of being a man of gallantry—a Don Juan. It looks as though -fate punishes us for the evil dreams of our youth by bringing them to -pass. I have had intrigues that might flatter my foolish vanity—and -what wretchedness!" -</p> - -<p> -Among all the women whose faces and kisses he distinguished in his -thought, there was not one who had made him happy, even for a single -day, and—strange anomaly of a distempered heart—there was -not one who had not in some sort made him suffer. Through what moral -disorder did it come to pass that he was devoted to this continual -inward calamity—to the endurance of all the tortures of love: the -jealousy of the present, the intolerable loathing for the past, the -bitter vision of the treacheries of the future, and never, never, aught -but physical intoxication, without that ecstacy of soul which, -notwithstanding, existed, for he had seen with envy the heavenly -expression due to it on the countenances of a few of his mistresses? -</p> - -<p> -One especially came before him—one whose conquest had not been -effected for the flattering of his fatuity, for she was but a girl was -Aline, who had died of consumption in the autumn of 1880. He could again -see her with her hollow eyes, her delicate cheek, and the blending of -native purity and corruption that was in her. He could see her nursing a -little sister whom she had taken to be with her, a child four years of -age. What affecting kindliness in vice, and what innocence in infamy! -Yes, Aline loved him, although she had three or four other lovers at the -same time as himself. His chief pleasure used to consist in taking this -pretty, ruined creature into the country to enjoy the childish outbreaks -of rusticity that prompted her to pick flowers, to listen to the birds, -to lean upon his arm, as though she had never exercised her hideous -profession. -</p> - -<p> -What a mysterious thing is memory! He was on the eve of his first -assignation with Helen, and here he was growing tender over poor Aline, -evoking her as she was when he had so often sought her in her rooms in -the Rue de Moscow; as she was at certain moments when he had loved or -nearly loved her—on a summer evening, for instance, when she was -seated in the stern of a boat rowed on the Seine by four oarsmen of their -acquaintance. Yes, she was seated in a bright dress, looking at him over -the heads of the youths as they alternately stooped and rose. A -stillness was falling upon the river. A fine of orange was trailing -along the margin of the sky. What unspeakable emotion had bathed his -soul as he was sensible of the passing hour, the quivering water, the -living creature, and the dying light! -</p> - -<p> -He ascended his staircase with these thoughts. Why this fatal -incompleteness in all his passions? Why was he incapable of attaining to -that absolute of tenderness which he conceived, of which he had -glimpses, towards which he sprang at every new intrigue? And -then—nothing! And yet how many chances had been combined for him; and -while his servant was relieving him of his overcoat, and he was passing -into the drawing-room, in which he often read at night before going to -bed, he mentally enumerated these chances: a fortune which enabled him -to pursue his fancies without much need of calculation; a genuine and -ancient title; ability to maintain a position in society that pleased -him; a robustness of health that could not recall a week of sickness; a -taste for intellectual things just sufficient to occupy his attention -without annoyance, for, absolutely free from personal ambition, he had -never ceased to be interested as an amateur by the attractions of -literature and art. -</p> - -<p> -Added to all this, he had an appointment for the following day with a -charming woman whom he desired, and the fire of sense had not been -slackened within him by the excesses of his life. Why, then, was it -inevitable that the perception of an indefinable insufficiency in his -life should make him so melancholy just at this moment? He put on a -lounging jacket, dismissed his servant, and settled himself beside the -fire in his drawing-room. He again evoked Helen with an exactitude of -recollection which made her present to him from her mauve stockings to -that little mark which she had there at the right corner of her mouth. -Well! he did not love her, and he would never love her. If he had hoped -to experience at last, through her, that supreme surprise of the heart -which continually eluded him, he might tell himself that this hope was -abortive like the rest. -</p> - -<p> -Like the rest! He felt a desire to convince himself that it had always -been so with him. He went and opened a box, in which were piled six or -seven note-books of different sizes. Some were made of sheets of school -paper. There were two of Japanese paper. These note-books were journals -of his life taken up repeatedly at unequal periods. In them he came upon -pages scrawled on the desk of the study-room at school, pages blackened -on the sides of boats, in hotel rooms, in this very drawing-room. He -took up these note-books, and began to turn over the leaves, finding in -them a former ego perfectly similar to the present ego in premature -misanthropy, sudden and fleeting ardours of sensuality, murderous -analysis, impotent hankering after unattainable delight, indolent -languor and incapacity ever fully to feel anything, whether real or -ideal. -</p> - -<p> -The whole had combined to make of him a sort of child of the century, of -the year 1883, but without elegy, a Nihilist of gallantry and without -declamation. -</p> - -<p> -The following is one of the pieces which his eyes, now gloomy and dull, -dwelt upon, and which would have broken Helen's heart if, gifted with -the magic faculty of second sight, she had discovered the melancholy -torpor which even the gift of her person, following upon the gift of her -entire soul, was inadequate to disturb. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">"PARIS, <i>May</i> 1871.</p> - -<p> -"Terrible days. Vanaboste comes and tells us yesterday, at one o'clock, -that we must get ready to leave, and that the pupils at Sainte Barbe -have gone already with their head. The Panthéon is full of powder, and -will soon blow up. Since morning the firing had been slowly, slowly -drawing nearer—a strange noise! It was as though some one had shaken -millions of nuts over the town in a gigantic cloth. Alfred and I spent -the morning in the attic watching the flames of the conflagrations -writhing against the sky. He was quite depressed, and I fiercely gay, -with a nervous gaiety that forced me to the utterance of outrageous -paradoxes—but were they paradoxes?—concerning the fine theories -of our professor of philosophy last week. O vision of fate! His last lesson -turned upon progress! -</p> - -<p> -"We are packing up hastily in order to leave, when one of the masters -comes in a state of terror through the little door opening upon the -Rue Tournefort, which he bolts behind him. He tells us that the -federates would not allow anyone to pass their barricades. It was with -great difficulty that he himself has been able to return. We were a long -way from the good-natured National Guardsman who said to us on Monday, -at the doors of the Lycée: Shout "Long live the Commune!" boys, and you -are free." Vanaboste was as white as my paper when he heard this news. -The usher hit on the plan of having mattresses spread over the middle of -the courtyard, so that if the Panthéon blew up we should fall with less -violence. We remained for about two hours in this distress, we pupils -fourteen in number, the two assistant masters, and the head master. -Alfred and I, who, by an odd contradiction, were almost calm, talking -together in a corner. -</p> - -<p> -"In spite of the firing, which was constantly drawing nearer, and the -bullets cracking against the walls, perhaps a hundred paces off, we had -neither of us a perception of reality; the danger appeared to us to be -something distant, dim, almost abstract. And we were talking—of what? -Of our childhood. 'It has been a happy one,' he said to me, 'even here.' -For once I emptied my heart to him, and let him see what I thought of -the scholastic lupanar in which, owing to my guardian's selfishness, I -have been obliged to grow up. After all, I prefer even this bagnio to -his house. -</p> - -<p> -"Through this useless talking the firing can be heard coming nearer. The -Panthéon does not blow up. Suddenly a loud shout comes down from one of -ourselves in the upper story, where, at the risk of receiving a bullet, -he had stationed himself at the window. 'The Chasseurs are at the end of -the street.' That was the most trying moment. My heart beat as though it -would burst, my throat was choking in the expectation of what was going -to happen. Undefined danger had left me calm. Exact, brutal, and present -fact affected me unpleasantly. Some shots are fired quite close, then -furious summonses with the butt-ends of guns shake the gate. The same -usher who had shown his coolness in conceiving the precautionary measure -of the mattresses, rushes forward in time to strike up the levelled guns -of two chasseurs, who, blackened with powder, and with eyes gleaming in -frenzy, would have fired at random into the crowd of us if the other had -not been there. A lieutenant comes up, a little man in yellow boots, -with strap on chin and pistol in fist. Vanaboste speaks to him, and we -are saved. -</p> - -<p> -"All this was yesterday. To-day we are again at our studies, a symbol of -our childish life in the midst of this tumult of action. I turn over the -leaves of an old book of spiritual philosophy with the pleasure of -contempt, and after reading official phrases about God, the immortal -soul, refinement of manners, moral liberty and innate reason, I close my -eyes and see the Square of the Panthéon as it was last night: the dead -lying with naked feet, because their shoes have been stolen; and with -battered skulls, because their deaths have just been made sure, of by -blows from butt-ends of guns; the splashes of blood, that feel sticky -beneath the soles of our boots; the flames of the conflagrations in the -distant sky; and on the footpath, lying on the same straw, and sleeping -like wearied brutes, the little chasseurs who have taken the quarter. -<i>Homo homini lupior lupis.</i>" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">"DIEPPE, <i>July</i> 1874.</p> - -<p> -"The daughter resembles the mother. She is only twelve years old, and -already I can catch the coquetry, the glances, the premonition of the -woman in the presence of the man; and it will end as it did with her -mother, in a marriage of convenience, first acts of thoughtlessness, a -first lover, then a series of lovers down to some young Baron de Querne, -whom there will be an attempt to persuade that none was ever loved but -he; and, more foolish or more intelligent than myself, he will perhaps -believe it. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, more intelligent; for in love the great thing is to have as much -emotion as possible; and the real deception is to paralyse one's heart -by clear-sightedness. Whether was it Valmont in the 'Liaisons'—dear -Valmont—or the President's wife that was deceived? She who felt or he -who calculated? Whether was it Elvire or Don Juan, who does not -understand that Elvire, seeing that she has been able to intoxicate -herself with love, is alone to be envied, while he himself is not? I -know all this, but the inward demon is the stronger, and as soon as I -begin to pay my addresses to a woman I am at pains to procure all such -information concerning her as can render me incapable of loving her. -</p> - -<p> -"At my age, ought I not to write in this book: 'O divine fate! that has -caused me so speedily to light upon the unique, the ideal woman, the -sister-soul,' &c. (It would call for some of Gounod's music). Not -exactly, Monsieur de Querne, but rather a lady of experience, who has -had five or six lovers, who has retained sufficient taste to give the -title of 'sentiment' to what belongs to fair and fitting and the most -brutal sensation; a lady of tact, who has given herself a good deal of -trouble to persuade you that you have seduced her. And the deuce take me -if I am angry with her for such charming hypocrisy! Besides, what is the -good of being angry with anyone for anything? Every human being is a -pretentious little watch, which, seeing its hands go round, fancies that -it is itself the cause of the motion. Foolishness and vanity! There -is a delicate mechanism inside, and this mechanism has it that -Madame —— shall be a sentimental prostitute, her daughter a -future quean, and I a mirthless debauchee, who parch my soul by setting -forth all this instead of enjoying what is granted to me." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">"PARIS, <i>22nd May</i> 1877.</p> - -<p> -"An evening of folly yesterday and debauchery, but debauchery that was -gay and healthy which is undoubtedly the truth. Nothing but this remains -to me that does not leave disgust behind. -</p> - -<p> -"I went to see Duret, the painter, with that sad dog René W——, -who first stopped in the Rue de la Tour-Auvergne to ask for Marie, a tall -brunette. -</p> - -<p> -"I have a Marie here," said the doorkeeper, "but she is a tall blonde, -red even," and in fact at a window in the first floor I saw a head of -warm, golden hair, a dress of clear, bright blue, and a made complexion -as extravagantly pink as a doll's. In my dark hours I have had -sufficient knowledge of the degrading and consolatory fascination of -these painted charms, of these slain bodies, of these ringed eyes, of -all this lying! -</p> - -<p> -"At Duret's found Léonie, the model who stood to him for his <i>Delilah</i> -in the last Salon: a somewhat wearied face, with a refined and arched -nose, eyes of gleaming blackness, a strongly marked chin, with a -slightly masculine appearance in the profile—the masculine appearance -of theatrical women who act in burlesque—and a long countenance. But -that is but the skeleton of the face. The slight moustache was tinged -with black, the patch on the cheek underlined with black, the eyes made -still larger with black, the complexion covered with powder, and the -powder blending with the pale pink of the blood gave the woman an -extravagant and sophisticated look which was completed by the -brilliantly nacreous teeth that twinkled with the splendour of moist -imitation pearls. -</p> - -<p> -"The toilet completed the woman. She had some black, gauzy material -round her neck, a hat trimmed with gauze and flowers, a dress of -variegated and friezed material, with a huge, red rose blooming on her -left breast. -</p> - -<p> -"'She's a luxurious woman,' said René ironically, and, indeed, with the -material of her dress, her gauze and her flower, she looked like a -creature that lived on nothing but superfluity. I paid my addresses to -her, pleased her, and did not leave her house until this morning. -</p> - -<p> -"O enchantment of the senses when the surcharge of thought comes not to -mar physical intoxication! O enchantment of prostitutes, seen thus as -dispensers of pleasure free from disquiet of heart! No asking whether or -how one loves or is loved, no measuring of sensation with an ideal type -of feeling that is perceived, and striven after, and that never can be -felt! I write these lines, and see! already my enjoyment has evaporated. -I write these lines and yet would that on a solitary terrace fronting a -landscape of trees and waters a woman might appear having the eyes of -which I long have dreamed—eyes which I know without having ever -met them—and might swear to me that this life has been nothing but -an evil dream! And she should tell me <i>all</i>, and by that all be -made the dearer to me;—and then I should love!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">"PARIS, <i>June</i> 1879.</p> - -<p> -"Luncheons and dinners; dinners and luncheons. Assignations and evening -parties. Ah! how empty my life is! I do nothing that I like; nothing; -for I like nothing. -</p> - -<p> -"In presence of the living creature, nothing at heart but pity for him -who suffers, if he does suffer—who will suffer since he endures the -evil of existence. -</p> - -<p> -"If death, inevitable death, were neither physically painful in the -passage thither from life, nor terrible in its sequel to our imagining, -ah! how I would seek that which has prompted thoughts to mar my life! -</p> - -<p> -"We live on—and why? We think—and why? Why between two glasses -of delicate wine and amid naked shoulders does there come to me ceaselessly -at table the image of the grave, and the insoluble question concerning -the meaning of this deadly farce of nature, and the world, and life? -</p> - -<p> -"I muse on the sweets of mutual love, an absurd dream that civilisation -grafts upon the simple need of coupling. Ah! for a simple passion that -might apply my entire sensibility to another being, like wet paper -against a window-pane. -</p> - -<p> -"And all this declamatory philosophy due to the fact that yesterday I -saw Madame de Rugle again at the Théâtre Français, and that the sight -did not move me one whit. What does logic say? That a man should not -force himself to tenderness when his lack of feeling is self-admitted, -but turn on his heel, whistling that polonaise of Chopin's which she -used to play to me sometimes in the evening with so much intention and -sentimentality. And of that passion this is all that is left." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">"PARIS, <i>January</i> 1881.</p> - -<p> -"I am aware that I have become horribly, fiercely egoistic, and the -external manifestations of this egoism are now offensive to me, whereas -formerly I used to surrender myself to it without scruple, at a time, -however, when I was of more worth than I am now by reason of the dream -that I cherished concerning myself. -</p> - -<p> -"Philosophising truthfully about oneself is as great a relief as the -vomiting of bile. I look for the history of my temperament from the days -of my childhood. I see that my imagination has been excessive, -destroying my sensibility by raising a fore-fashioned idea between -myself and reality. I expected to feel in a certain way—and then, -I never did so. This same imagination, darkened by my uncle's harsh -treatment, has turned also to mistrust. I have always dreaded every -creature. The loss of my father and mother prevented the correction of -this early fault. College life and modern literature stained my thought -before I had lived. The same literature separated me from religion at -fifteen. Impiety, to my shame, acted like refinement to seduce me! The -massacres of the Commune showed me the true nature of man, and the -intrigues of the ensuing years the true nature of politics. I longed to -link myself to some great idea—but to which? When quite young I -had measured the wretchedness of an artist's existence. There must be -genius or far better leave it alone. To rank as fiftieth among writers -or musicians—thank you, no. My fortune exempted me from the -necessity of a profession. Enter a Council of State for foreign affairs, -or a public office—and why? There are only too many officials -already. Get married? The thought of chaining down my life never tempted -me. I should have done the same as B—— who, on the day of -his wedding, took train to return no more. -</p> - -<p> -"Then what? Nothing. I have not even grown old of heart; I am abortive. -My sentimental adventures, which have been pursued in spite of -everything, for women are even yet what is least indifferent to me, -have, alas, convinced me that there are no kisses that do not resemble -those already given and received. It is all so short, and superficial, -and vain. How desperate I should be rendered by the thoughts of -myself—of that self which I shall never be able completely to -renounce—did I often indulge in them! What else but the damnation of -the mystics is <i>non-love</i>?" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Such were a few of the pages among many others, and the abominable -monograph of a secret disease of soul was continued in hundreds of -similar confidences. Often simply the date was written, together with -two or three facts: Rode, paid visits, went to the club, the theatre in -the evening, or a party, or ball, and then came a single word like a -refrain—<i>Spleen.</i> At the beginning of the last of these -note-books, Armand, when he had closed it, could read a list of all the -years of his life since 1860, and after each date he had -scrawled—<i>Torture</i>, and at the end, these words: -</p> - -<p> -"I did not ask for life. If I have committed faults, frightful ones, too, -I have also known sufferings such as, set over against the others, might -say to the inconceivable Power that has created and that sustains me, if -such a Power possess a heart: 'Have pity upon me!'" -</p> - -<p> -The young man thrust away with his hand the heap of papers wherein -he encountered so faithful an image of his present moral aridity. -Slowly he began to walk about the room. Everywhere in it he -recognised the same tokens of his inward nihilism. The low bookcase -contained but those few books which he still liked: novels -of withering analysis—"Dangerous Liaisons," "Adolphus," -"Affinities"—moralists of keen and self-centred misanthropy, and -memoirs. The photographs scattered over the walls reminded him of his -travels—those useless travels during which he had failed to -beguile his weariness. On the chimney-piece, between the likenesses of -two dead friends, he kept an enigmatic portrait, representing two women, -with the head of the one resting upon the shoulder of the other. It was -the present, life-like remembrance of a terrible story—the story -of the bitterest faithlessness he had ever endured. He had been cynical -or artificial enough to laugh over it formerly with the two heroines, -but he had laughed with death in his heart. -</p> - -<p> -At the sight of all these objects witnessing to the manner of his life, -he was so completely sensible of his emotional wretchedness that he -wrung his hands, saying quite aloud: "What a life! Good God! what a -life!" It was owing to experiences such as these that his lips and eyes -preserved that expression of silent melancholy to which he had perhaps -owed Helen's love. It is their pity that leads to the capture of the -noblest women. But these crises did not last long with Armand. In his -case muscles were stronger than nerves. He took up his journals, and -threw them, rather than put them, away in the box. -</p> - -<p> -"That's a rational sort of occupation," he thought to himself, "for the -night before an assignation." -</p> - -<p> -Immediately, his thoughts turned again to Helen. The charming air of -distinction that she possessed returned to his recollection, and -suddenly softened him to an extraordinary degree. -</p> - -<p> -"Why have I entered into her life," he said, "since I do not love her? -For eleven little months she did not know me, and she was at peace. -There would still be time enough to act the part of an honest man." -</p> - -<p> -He was seized by the temptation to do what he had done once -already—to renounce, before any irrevocable step had been taken, -an intrigue in which he ran the risk of taking another's heart without -giving his own in return. -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps she loves me," he said to himself; and he sat down at his -table, and even got ready a sheet of paper in order to write to her. -Then, leaning back in his easy chair, he reflected. The recollection of -Varades suddenly beset him, as also of the serenity with which Helen had -deceived her husband that evening. "Innocent child," he said aloud, -speaking to himself, "if it were not I, it would be someone else. When a -fast woman meets with a libertine, they form a pair." -</p> - -<p> -He began to laugh in a nervous fashion, and recalled the boundless -contempt with which he had formerly been covered by the lady whom his -scruples had led him to give up. She was the only enemy that he had kept -among all the women with whom he had had to do. The clock struck. -</p> - -<p> -"Two o'clock," he said, "and I have to get up early in order to visit -worthy Madame Palmyre, and reserve one of her little suites, as in -Madame de Rugle's days. I shall be tired. Monsieur de Varades will be -missed." -</p> - -<p> -Half-an-hour later he was in bed, and, head on arm, sleeping that -infantine sleep which, in spite of his life, had still been left to him. -So he was represented in a drawing by his father, which hung on one of -the walls of his bed-room. Ah! if the dead ones, whose son he was, had -been able to see him, would they have condemned him? Would they have -pitied him? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></h4> - -<p> -It was about half-past ten in the morning when Madame Chazel received a -small packet from the Baron de Querne. It contained two books—two new -novels—and a letter, the last being similar to all those that a man -of the world may write to a woman with whom he is on friendly terms. But -the postscript pressed as with a hand upon her heart. It ran as follows: -</p> - -<p> -"If your country friend decides to come to Paris, the best furnished -apartments that I have seen are at 16, Rue de Stockholm. They are on the -second floor, to the right." -</p> - -<p> -Yes, Helen was seized with inward trepidation on reading these simple -lines. In proportion as her action drew closer to her—the action that -would for ever separate her future and her past—the fever which had -been preying upon her since the previous evening had increased still -more. She had just left her bath, and, wrapped in a dressing-gown of -pure white, was crouched on a low chair beside the fire, her naked feet -in slippers, her form unconstrained by the flexible material, and her -hair rolled in a great twist about her neck. She shivered in her -wool-lined robe, and, with Armand's letter in her fingers, gazed now at -the paper, the mere touch of which overwhelmed her, and now around the -room—a refuge which she preferred even to the little drawing-room, as -enabling her to retire into a domain that was all her own. -</p> - -<p> -She had been so pleased at the time of their settling in Paris to obtain -this room all to herself! She had during so many nights known the -torture of sleeping beside a man whom she did not love, and if sleeping -side by side, almost breath to breath, forms the delight of blissful -passion, physical aversion, on the other hand, is augmented by such -intimacy, until it becomes a species of animal hatred. Alfred's -movements, the sound of his breathing, the mere existence of his person, -angered her and hurt her, in the hours that she spent thus beside him, -when silence hung heavy upon their rest, and she lay awake quivering and -in revolt. When requesting this separation of rooms she certainly had -not foreseen that the solitude of her couch would one day avail her as a -weapon against material partition, that terrible ransom for adultery -which prudent women accept as a security. It is a rare thing for those -who deceive their husbands to sleep apart from them. They would rather -not have to carry with them to their lover the anxiety due to a -watchfulness but little reconcilable with complete pleasure. -</p> - -<p> -But Helen was not capable of such calculations. The most charming trait -in her character was a spontaneity that might draw her into very great -perils, but that at least always preserved her from a foulness which is -more degrading than anything else—reflection in the midst of error. -At this very moment, as she sat crouching upon her low chair, she did not -think about the consequences of her approaching action, nor did she -reason—she felt. The presence of Armand's letter caused her to be -visited with excessive emotion. She scarcely so much as listened to the -noise that her little boy made in playing beside her bed. The child was -shaking his flaxen ringlets, and shouting and running about. He had set -two chairs beside each other, and was creeping between them, pretending -that he was a railway train passing through a tunnel. -</p> - -<p> -Since she had been in love with Armand, Helen had experienced strange -feelings of sadness in the presence of her little Henry, and she had -reproached herself for them as for a lack of tenderness, attributing -them to remorse. In reality, her sorrow was due to the discovery in her -son of an astonishing likeness to her husband. Even in his games the -child recalled the conversation of the father, who from principle gave -him for books nothing but scientific works, and then he had Alfred -Chazel's eyes and his awkwardness in using his hands, and had only his -mother's mouth and forehead. She spoiled him all the more for her -consciousness of what she had taken from him to give to another! The -child continued to play, looking sometimes towards his mother. The -latter, at one moment, heaving a deep sigh, crumpled up the paper that -she held in her hand, and flung it into the fire. -</p> - -<p> -The note had grown intolerable to her. She told herself, indeed, that it -was more prudent on her lover's part to write to her in this tone of -formal politeness, but it was such prudence as freezes, and in Helen's -then unnerved condition she had need of a letter whose every phrase acts -upon the reader's heart like invisible and caressing lips. The crumpled -paper, letter and envelope together, rolled into the fire, and the child -left the two chairs with which he was playing to come to his mother's -side and watch it burn. -</p> - -<p> -"What are you looking at there, darling?" Helen said to him. -</p> - -<p> -"At the nuns, mamma," he replied. So he called the luminous dots that -run across the black surface of paper consumed by fire. These dots were -in his eyes nuns distractedly traversing their burnt cloister. "How they -hurry," he said; "how frightened they are! Oh! that one, mamma, look at -that one! The convent is falling down. They are all dead." -</p> - -<p> -Madame Chazel felt herself incapable of enduring this merriment. The -whole odious nature of her moral situation had just been rendered -palpable to her by a petty, insignificant fact, that of her son making a -plaything of the letter in which her lover made an appointment with her -for their first secret meeting. She would have been so glad to have held -her home life, the maternal obligations of which she would fulfil to the -utmost, distinct from the other, from that life of passion upon which -she was entering, carried away by something stronger than her reason, -something so obscure to herself and yet so real. Was this distinction, -then, altogether impossible, seeing that on the very first day all that -she would have wished apart were being blended together? -</p> - -<p> -"Go and play with Miette," she said to her son, "I have a slight -headache." -</p> - -<p> -Miette was the little boy's nurse. A lady's maid, a cook, and a -man-servant completed the <i>personnel</i> of the household. Miette, who -had come from the country with her employers, had taken care of Henry from -his earliest infancy. At night, to send him to sleep, she used to sing -canticles to him, one especially of which delighted and terrified him: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"Come, divine Messiah."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -"What is Messiah?" he would ask his nurse. -</p> - -<p> -"He is Antichrist," she used to reply. -</p> - -<p> -"When will He come?" asked the child. -</p> - -<p> -"At the end of the world." -</p> - -<p> -"In how many years?" -</p> - -<p> -"Seven," said the nurse. -</p> - -<p> -"Then I shall be twelve years old," Henry would calculate. -</p> - -<p> -This astonishing prediction had so struck him the night before, that at -the mere mention of his nurse's name, he began to tell it to his mother. -At any other time this confidence would have amused her, but while -speaking he had in his bright grey eyes a look that the young woman knew -only too well. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't be frightened," she said, "for you are good, and go and play." -</p> - -<p> -The little boy cast a glance at the fire where the black residue alone -marked the site of the burnt convent; at the chairs whose backs were no -longer the walls of a deep tunnel; at his mother, to know whether he -might not remain. Unconsciously he was affected by the sadness -overspreading her face. By one of those almost animal intuitions -peculiar to extremely sensitive children, he discerned that his presence -was vexing to his mother. He kissed her hand, and then suddenly burst -into tears. -</p> - -<p> -"What is the matter, my angel, what is the matter?" said Helen, pressing -him in her arms and covering him with kisses. -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you were angry with me," he said. Then, warmed by her -caresses, he said: "I am going, mamma; I will be good." -</p> - -<p> -"Have children presentiments?" Helen asked of herself when she was left -alone. "One would think he were conscious that something unusual is -taking place." And with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting -upon her closed hands, she relapsed into the state of fever that had -kept her awake the whole night. The nacreous bruise that encircled her -eyes too clearly revealed this sleeplessness. On rising, she had looked -at herself in the glass, and said to herself: -</p> - -<p> -"I am not pretty—I shall not please him." -</p> - -<p> -What had been preying upon her had been neither prudish reasoning nor -moral reflection. It was a sort of ardent languor. She could see Armand -in her thought, and as it were a wave of blood, but having greater heat, -surged to her heart, her throat choked a little, and her will tottered. -It was not only her first intrigue, in the sense in which the world -understands the term, but it was her first love. Helen Chazel, while -still Mademoiselle de Vaivre, had endured one of the most painful trials -that can weigh upon youth. She had been persecuted by a step-mother who -hated her, while believing that she was only bringing her up well and -correcting her. The De Vaivres lived in a kind of château, four miles -from Bourges, and this had been a prison to the young girl. The father, -a weak man, who cherished an innocent mania for an archaeological -collection, patiently and complacently gathered together, had never -suspected the mute drama played between step-mother and step-daughter -for twelve years. -</p> - -<p> -Madame de Vaivre loved her husband, and, without herself comprehending -as much, was jealous of the dead wife, that first wife whose grace she -saw renewed in the features of the child, in her smiles and in her -gestures. Nothing is so dangerous as an evil feeling of the existence of -which we are not quite aware. To gratify it we discover all kinds of -excuses which enable us to feed our hatred without losing our -self-esteem. It was thus that Madame de Vaivre, having taken Helen's -education in hand, made every lesson and every admonition a means for -torture. -</p> - -<p> -This woman, pretty and refined, but unfeeling, very solicitous about -propriety in consequence of the lengthened sojournings at Paris with her -father, who had been an official deputy under the July monarchy, was -withal minutely devout, and instinctively unkind, like all persons who -are accustomed never to admit the just sensibilities of others. When -Alfred Chazel had come to be intimate with Monsieur de Vaivre, owing to -their common taste for excavations and antiquities, she had with joy -perceived that he was falling in love with Helen. It afforded her a -secret pleasure to marry her step-daughter to a man who had no fortune, -and, the dowry being very small, to condemn her for years to a middling -existence. Death, which takes as little account of our evil calculations -as of our great intentions, had taken in hand to render abortive this -woman's hateful anticipation, through which poor Helen had seen no more -clearly than Monsieur de Vaivre himself. -</p> - -<p> -All that the young girl understood on the day that Chazel asked her in -marriage was that she would be free from her step-mother's tyranny. She -had a plain perception of that from which she was escaping. As to -marriage and its physical realities, what could she have known of them? -Thus, on leaving the church, she found herself in a moral situation that -was full of peril. Her childhood, spent, as it had been, beneath -continual oppression, had to an excessive degree developed within her a -taste for the romantic—a power, that is, of fashioning beforehand an -image of life with which the reality is subsequently compared. Through -her joy at deliverance, her future marriage showed to her like a -paradise of delight. -</p> - -<p> -Misfortune had it that Alfred Chazel should be one of those men who, -with all kindness, all delicacy even, at the bottom of their hearts, are -for ever ignorant of a woman's nature. The consummation of the marriage -was to Helen something as hateful as it had been unexpected—like a -tribute paid to clumsy brutality. The result was that she received her -husband's endearments with a repugnance that was imperfectly dissembled, -and that added to the timidity of a man already timid by nature and -awkwardly impassioned, as those who have not slackened the initial -ardour of their youth in facile intrigues often are. Alfred was secretly -afraid of showing his tenderness to his wife, and he concealed from her -the intensity of a love that would perhaps have touched her had she been -able to perceive it. -</p> - -<p> -Moral divorce between husband and wife has nearly always physiological -divorce for its first and hidden cause. If community in voluptuousness -is the most powerful agent for the fusion of temperaments, the torturing -possession of a woman by a man remains the certain origin of -unconquerable antipathy. It came to pass in the Chazel household, as in -all similar households, that this first antipathy was heightened from -week to week by reason of the fact that two beings, condemned to live -side by side, unceasingly afford each other grounds for more love or -greater hatred. Do not all the petty events of life render them every -minute more present to each other? The divergence in tastes, ideas, and -habits that parted Alfred from Helen, would have provided the latter, -had she loved her husband, with pretexts for a loving education. Not -loving him, she found in them only reasons for separating from him still -more. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred Chazel was in fact a son of the people, and in spite of the -intellectual refinement of two generations, his peasant origin showed -itself again in him in clumsiness of gesture and attitude. He was not -vulgar, and at the same time he was lacking in manner. Helen, on the -contrary, came of a noble family, and her step-mother's continual -superintendence had developed to an extreme in her a sense of detailed -particularity concerning her person and everything about her. Her -husband's manner of eating shocked her; his manner of going and coming -and sitting down—a certain slowness in grasping all that constituted -the material side of life. When it was needful to accomplish a rapid and -precise movement, during a walk, or at table, or in a shop, he would -pause for a moment, with lips slightly gaping, and with a startled -demeanour, like a peasant passing through a terminus in a large town. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred, moreover, was fond of saying that he was an absent man, and that -the external world had no existence for him; and it was true, for two -influences had contributed to uproot him from the said external -world—the sudden transition of his family from one social class into -another, and the nature of his mathematical studies. His wife had never -been able to ensure that the cord of his eyeglass should not be broken, -and then knotted in several places, that the collar of his overcoat -should be kept down, his silk hat brushed, and his cravat properly tied. -The carelessness characteristic of men of thought was visible in his -entire person. -</p> - -<p> -Helen would have blushed with indignation and shame had she been told of -the part played by these trifles in her conjugal aversion. But is not -the life of the heart, like physical life, a summing of the infinitely -little? Moreover, these minute facts, which formed a mass in their -totality, symbolised an essential ground for dissociation between the -husband and wife, namely, the absolute distinction between the minds of -both. Helen's instruction had not been of a very solid kind; she had not -been fortified by that sum of positive learning which alone is able to -balance intense development of thought. Thus, all her reading as a girl -and as a young woman had been directed towards those works of -imagination for which Alfred professed the innocent contempt of a -scientist whose literary culture is almost non-existent. It appeared -extraordinary to him, and he used ingenuously to say so, that in an age -of chemistry, steam, and electricity, intelligent beings should occupy -themselves with the composition of such trash. Hence, in conversation, -husband and wife had not a single opinion in common. Alfred was quite -sensible that an abyss, growing constantly more impassable, was yawning -between Helen and himself, and he was pained by it, but in the way that -he would have been pained by an incomprehensible misfortune. -</p> - -<p> -"What does she want to make her happy?" he would ask himself, and then -he would in thought draw up a list of the conditions for happiness that -were realised about his wife: "We have money, and a dear child; she -wished to live in Paris, and here we are; I give her every freedom; I -have the most absolute confidence in her; I do her honour by my -position; everything smiles upon us and flatters us—and she is not -happy!" -</p> - -<p> -No, Helen had not been happy, and on the morning of this winter day, -which was to prove to her a date that could never be forgotten, she felt -her whole melancholy past surging back upon her. A thousand scenes -showed themselves, and she discerned that through them all she had been -advancing towards the hour at which, as she believed, her true life -would begin. Often at Bourges, while walking with her husband along the -Seraucourt promenade, she had asked herself whether she should ever, -ever be acquainted with happiness, with the warm radiancy within her of -a light that might illumine the cold darkness in which she languished. -Her husband conversed with her about his plans, his college life, and -his companions, with the calmness which he displayed in all matters, -holding it a principle that a man should look at life on its good side, -should be submissive, and accept. -</p> - -<p> -These talks prostrated her with sadness. She sighed vaguely after an -infinitude of emotion which she conceived to be possible, and the -tokens, the reflection of which she discovered in a few phrases in the -novels of her reading when they treated of love. Of all the emotions of -life this was the only one with which she was unacquainted. She had been -a daughter, and had loved her father, but her affection had been cruelly -deceived. She had been a sister, but little Adèle, Monsieur de Vaivre's -daughter by his second marriage, resembled her mother, and Helen had -never been able to become unreservedly attached to her. She had had -friends, but it had always seemed to her that these friends did not feel -as she did, and she had never ventured to speak to them of what touched -her most closely, of what was dearest to her heart. She would have been -pious had not the sight of her step-mother's piety given her an aversion -to religious practices which, as she saw only too clearly, might be made -a justification for the worst egotism. She was a mother, and she loved -her son; but, as formerly, in the case of her little sister, a -resemblance checked her in her feeling. Little Henry recalled Alfred too -much at certain moments. -</p> - -<p> -Then it was, when she had fathomed the bankruptcy of her first youth, -that her imagination pictured to her the dawn of a reparative feeling; -and what could this mysterious feeling be if it were not that one with -which she was unacquainted, and the sweetness, power and happiness of -which were celebrated by all? -</p> - -<p> -"But no," she said to herself, "it is a crime to love when one is not -free." -</p> - -<p> -Then she recalled conversations heard on her friends' "days" at Bourges, -and the manner in which people spoke of a doctor's wife who had eloped -with a young Conseiller de Préfecture. And then she met with men who -had so little resemblance to the image that she had formed of him whom -she might have loved! She remembered the painful surprise which had been -caused her by that very Monsieur de Varades, of whom De Querne had -heard. She had believed in the genuineness of his sympathy. He came to -see her. They used to have a little music together. Then, had he not -offered violence to her one evening when they were alone in the house? -She had said nothing to her husband from dread of a scandal and a duel; -but she had never received the young officer again when alone. She did -not suspect that he had revenged himself upon her by saying that she had -been his mistress. -</p> - -<p> -By what familiarities had she challenged the audacity of this garrison -Don Juan? Yet she was not a coquette. The feeling that sprang up within -her in the presence of a stranger was rather an apprehension of offence -than a desire to please. She had been as little of a coquette with -Armand de Querne. If there was a man whom she would have refrained from -approaching with a desire to seduce, it was assuredly he. Her husband -had so often extolled him to her. -</p> - -<p> -"When we were at college, Armand and I," or, "Armand used to say to me," -or, "Armand wrote to me." And so on. -</p> - -<p> -Helen had anticipated another and a more pretentious Alfred. She had -told herself that some day, if ever she left the country, she would be -obliged to endure in her home the presence of this friend, who would be -a hostile judge, and would raise fresh difficulties between her husband -and herself. If they were separated for so many reasons the one from the -other, her own reserve and Alfred's good nature at least prevented the -separation from breaking out in scenes and disputes. What would be the -outcome of the intrusion of Alfred's old chum into their home, she -almost anxiously asked herself on the occasion of her first visit to -Paris. -</p> - -<p> -Her rapid interview with Monsieur de Querne had modified the colouring -of these fears. He had come to take the Chazels to their hotel, and all -three had dined together in a restaurant on the Boulevards. Helen had -been surprised by Armand's outward appearance, and by the contrast that -he presented to the carelessness of Alfred; but further, the young man's -questions, his keen way of looking, the irony that tinted his slightest -expressions, together with an indefinable shade of contempt for Alfred, -which a woman's acuteness could not but remark, had disconcerted her, -causing her a slight shiver of mistrust. She would have wished never to -see the man again. She had been unable to refrain from mentioning this -antipathy to her husband, and he had replied: "He looks like that, but -he is such a good fellow, and then he has been so unfortunate." And he -told his wife about Armand's childhood, his guardian's selfishness, his -youthful melancholy, and he commiserated him for other mysterious -sufferings. -</p> - -<p> -"He has not understood life well. He was rich. He has not employed his -fine powers. He has said nothing to me, but I always believed that he -had experienced a deep passion." -</p> - -<p> -Helen would have been much astonished if any one had revealed to her -that the species of agony with which her thought rested upon the -probable secret nature of this disquieting personage, comprised that -form of anxiety which often precedes love. The settlement at Paris had -taken place, and Armand had begun to visit them, at first in their -furnished rooms, and then in the little house in the Rue de La -Rochefoucauld. It was he who had found it for them, he who courteously -offered his assistance in the countless goings and comings necessitated -by the furnishing of the new home. In the constant interviews thus -brought about, whether in a shop, or while walking together from one -tradesman's to another, or when driving in a carriage, as often -happened, Helen learnt to know all the delightful outward qualities -possessed by Armand. Unlike the men, all of them occupied with science -or self-advancement, who met at her husband's house, he appeared to -attach only a secondary importance to acquired merits or positive -learning. Questions of feeling alone interested him. -</p> - -<p> -In all the men that she had seen, Helen had encountered the same idea -about love, namely, that it pertained to youth, was to be relegated to -the background, and that rational people should never weigh it against -family or professional interests. Her discussions with Armand revealed -to her a man who had reflected a great deal about the mutual relations -of the sexes. He possessed that imagination of heart which women so -readily confuse with genuine sensibility, together with that experience -of amorous life which lends to libertines their prestige even with the -most virtuous. The expression of melancholy which was familiar to him -seemed to say that this experience had been purchased at the cost of -cruel deceptions. It was these unknown griefs that completed the work of -seduction which had begun in timorous astonishment, and been continued -in the admiration of the provincial for the Parisian; for the -superiority of judgment concerning life which distinguished the young -man, corresponded to too many stifled aspirations on Helen's part, to -leave her indifferent to it. It was he whose taste she perceived -scattered over the walls of her little drawing-room; he who had chosen -that old tapestry and hung it in its corner; he who had chosen this -piece of furniture or that piece of material from among several others. -This softened admiration, which led her to say to herself: "What a -happiness it would be to comfort him for all that he has suffered," had -soon ended in the hope that her presence was really sweet to him, for he -was occupied about her with visible sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -At different times she had heard him tell her: -</p> - -<p> -"I had an invitation to Madame So-and-so's this evening, but I broke my -engagement in order to spend the evening with you." -</p> - -<p> -One day, on the occasion of one of those insignificant events which in -the heart's darkness are as tiny lights revealing an immense gulf, she -had confessed to herself that she loved him. Armand, who was to have -come to dinner in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, had sent a note of excuse -to the effect that he was unwell. She had sent Alfred to see him, and -Alfred had found nobody in the Rue Lincoln. By the sorrow that the young -woman experienced, she recognised the extent of the interest that she -took in Monsieur de Querne, and, to her misfortune, she recognised it at -a moment when, upon one of those petty troubles, which are great -disasters in love, she must inevitably doubt whether her feeling was -returned. Instead of striving against this love, as she would have done -had she believed herself loved, she said to herself: -</p> - -<p> -"Why has he not kept his promise? With whom has he spent the evening?" -</p> - -<p> -When she saw him again, he spoke somewhat hardly to her, and she -suffered a disconcerted countenance to be seen. He gently took her hand, -and she burst into tears. From that hour she ceased to be capable of -concealing the disquiet with which the mere sight of Armand inspired -her. She began to enter upon that stage wherein the soul finds itself -ceaselessly divided between the sight of the direst misfortune and of -the highest felicity. How is it possible to reason then? Armand, who -knew love's halting-places too well not to perceive the progress that he -was making in Helen's heart, was adroit enough to show her that he -doubted her feelings towards himself, and that he was unhappy on account -of this doubt. -</p> - -<p> -He thus led her in succession to tell him that she loved him, to let him -take her hands, her arms, her waist, and to lend her cheek, her eyes, -her lips to kisses. Nothing could be more opposed than these progressive -familiarities to the ideas that Helen entertained respecting the manner -in which a woman ought to behave towards a man when she loves. She -considered, as do all truly loyal natures, that a slight deception is -morally equivalent to one that is complete. But she yielded to the -faintest expression of pain in the young man's eyes with a weakness for -which she reproached herself on each occasion, only to relapse once -more. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! do not be pained; what does it matter if I ruin myself?" such was -the translation of the poor woman's looks, the words that she uttered in -a whisper. -</p> - -<p> -She had not spoken falsely when putting to him the sorrowful question: -</p> - -<p> -"You will at least be happy?" -</p> - -<p> -And now, within a few hours of the moment when she would be entirely -his, it was this hope and this uncertainty that floated above all else. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she thought, "if only I may see that light in his eyes! Afterwards -I shall become what I may. What matter if I have given him that?" -</p> - -<p> -She had reached this point in her reflections when a kiss made her -start. Alfred had just come in to bid her good morning. Having gone out -before eight o'clock he had not yet seen her, and finding her so pretty -in the robe of soft material that showed the outline of her graceful -shoulders, and bust, and the lines of her legs terminating in the white, -blue-veined, naked feet in their black slippers, he could not refrain -from approaching her and stealing a kiss from the sweet place on her -neck, between the ear and nape. This was such a surprise to her on -emerging from the universe of ideas in which she had just been absorbed, -that she gave a slight scream. -</p> - -<p> -"Lazy, chilly, timorous creature," said Chazel, who strove to jest in -order to banish the angry expression which his caresses had just called -up upon that charming face. "Do you know what o'clock it is? A quarter -to twelve. You will never be ready for breakfast. What are you reading?" -he continued, taking up the two volumes sent by Monsieur de Querne which -were lying on the table; "more novels—but they are not cut. What have -you been doing all the morning?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have been settling papers and making up accounts." -</p> - -<p> -How many of these little falsehoods her lips had uttered, and not one, -even the slightest and most innocent of them, that did not cost her a -cruel effort. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you ring for Julia?" she resumed. "I am going to have my hair -dressed, and I shall be ready in ten minutes." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not in your way if I remain here?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Not particularly—for the present," she replied, and already she had -passed into her dressing-room. She had put on a light cambric wrapper, -and was unfastening her beautiful chestnut hair, combing it herself. -Alfred remained on his feet, leaning against one of the leaves of the -door and reading a newspaper which he had taken out of his pocket. The -mere rustling of the paper irritated Helen's nerves, because it recalled -this man's presence to her, and his presence appeared at this moment a -profanation. Ah! if Armand had been there instead of the other, how -charming she would have found it to associate him thus with the -coquettish portion of the mysterious attentions to her beauty. But such -familiarity in one whom they do not love is so displeasing to women, -that even prostitutes are pained by it. In all, whether virtuous or not, -modesty is the beginning and the ending of love. Alfred had never -understood this. He was still in love with Helen; and these sudden -intrusions upon her privacy procured him a dumb happiness that was -composed of timid desires and furtive contemplations. Over the top of -his open newspaper he watched the white hands passing backwards and -forwards among the yielding hair, and the graceful shape of the arms -which the wide sleeves, when thrown back by certain movements, allowed -to be seen. -</p> - -<p> -How he would have liked to handle that hair which she always denied to -him! And she too looked at her hair with happiness, in spite of the pain -which her husband caused her by remaining there, for she perceived that -it was as long and as wave-like as when she had been a young girl. Every -time that she paid attention to her beauty now, she studied herself with -childish anxiety, spying out the slightest wrinkle on her temples, about -her lips, around her neck, asking herself whether she was still pretty -enough to intoxicate the man she loved, and she smiled at herself in the -glass as she twined her hair, and leaning forward a little she saw in a -corner of the same glass the reflection of her husband's face with a -blaze in his eyes—that swift gleam of desire which she knew and hated -well. She shivered as though she had awoke to find herself exposed naked -in a public square, blushed violently, and said: -</p> - -<p> -"I do not know why Julia is not here. Ring again, please, and leave me." -</p> - -<p> -She got up, pushed Alfred away, shut the door, and when alone, felt the -tears come. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she said to herself; "I do not truly love him. Ought not these -trifles to be sweet to me since I endure them for his sake?" -</p> - -<p> -Such were her thoughts as she sat at the breakfast table, dressed now in -a dark-coloured dress, and wearing boots—the boots in which she was -presently, and in a very short time, for the time-piece hanging on the -wall was pointing to thirty-five minutes past twelve—to walk to that -Rue de Stockholm which she had not known even by name before receiving -her lover's note. Where was it? What would the house look like? At the -mere thought of it, an intoxicating, burning fluid seem to course -through her veins. To remain quiet was a torture to her, and as for -eating, she was unequal to it. It seemed to her that her throat was so -choked that not even a piece of bread would pass through it. Little -Henry was talking to his father, and the latter, on failing to receive -even a reply from her to two or three questions, said: -</p> - -<p> -"How strange you are to-day. Are you not well?" -</p> - -<p> -"I?" she said. "Why I am as cheerful and merry as possible," and she -began to laugh and to talk in a loud tone. "Can he suspect anything?" -she asked herself; "but what matter if he does?" -</p> - -<p> -"What are you going to do this afternoon?" asked Alfred again -mechanically. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you take me with you, mamma?" said Henry. -</p> - -<p> -"No, darling," she replied, evading a reply to her husband, "you will go -to the Champs-Élysées, and I will wish you good morning as I pass, -perhaps. Is it fine to-day?" she went on, although she had watched both -sky and pavement with impatient anxiety since early morning. And on his -replying in the affirmative she said: "You can take the carriage; I will -go on foot, it will do me good." -</p> - -<p> -They had a brougham that was hired by the month, and that they used in -turns, he for business expeditions, and she for paying visits. -</p> - -<p> -"At last!" she sighed, when she found herself alone in the little -drawing-room, Alfred having left for his office, and Henry for his walk; -and the distresses of the morning were succeeded by a delicious feeling -of relief. -</p> - -<p> -Already even, in her drawing-room, which was filled with recollections -of Armand, she was surrendered unreservedly to her love. The recovery of -her freedom overwhelmed her with joy such as the vision of the future -could no longer take from before her mind. She evoked in thought her -lover's gaze, she kindled in it that gleam of felicity which was as the -stars towards which her being was uplifted. -</p> - -<p> -"I am sacrificing everything for him," she thought to herself, returning -for a moment to the impressions of that painful morning; "but the more I -sacrifice for him the more will he feel how much I love him. And how I -love him! how I love him!" she repeated aloud in exultation. She looked -at her watch. "It is past one o'clock. He is to wait for me from twelve. -What a surprise for him if I arrive so soon. For he does not expect me -immediately." -</p> - -<p> -And she hastened to put on her hat, taking a thick veil with her at the -bottom of her pocket to put over her face in the cab. He had the day -before recommended her to do so. And now she was already passing down -the Rue Saint-Lazare, like one walking in her sleep, not daring to look -at anything around her. It seemed to her that everyone could see by her -figure and gait where she was going, and her elation had given place to -a sort of terror—but a resolute terror, like that of a man of courage -when on the way to fight his first duel—when she ventured to hail a -cab in the Place de la Trinité. -</p> - -<p> -"The Rue de Stockholm," she said. -</p> - -<p> -"What number?" asked the man. -</p> - -<p> -"I will tell you when to stop," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -To get out of the cab in front of the house had just appeared to her -suddenly as an impossibility. Her hands shook when she fastened on her -double veil in the vehicle, which began to move forward, heavy and slow; -at least it seemed to her that every revolution of the wheels lasted a -minute. She looked at the shops in the Rue Saint-Lazare, as they filed -past, then at the courtyard in front of the terminus, and the sight of a -traveller paying his cabman set her searching in her muff in agony. What -if she had forgotten her purse? No, she had forty francs, in small -ten-franc pieces. So much the worse; she would give one to the man, for -to wait for the change on the footpath would be too much for her. -</p> - -<p> -All these emotions were painful to her feelings. She would willingly have -fixed her imagination upon her lover—her lover, for she was going -to be his mistress. How contemptuous the tones of her friends at Bourges -used formerly to become when uttering these words in reference to some -compromised woman! Then her nervous emotion proved the stronger. -</p> - -<p> -"If only he does not guess what it has cost me! Ah, may my cowardly -fears not spoil his happiness!" -</p> - -<p> -The cab having meanwhile climbed the beginning of the ascent of the Rue -de Rome, was turning down past the wall of a private garden which forms -the corner of the Rue de Stockholm, and the driver leaned down from his -seat to ask Helen where he was to stop. -</p> - -<p> -"Here," she said. -</p> - -<p> -She got out, and placed the small gold piece in the man's hand, saying -to him: -</p> - -<p> -"Keep it, keep it." -</p> - -<p> -Then she was immediately afraid that he would guess why she did not wait -for the change, and she stopped and busied herself with gazing, without -reading it, at a placard affixed to the wall, until she heard the cab -wheels rolling away. She followed the footpath, lifting her head with a -throbbing of the heart which seemed to be driving her mad. Eight, -ten—two numbers more, and she had reached the house mentioned in the -note. She entered the gateway, seeing nothing. She passed in front of -the porter thinking that her limbs would not support her. Her feet were -giving way on the stair-carpet. One more effort, and she was at the door -of the apartments on the second floor. -</p> - -<p> -She leaned against this closed door. Not a sound was to be heard on the -staircase; not a sound came up from the street. She could hear the -beatings of her heart, and instead of ringing she remained where she -was. She wanted to recover a little calmness before appearing in -Armand's presence. Why had she come here? To make him happy! What, then, -would be the good of letting him see how much she had suffered? Her -heart beat less rapidly; she forced herself to smile; and the thought of -the happiness she was about to give was already a happiness to her -greater than her anguish had just been. -</p> - -<p> -She at last made up her mind to ring. The tinkling was succeeded by the -sound of footsteps, the key turned in the lock, and she sank upon -Armand's bosom, and was immediately drawn into a little drawing-room -furnished in blue. Flames were burning in the fire-place. At the first -glance Helen saw that there was no bed in the apartment. She had so -dreaded the sight of this on first entering that she felt an infinite -gratitude to Armand for having selected their place of meeting in such -a way as to spare her this initial shock. He, meanwhile, had unfastened -both her veils, taken off her bonnet, compelled her to sit down in an -arm-chair beside the fire, and, kneeling in front of her, was clasping -her almost madly, repeating again and again: -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, my love! how sweet of you to come!" -</p> - -<p> -And he gazed at her with eyes made very loving with the joy of desire -that is certain of its satisfaction—the joy of desire only, for on -seeing her smile at him with that easy smile to which she had compelled -her countenance, in order not to displease him, he had just told himself -that it was not the first time that she had come to a like meeting, and -a terrible duality had been set up within him between his sensations and -his thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -"She has a fancy for me," he reflected; "let us take advantage of it. -But why have all women a mania for telling you that you are their first -lover?" -</p> - -<p> -His kisses were loosening the locks of her hair, which she tried to -readjust above her forehead with her hand. -</p> - -<p> -"Do not be afraid," he said to her; "I have thought of everything." And -he led her through the bedroom to the door of a little dressing-room, on -the table in which were arranged all the articles belonging to his -travelling dressing-case. -</p> - -<p> -"You will be able to comb your hair again," he said. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh!" she said, blushing, "you make me ashamed." -</p> - -<p> -Just then he had led her into the bedroom, and as he was taking off the -jacket which she wore over her dress, a small object rolled out of her -pocket. It was a pocket-comb of light tortoise-shell, which Helen had -taken up unreflectingly before going out, as she often did. -</p> - -<p> -"She remembered that, too," he thought. -</p> - -<p> -Then with loving entreaty: -</p> - -<p> -"Be mine," he asked of her. -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, I am yours," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -A twilight prevailed in the bedroom, for he had loosed the -window-curtains, as also those of the bed—of that bed which she found -strength to look at for the first time. How fain would she have bidden -him leave her to herself! And she turned her eyes towards him. He had -begun to unfasten the buttons of her dress, and she was about to say to -him, "Go away!" when she saw in his eyes that expression of felicity of -which she had so often dreamed, and she suffered him, with that divine -weakness whose sublime flattery so few men understand. -</p> - -<p> -If a woman who loves wishes to be loved in the same degree, is it then -needful that she borrow something from the methods of those creatures -devoid of true sensibility, to whom their persons are but instruments of -supremacy, and who surrender themselves that they may the better -possess? Helen did not suspect, while Armand, intoxicated with her -beauty, was sweeping her away in his arms, after warming her feet with -kisses and taking from her all her attire, from her bracelets to her -hair-pins—no, Helen did not suspect that, at that very moment, -this man had just found in the absolute submission to his desires that had cost -the poor woman so dear, a reason for not believing in her. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you happy?" she asked of him an hour later, lying on his heart, and -giving herself up to the languid voluptuousness that succeeds caresses; -"tell me, are you happy? You see, <i>I</i> am." -</p> - -<p> -And it was true, for she had just for the first time felt an unfamiliar -emotion waking in her beneath the caresses of the man she loved so -dearly. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! very happy," replied Armand, and he spoke falsely, for reviewing in -thought all the slight incidents of this first meeting—the smiling -entry, the presence of the comb, the compliant disrobing, the burning -susceptibility of his mistress—he said again to himself that he was -certainly not Helen's first lover. -</p> - -<p> -And then, he secretly despised her for not having denied herself in -detail. The evident absence of remorse in the woman seemed to him a -proof that she had no kind of moral sense. He did not tell himself that, -if she had manifested remorse, he would have treated her as a hypocrite, -and meanwhile she was speaking to him. -</p> - -<p> -"See," she sighed, "as soon as I saw you, I loved you. I felt that you -had not had your share of happiness here below, and it was my dream to -impart it to you, and to do away with all your troubles. There is a -wrinkle in your forehead which I cannot endure. When you asked me to be -yours and I said no, I saw that wrinkle between your eyebrows, there," -she said, kissing the spot, "and then, when I said yes, the wrinkle was -gone. That is why I am here, and proud of being here, for I am so proud -of loving you." -</p> - -<p> -"How strange it is," thought Armand, "that no woman has conscience -enough to say to herself: 'I am acting disgracefully, lying, betraying; -it amuses me, but it is disgraceful.' The cloth on the communion-table -and the sheet on the bed of a furnished room are all one to them. There, -my angel, go on with your romances," and he closed her lips with kisses. -"Ah!" he thought again, "she is very pretty. If only she had wit enough -to hold her tongue!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></h4> - -<p> -The evening which succeeded to this day of fever, agony, and bliss, was -spent by Helen in torturing and delicious yearning. Is not the -regretting of one's happiness the thinking of it again? Why had she -asked her lover not to come to the Rue de la Rochefoucauld that evening? -When yonder, beside him, she had thought that to meet him again in her -own home after an interval of so few hours, would be distressing to her. -Now she said to herself, while working after dinner at her crochet in -the little drawing-room, and seated in the arm-chair which Armand -usually occupied—yes, she said to herself with melancholy that it -would be very sweet if she had him there, close beside her. -</p> - -<p> -She would touch her lover's hand sometimes with her own. She would -breathe the faint aroma of the scent which she had asked him to use and -which was the same as hers. In imagination she grasped that enjoyment at -once severe and soothing to a woman's soul—the enjoyment of hearing -the lips that have told you "I love you" between two kisses in the -afternoon, employ "Madame" and similar formalities to you, so that the -most insignificant phrase brings home the charm of the mystery that -links you together. And Helen's delicate fingers continued their agile -handling of the tortoise-shell crochet hook, while Alfred turned over -the leaves of a book without speaking. -</p> - -<p> -On her return, she had experienced a bitter moment when, meeting her son -again, she had been forced to allow little Henry to give her -kisses—which she had not returned. She had contented herself with -embracing him, with resting the child's cheek against her own, and then -she had felt that she loved him even more than before. All these -different kinds of emotion had left their traces in her face, which, -usually rosy, was on this evening strangely pale, but of that toned and -shrouded paleness that succeeds to complete voluptuousness. -</p> - -<p> -A halo of lassitude hovered about her eyes, a softness about her smile, -an air of suppleness and languor about her entire person, and this -lover-like appearance lent her such seductiveness as would have -frightened her had she taken the trouble to watch Alfred. The latter -never turned his eyes from her as she bent her tenderly wearied head -over her work. Dressed in white, as was her custom, the faint brown tint -of her eyelids was the better seen since she kept them downcast, -apparently upon her wool, in reality upon the visions which were -rekindling her soul. Alfred reflected with rapture that she was his -wife—his wife. -</p> - -<p> -He was more in love with her than ever. Only, ever since their -settlement at Paris had brought with it a separation of rooms, he had -felt himself seized, whenever he longed for her caresses, by an emotion -which he could with difficulty subdue. He must ask his Helen to allow -him to remain with her, or else enter her room when she was in bed. This -need of acting, united to the torment of physical desire, is so painful -to certain men, that timid youths experience an almost unbearable -throbbing of the heart on merely crossing the threshold of those houses -in which pleasure is sold ready-made. During the whole of this evening, -Alfred, although he was satisfied of Helen's submission, endured that -emotion which is not without sweetness, since it renders still more -perceptible the keenness of desire. He looked at her, and the words -which he was preparing beforehand to say to her, caused him a sinking of -the heart. He kept silence with such persistency that the poor woman had -almost forgotten his existence when she rose to go to her room and held -out her forehead to him, with the words: -</p> - -<p> -"Till to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"Eh! what! till to-morrow?" he replied, trying to bring his kiss down to -her eyes, and lower still. She shuddered, repulsed him abruptly, and -looked at him. In the depths of her husband's eyes there was the same -gleam of desire the reflection of which she had that morning surprised -in her looking-glass, while combing her hair to surrender it to the -hands of the other. -</p> - -<p> -It was an abrupt awakening from the dreams of that whole evening. The -palpable sensation of physical partition was present in all its -hideousness, and as Alfred approached her with a smile, and the words, -"My little Helen," she passed quickly to the other side of an -easy-chair, and, separated from him, replied: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you not see that I am quite ill this evening?" -</p> - -<p> -She was so pale, and had such a ring of weariness about her eyes, that -Alfred was moved by the sight. -</p> - -<p> -"It is the last of my headache," she continued, touching her temple; "a -good night's rest, and it will disappear. So, till to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -She smiled, made a graceful gesture with her hand, and left the -drawing-room. Alfred, when alone, could hear her going and coming in the -adjoining apartment, which was her own room. He himself occupied a room -on the floor above, opening into his study. -</p> - -<p> -"How delicate her health is," he thought tenderly to himself. -</p> - -<p> -"No; never, never!" said Helen, speaking aloud to herself, when her maid -had left her; and, leaping out of bed, she turned the key in both doors. -Alfred, who was still in the drawing-room, seated before the fire, heard -the sound of the key turning in the lock. -</p> - -<p> -"She is afraid of me, then?" he asked himself with singular sadness; and -meanwhile Helen, stretched in bed, was repeating half aloud: -</p> - -<p> -"Never, never again will I give myself to that man." -</p> - -<p> -The reality of the situation had just been impressed upon her with -frightful clearness. She could foresee the daily strife, the dispute for -her person night by night and hour by hour. If high life, as it is -called, with its nightly engagements, its facilities for isolation in an -immense house, and its social pleasures and duties, enables a husband -and wife, not on good terms with each other, to live both side by side -and yet apart, it is not so with those of the comfortable middle class. -Conjugal interviews in private are there the rule, social engagements -the exception, and husband and wife meet every moment, and in every -detail of existence. -</p> - -<p> -"Heavens, what can I do?" said Helen to herself. Then courageously: "I -will find means. It will be so sweet to struggle for him." -</p> - -<p> -Her soul became exalted by the impress of this thought, and suddenly she -could again taste Armand's kisses upon her lips. All the circumstances -of their interview showed themselves, from the anguish of arrival to -that of departure. Ah, what a farewell! What a caress was that given on -the threshold of the door before entering again upon life! Then, what a -walk through the streets with its brutal tumult of passengers, vehicles, -trains! Armand had remained alone in the little home. What had been his -thoughts in presence of the bed which, with strange modesty, she had -wished to remake herself? -</p> - -<p> -"I am going to be grateful to my step-mother for making me wait on -myself when I was small," she said, with her tender gracefulness. -</p> - -<p> -She knew by hearsay that men usually despise women when they have -nothing more to obtain from them. But her Armand was not like the rest, -since he had lavished upon her his most caressing kisses after their -common ecstacy. "I was there," she reflected; "it was when I had left that -he judged me. Judged?—and how? I deceived for his sake, but still -I deceived." Then once more she saw him, full of such tender passion, -that she fell asleep with a smile at his image, and at the thought: -</p> - -<p> -"I shall see him to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -It was at the Théâtre des Variétés that they were to spend together -that second evening whose hours were to Helen sweet of the sweet—the -only truly rapturous ones of those sad loves. As soon as she awoke, she -had written her lover an interminable letter, and just as she was about -to send it, she had received from the young man, who for once was -faithless to his principles, an almost coaxing note. The nervous emotion -of the night before had lost its keenness in her, leaving behind it an -acuter susceptibility of heart with which to enjoy desired things with -more of inward thrilling. Chance willed it that Alfred should breakfast -away from home, and thanks to his absence the cruel impressions of the -previous evening were not renewed. Thus, when she arrived at the door of -the little stage-box in the theatre, she was in that delicious state of -soul in which there is, as it were, an inward voice that sings. At such -moments everything soothes, just as at others everything wounds. -</p> - -<p> -It was nine o'clock. Helen was standing then in the passage, and while -the attendant was relieving her of her cloak she did not venture to ask -whether there was anyone already in the box. The door was opened, her -heart throbbed, and she perceived Armand rising to greet her. How she -loved him for having got there before herself and her husband. Once -seated, she at last ventured, after a few minutes, to look at him. He -appeared to her to be rather pale, and she felt some anxiety about it; -but he had such eyes as on his good days, those which rekindled all her -soul, and not those others whose mystery terrified her. What piece were -they playing on the stage? She could hear the music of the orchestra, -the voices of the actors, the applause; but the interest of the play -turned with her upon knowing whether Alfred would leave the box at the -next interval. The curtain fell. Her happy destiny willed it -that there should be a family of their acquaintance in the house. -Her husband went off to speak to these ladies. She was alone with her -beloved—alone!—and turning towards him she asked: -</p> - -<p> -"Are you in love with me to-day?" -</p> - -<p> -Armand did not reply, but under pretence of picking up his opera-glass, -which had fallen to the ground, he bent down and took her foot in his -hand. Through the silk she could feel a clasp which caused her to blush -and cast down her eyelids, as though she were incapable of supporting -the emotion that took possession of her. With a rapid gesture she seized -a bouquet composed of a spray of fern and a little lily-of-the-valley, -which the young baron wore in his button-hole, and slipped her larceny -into her bosom. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred returned, the curtain rose again, scene succeeded to scene, and -act to act, but she was aware of nothing save of the fact that she was -almost too happy; and when, on the conclusion of the play, Armand gave -her his arm to lead her back to a carriage, she leaned upon this arm -with that absolute blending of motion, which is a surer token of love -than any other. How gladly she would have had him to take his place -beside her! But already he was departing, and she followed him with a -prolonged gaze through the crowd. Then the carriage extricated itself -from the confusion in the neighbourhood of the theatre. "Good-bye, my -love," she said in thought, while her husband took her hand, and said -aloud to her: -</p> - -<p> -"You are better this evening?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said, freeing her fingers, "but it is the excitement of the -play. I need rest so much. I have not slept for the last five nights." -</p> - -<p> -Chazel understood only too well what this reply meant. He remained -silent in a corner of the carriage. Helen also refrained from speaking. -But a plan had already ripened in her head. The very next day, brought -by Alfred himself, she would visit their physician, whose consulting day -it was. She would enter the doctor's room alone, and relate to him some -symptoms or other; then she would say that the physician forbade all -intimate relations with her husband until further notice. She was too -well acquainted with the species of timid modesty which ruled Alfred not -to know that he would pity her without seeking to divine the mystery of -suffering with which she would shroud herself. Supported by this -plan—which would have been very repugnant to her had it not been -calculated to assure the security of her happiness—with what -delight did she suffer herself to be overpowered by sleep, by such a -sleep as that wherein we appear to sleep with clearness in our dreams! -We sleep, and something wakes within us—a happy portion of our -spirit—which ceases not to be sensible of the happiness that we -shall find again to-morrow on our pillow. Do we not know that we shall -learn this happiness anew by merely opening our eyes? -</p> - -<p> -But neither on that following morning, nor on the mornings which came -after it during those few weeks of first intoxication through which she -passed, did Helen open her eyes immediately upon awaking. For several -minutes she kept her eyelids closed, that Armand's image might return to -her perfectly clear and complete before any other impression. If the day -about to be spent was an ordinary one, that is to say, without an -appointed visit to the Rue de Stockholm, she rose indolently. The -thought of her appointment was not present to make her feverish, and she -could think about her lover without anxiety. -</p> - -<p> -On the previous evening, before going to bed, she had begun a letter to -him, which she concluded as soon as she had risen, so that "good-night" -and "good morning" might meet upon the same scrap of paper—a visible -symbol of the continuity of her love. Sometimes she found means to send -this letter, sometimes she kept it about her, folded in two in her -bosom, in order to deliver it herself. From Armand she expected no -reply. He had explained to her the prudential reasons on account of -which he did not write, and in this prudence she had not perceived the -lack of impulse and politic calculation of a man of gallantry, who -foresees approaching ruptures, and does not wish to leave any weapon in -the hands of his future enemy. -</p> - -<p> -She used to close her letter with a seal, on which she had had engraved -a serpent in the shape of the letter S, because with an S began the name -of the street which had been the asylum of her happiest moments. The -laughter with which Armand had greeted this childishness, had indeed -pained her somewhat, but she had said to herself: "Men have not the same -way of loving as we have." Then, her dear task concluded, she addressed -herself to all the cares of her household, cheerful, and finding no duty -irksome. She was accompanied throughout her work by a phrase which she -used to repeat in a whisper: "He loves me, he loves me." Especially did -she occupy herself with her son, whom she now could kiss without -remorse. "No, dear child, I have taken nothing from you," she said to -him in her heart, and thanks to that power of sophistry characteristic -of happy love, she came to think in like manner respecting her husband. -</p> - -<p> -She had never done anything but esteem him, and she continued to esteem -him as before. Since the pretence of the doctor's order had freed her -from all hateful advances on Alfred's part, she ingenuously extended to -him the joy with which her heart was filled. She no longer made him any -of those bitter replies which, in connection with the pettiest details, -betray the unconscious animosity of a woman against the man to whom she -belongs, and who has not been able to win her love. Did he at table -utter, as he used to do, an idea that was not her own; did he allow an -awkward gesture or a clumsy question to escape him, she had no capacity -within her for becoming angry, all her faculties being employed in -calculating the hour at which Armand would be with her, and in depicting -to herself the happiness that his presence would bring her. The hour -struck, and Armand was there. She felt so fully satisfied that she no -longer thought of watching him. He told her that he loved her; he proved -it to her by sacrificing his life in society, the theatres, his club, -and spending as many as two or three evenings in the week with her. What -interest would he have in deceiving her, and how could she do otherwise -than surrender herself to this divine felicity? -</p> - -<p> -When the morning of a day selected for one of their secret meetings -arrived, she had not the strength to superintend her household. The -expectation of happiness was so keen that it bordered upon pain. On -these mornings, as on the first of them, she was absorbed, feverish and -prostrate by the fireside, in prolonged reflection, and in her excess of -feeling experienced an anguish that relaxed to delight when she had -reached the little suite of rooms in the Rue de Stockholm. These were -still the same; for having been obliged at their third meeting to take -other rooms in the same house, she had entreated Armand to return to the -former ones, to those which had witnessed her first intoxication. -</p> - -<p> -To do this it had been necessary to take the lodgings no longer by the -day, but by the month. Armand had at first declined to do this, -affirming that he had good reasons, but in reality because he knew by -experience how greatly a movable place of meeting that is changed on -each occasion facilitates ruptures, and then—although he was generous -and rich he felt, without fully acknowledging it to himself, that there -was rather too great a difference between the twenty-five francs that -Madame Palmyre demanded for an afternoon, and the four hundred -represented by a monthly hiring. He had yielded nevertheless, just -because a small money question was involved, and because he thought -himself shabby for having so much as thought about it. -</p> - -<p> -"It will only last six months after all," he had said to himself. -</p> - -<p> -But how delighted the confiding Helen had been by this concession! What -quick work it had been with her to transform the commonplace rooms into -a personal domain to which she brought all kinds of dainty feminine -objects, slippers into which to slip her naked feet, a lace shawl to -throw over her quivering shoulders, a few pieces of material for draping -the table and the backs of the easy chairs, a frame in which to place a -photograph of Armand. She had not suspected that each of these little -attentions had had the double effect of disquieting De Querne with -respect to the difficulty of future separations, and of proving to him -that he had to deal with a lady of experience. Like all romantic women, -Helen was occupied with the subtleties of the voluptuousness common to -herself and to her lover, as though with an anxiety suggested by -sentiment. What renders a woman of this kind perfectly unintelligible to -a libertine is that he, on his part, has accustomed himself to separate -the things of pleasure from the things of the heart, and to taste this -pleasure amid degrading conditions; whereas a woman who is romantic and -in love, having known pleasure only as associated with the noblest -exaltation, transfers to her enjoyments the reverence which she has for -her moral emotions. -</p> - -<p> -Helen approached with amorous piety, almost with mystic idolatry, the -world of mad caresses and embracings. This piety was centred upon the -man who had taught her to love, as upon a being above the range of all -discussion. It went for nothing that Armand, after the first days of a -self-abandonment produced by the novelty of physical possession, -multiplied the tokens of his egotism; his mistress found the means of -loving him the more for them. If he came late to their interview in the -Rue de Stockholm, she was so proud of having worsted him in the intimate -joust of love that she was almost grateful to him for doing so. If at -the last moment, and merely to suit his own convenience, he altered the -hour of their meeting, the gentle woman experienced a further pleasure -in feeling herself treated by her worshipped master as a slave, as a -thing which belonged to him, and which he disposed of according to his -fancy. -</p> - -<p> -Was this paying too dear for the ecstasy which she felt in ascending the -staircase of the house (ah, how little she cared whether she were looked -at now!) in hearing the creaking of the key (her own key, for she had -now one of her own) in the lock, in walking through the three rooms -wherein abode the whole of her passionate life, and above all in holding -Armand beside her, close beside her? Evening was falling, the objects -about them were growing dim in outline, and she lay in his arms, -listening to the distant roar of the town, the noise of the neighbouring -railway, and, beneath their windows, the circles of little girls -singing: "Il était une bergère." Then she would give her lover kisses -so tender that he would ask her almost with anxiety: -</p> - -<p> -"What have you got to trouble you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Why, I have got you," she would reply. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! why, why is passion not contagious? And what a monstrous thing it is -that of two lovers one should be able to feel so much and the other so -little! -</p> - -<p> -So little! And yet the young man in these crafty interviews allowed -himself to speak to his mistress as though he were madly in love with -her. Was it in order to beguile with talk the real dryness of his heart? -Was it that the vibration of his troubled nerves was completed in -phrases as full of tenderness as he was lacking in it himself? If he had -had less power of analysis, he would have believed himself in love with -Helen, for when beside her he was seized with fits of the most violent -desire. But he knew that once out of her presence he would experience -nothing but a moral aching, an infinite weariness, a sense of the -uselessness of things, and, to sum up, a renewal of that torpor of soul -which the fever of the senses galvanised without dissipating. As for -Helen, she drank in every word coming at such moments from Armand's -lips, like a liquid that would enable her to traverse with intoxication -the space separating her from the next meeting. -</p> - -<p> -It was, nevertheless, in the course of one of these talkings on the -pillow, he leaning on his elbow, and she lying against his breast and -watching him, that the first words of disenchantment were -pronounced—words after which she began to see her Armand no longer -through the mirage of her dreams, but such as he was, with the -frightful, deathly aridity of his soul. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, how I should like to have a child by you!" she had murmured to him -in the middle of one of these contemplations—"a child who had these -eyes," and she raised her hand to touch her lover's eyelids; "who had -these lips," and she brushed them with her fingers. "How I should love -him!" -</p> - -<p> -"I do not wish for it," replied Armand. "I should feel too sad to see -him kissing as his father another than myself." -</p> - -<p> -"But that would not be!" she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -"It could not be avoided," he replied. -</p> - -<p> -"I would go away with you," she said, "and I should be forced to do so. -How could Alfred keep me, now that I never give myself to him?" -</p> - -<p> -While she was uttering these words, he looked at her, thinking to -himself: -</p> - -<p> -"She, too! What strange desire is it that impels them all to give out -that they have ceased to belong to their husbands?" -</p> - -<p> -And, in spite of himself, he smiled his evil smile, the smile with which -he had greeted other analogous confidences made by other lips, and this -smile had always been sufficient to prevent the women who had drawn it -upon themselves from returning to the subject. They have such facility -in changing a falsehood! But Helen, who did not speak falsely, could -endure neither the smile nor the look which accompanied it. Was it not -in order that she might never see them again that she had given herself -to her lover? It was the first time since then that she had encountered -the distrust which caused her so much pain at the beginning of her -connection with Armand, and loyal as she was, brave and straightforward, -she persisted: -</p> - -<p> -"You do not believe me capable of belonging to two men at the same time? -Say no, my dear love; say that you have not such an opinion of me. From -the day on which I became your mistress, I ceased to be Alfred's wife." -</p> - -<p> -"I am not jealous," said the young man; "I know that you love me." -</p> - -<p> -"Say that you are not jealous, because you are sure that I am only -yours." -</p> - -<p> -"If you wish it, I will say so," he replied, rendered somewhat impatient -by her persistence, and being especially but little anxious about the -prospects of paternity, flight, and drama which Helen's sudden words had -just opened up before him; and such irony was impressed upon his words -that the unhappy woman became silent. -</p> - -<p> -"He does not believe me," she thought; "he does not believe me!" -</p> - -<p> -On returning home that evening, Helen felt sad, even to death. She -withdrew to her own room, and, under pretence of a headache, went to bed -instead of coming down to dinner. She wept much. She could see dimly -through her grief what a difference there existed between Armand's love -and her own. "Ah!" she said to herself, "of what has he judged me -capable? He does not love me." And, seized again by the terrible dread -from which she had suffered on the very evening of the day when she had -given herself to him, she said again to herself: -</p> - -<p> -"He is right. What I am doing is so wicked. But he ought to understand -that it is for his sake, and so excuse me." And she pressed her forehead -upon her pillows, falling suddenly, as very impassioned souls do, from -extreme felicity into extreme anguish. -</p> - -<p> -This first perception was a very keen one, but it did not last. Upon -reflection, Helen compared her grief with the reason which had provoked -it. The sight of the disproportion between cause and effect sufficed to -calm her, the more so that Armand's eyes, when they met again, expressed -that ardour of desire in the fire of which her heart ever expanded. The -young man had quite understood the pain caused to his mistress by his -doubt, and had said to himself: -</p> - -<p> -"Why torment her? She lies to me in order to please me the more, and I -am angry with her for the lie. 'Tis too unjust!" -</p> - -<p> -This reasoning, which was a secret flattery to his pride, had the result -of making him more tender towards Helen. But when the period of lucidity -has begun in the case of a heart that loves, it does not close so -rapidly, and a few days after this first shock Helen was to endure a -second. -</p> - -<p> -This time her lover and she had met, as they sometimes did, to walk -together in one of the avenues in the Jardin des Plantes. Helen was very -fond of the peaceful, country-like park, with its fine trees reminding -her of those in the grounds of the Archbishop at Bourges. She was -especially fond of the place where she had been waiting for Armand, the -long slender terrace the parapet of which runs along the side of the Rue -Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire. She sat down on a bench, from which she could -follow the hands of a large clock placed against one of the inner -buildings of the Hôpital de la Pitié. The melancholy courtyard of this -house of griefs, with its pruned and leafless trees, the gloomy bars on -the windows, and the old and dilapidated colouring of the walls, pleased -her as a contrast to the young and happy intimacy of the dear romance of -her love. She was sensible of a delightful lethargy in bringing back her -thoughts to herself, while the great omnibuses went heavily down the low -street almost beneath her feet. Some children were playing in the grove -of the labyrinth, and their shouts reached her, causing her to renew -far-off impressions obliterated by the years. -</p> - -<p> -At last she perceived Armand at the end of the terrace, and she rose to -meet him, prettier than usual, as she knew from her lover's glance, -thanks to the contrast between her toilet and the humble -landscape—between her pink complexion and the dark leafage of the -cedars. Then they walked in the quiet portion of the gardens, that -portion which is set aside for plants—near trees two hundred years -old, whose aged trunks, plastered like walls, rested on supports of iron. -Whether the winter sky were bluish or veiled with mist, there was always -sunshine so far as she was concerned, when Armand was there. -</p> - -<p> -They were wandering, then, side by side, in one of the avenues of this -vast garden on a dull afternoon early in February, and Helen was telling -her lover the story of the wife of one of Alfred's colleagues who had -just been cast off by her husband, on his discovering that she had two -lovers at once. -</p> - -<p> -"The rest," said the young man, with his evil smile, "have them in -succession. The difference is a slight one." -</p> - -<p> -"The rest?" said Helen, who suddenly felt again the melancholy emotion -of the previous week; "you do not believe that of all women?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, I have no bad opinion of them," he replied. "I believe that they -are weak, and that men are deceivers. They find many men to swear that -they love them, and they believe one out of every ten. That makes a -pretty fair reckoning in the end." -</p> - -<p> -"Then you think that there is no woman in existence who has had only one -love?" -</p> - -<p> -"Few," said Armand. "But what does it matter?" he added gaily; "at each -fresh intrigue they fancy that they have never loved before, and it is -half true, like all truths—they have not loved altogether in the same -manner." -</p> - -<p> -A question rose to Helen's lips. She wished to ask: "And I? What do you -think me? Do you believe that I have loved before you? Do you believe -that I shall love after you?" She dared not. Once more she was cruelly -impressed by the unknown element in her lover's character. No, it was -not she whom he doubted—not she, more than another. The man did not -believe in any woman. But how is love possible without belief? Is there -any sort of tenderness possible without trust? She did not answer -herself on these too painful topics, but she prolonged an involuntary -analysis of her relations with Armand, and suddenly light was thrown -within her upon many of the details which she had not interpreted. -</p> - -<p> -Reflecting upon the distrustful characteristics which alarmed her in -this man, she in a retrospective fashion understood the silence with -which on certain occasions he had greeted her outpourings. She -remembered him listening to her while she spoke of her country life, and -of her moral solitude. "I was keeping myself for you beforehand, without -knowing you," she had said. He had made no reply. He had not believed -her. Another time she had talked to him of the future, and of the joy -that she felt in thinking that they were both young and so had many -years in which to love each other. He had made no reply. He had not -believed her. When she told him that, but for her son, she would have -gone far, very far away, that she might consecrate her entire life to -him alone, he kept silence; he had not believed her. Ah! his -incredulity, his horrible incredulity! She encountered it now even in a -quite recent past, but where she had not suspected it! Or no, was she -deceiving herself? Was it that Armand had believed in her so long as he -loved her, and was beginning to believe in her no longer now that he -loved her less? -</p> - -<p> -Did he love her less? She did not admit for a moment that he had not -loved her at the beginning of their connection. He was an honourable -man, not a love criminal. He would not have asked her to be his had he -not been drawn to do so by all the forces of passion. Then, to explain -Armand's incredulity, she reverted to the young man's past, to the -mysterious deceptions of which her husband had formerly spoken to her. -</p> - -<p> -"A woman has spoiled his heart," she said to herself. -</p> - -<p> -At the thought of this she was pained by a different pain. She pitied -Armand more, and she was jealous with a dim, vague jealousy. Then she -asked herself: -</p> - -<p> -"Will my love ever have power to restore to him the faith that he has -lost?" -</p> - -<p> -Absorbed as she was in these thoughts, nothing of which she expressed to -the man who was their object, she no longer studied the impression which -she herself produced upon her lover. When Armand came to dine in the Rue -de La Rochefoucauld, and all three of them—he, Alfred, and -herself—remained to spend the evening in the little drawing-room, she -lapsed into abysmal silence. Alfred delighted, as a mathematician, in -abstract discussions, and set forth social, political, and economic -theories to the young baron, who listened to him with visible weariness -depicted upon his features. Then a moment would come when Helen, -emerging from her reflections, looked at him. She saw this expression of -weariness, and failed to comprehend its immediate and trifling cause. -"He is not happy with me," she would say to herself, and immediately -afterwards, with even greater simplicity, "He is not happy." So she -reflected, she who had given herself to him to obliterate a wrinkle of -melancholy upon his brow, she whose thoughts and feelings had but a -single aim: his happiness! -</p> - -<p> -At other times, Armand would come, and at the first glance she discerned -that while away from herself he had passed through periods of sadness. -Then she felt quite paralysed. She trembled to speak to him, to utter a -word that, coming from her lips, would displease him. An indefinable -uneasiness took possession of her, a fear of showing her soul to the man -she loved, that was all the more painful, for the fact that she had at -first surrendered herself with such deep delight to the charm of feeling -aloud in his presence, and this uneasiness with her now went even to -their interviews in the Rue de Stockholm. -</p> - -<p> -It was not that in the little home she would find her lover less -distracted with her beauty, less passionate than in the days which had -followed upon the complete surrender. But his kisses, and the sort of -frenzy with which he embraced her now, made her afraid. She dreaded to -feel the contrast between the ecstasy caused to her lover by physical -possession, and the evident weariness of soul which he displayed in -their almost daily interviews. It seemed as though the young man were -striving to electrify his heart with the desire for her person. When -Helen perceived this cruel truth, the enchantment of the hours of -meeting suddenly ceased. Sometimes she longed for these meetings with -the gloomiest ardour, that she might at least hear her lover's voice -lavishing upon her those phrases of intoxication which, at the beginning -of their intercourse, had been the adorable music that had exalted her. -Then she dreaded these same interviews, and their caresses into which -the senses perhaps entered more than the heart. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! my Armand," she had ventured to say to him, "you love my person -more than you love myself." -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, do you not give yourself to me in giving me your person?" he had -replied. -</p> - -<p> -Heavens! how gladly would she have asked him: "And you, do you give -yourself entirely to me?" -</p> - -<p> -She had paused upon this question. Why interrogate him? Did she not know -that he would coax her with these soft blandishments of speech which do -not reveal the depths of the heart? Would she succeed in deciphering the -meaning this living enigma of a man's character, set thus before her for -weal or woe? Cruel heart! would it never yield her its secret? Kisses, -however, may be more tender than he who gives them, soft looks may -conceal a soul like a veil—and she was so thirsty for truth! -</p> - -<p> -But whence came all this moral anxiety that preyed upon her? Nothing had -to all appearance occurred between them, and already she was alternately -asking herself: -</p> - -<p> -"Does he love me as much as at first? Does he love me? Has he ever loved -me? Can he love me?" -</p> - -<p> -And every minute she struck upon some trifling fact that heightened her -doubt. She ceaselessly encountered that mistrust which degraded her, -that irony which bruised her, that dryness of heart which reduced her to -despair. Some of their friends from Bourges would arrive in Paris, and -Alfred would say to De Querne: -</p> - -<p> -"Do not come to-morrow evening; you would be too much bored. We are -having some acquaintances from the country." -</p> - -<p> -"When I am going to be in your way," the young man would say to Helen -next day, "why do you not give me notice yourself, instead of doing it -through your husband?" -</p> - -<p> -"To be in my way?" she would ask. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! why deceive me? You have had some flirtations over there for which -you blush here. You do not want me to verify your familiarity with this -man or the other. But what can that signify to me since you did not know -me? What does signify is to see you deceiving me." -</p> - -<p> -Deceiving! always deceiving! This word recurred in Armand's -conversations—indefatigably; she read it in his eyes, his gestures, -his thoughts. Did she find herself obliged at the last moment to fail at -one of their meetings in the Rue de Stockholm, she knew that he would not -believe in her excuse. But a man of that kind—no, such a man cannot -love. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, love me, love me!" she would murmur feverishly as she drew closer -to him after passing through one of those crisis of anguish in which she -had felt how little her lover's heart belonged to her. -</p> - -<p> -"Why, I do love you," he would reply, without understanding the agony of -which this agony was a last sigh. <i>She</i> understood that the word had -not the same signification to him as to her, and the whole of the inward -tragedy whereof she was the silent, grief-stricken heroine, burst forth -one frightful day. Like a captive who, during his sleep, has been bound -by his conquerors to a corpse, and awakes to discover himself chained to -this horrible companion, she found herself, a living heart, a heart -susceptible to love, and happiness, and life, fastened to a corpse-like -heart, icy, moveless—slain! -</p> - -<p> -When the reality of this came before her, she quickly flung herself -back. All that she had believed genuine was deceptive, all that she had -believed full was empty; but she would not acknowledge this to herself. -She treated as chimeras those almost indefinable tokens which enable a -tormented soul to penetrate another to its remotest depths. She loved -Armand, and she wished to love him. Was not her entire life staked now -on this card? It was only four months since she had become his mistress. -What! four such short months! It is a horrible thing that in so short a -time one can pass, without any visible shame, from the sublimest -hope—that of making amends for all the injustice in a man's -destiny—to the bitterest conviction of impotence. Scarcely four -months, and he was not happy, nor was she. Would she never again ascend -the incline down which she felt herself falling? -</p> - -<p> -She caught glimpses of the future with unconquerable anguish. Ah, if it -were true that he could not love, what would become of her. She now -existed only through him; she could not exist otherwise. And he seemed -to have no suspicion of the crisis of sorrow through which she was -passing. It was her own fault; why did she not show him all her soul? -That again she was unable to do. Would she ever be able? And when her -grief caused her excessive suffering she murmured: "Strange being, why -have I loved you? And nevertheless I cannot regret that I have done so." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></h4> - -<p> -Alfred Chazel had been quite aware that a mysterious drama was being -played in his household. He had been sensible of it, dimly at first. It -has not been sufficiently remarked how much the peculiar nature of -imagination, when developed by the habits of the mind, prevails over -sensibility itself, and modifies it. Alfred had an altogether -mathematical intellect, very skilful in abstract reasonings, very -unskilful in the perception of the real. He was as little acquainted -with his wife's character after several years of married life as he had -been on the day when he fell in love with her during a visit to Monsieur -de Vaivre. But it was not only Helen's soul, with its depths, and -complexities, and singularities, that was unknown to him; it was her -whole life. Just as he had accepted the principles of conduct of the -middle class to which he belonged, so had he accepted its ideas; and to -the credit of the French provincial middle class it must be said that -their morals are, relatively speaking, very pure. The men have, perhaps, -in their youth low pleasures. But the married women who cause themselves -to be talked about are immediately pointed at in such a way that the -number of them is very small. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred had on this point preserved the impressions received in his own -family, impressions which no experience had corrected; for very chaste -men are like very virtuous women, and no one reposes in them those -confidences which illuminate the unclean depths of life, the grossness -hidden beneath sentimental phraseology, the sensual egotism dissembled -beneath the hypocrisy of pretences. The notion of suspecting Helen of -having a lover could no more occur to him than the notion of suspecting -her of theft or forgery, and much less the notion that she had for lover -De Querne, his own companion in childhood. -</p> - -<p> -Towards the latter he entertained a feeling of friendship all the more -intense that there was blended with it an element of admiration. When -they were studying on the same form at school, he used to look at him, -and the refinement of Armand's manners, his beauty, his intellect, his -halo of social superiority, inspired him with a sort of fetichism. -Himself so modest, so hard-working, so akin to the people, he had -vaguely considered his friend as a being of a somewhat different -species; and when a very clear vision of a difference of this kind -produces neither hatred nor envy, it gives birth to an almost blind -enthusiasm. Never had Chazel judged De Querne. He had become so -habituated to taking him as he was, that he did not even ask himself -what manner of friendship Armand was giving him in return for his own. -When they had separated, and the young baron used to send about two -hastily scribbled pages in reply to the interminable letters from his -old companion, the latter would say to himself: -</p> - -<p> -"Armand is very fond of me, but it is wearisome to him to write. It is -only natural. He is such an agreeable fellow, and so much sought after;" -and this was all the complaint of an excellent heart that was ever -deceived by a trifling exhibition of sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -At every visit that he paid to Paris he met with the same reception from -Armand—a clasp of the hand, an invitation to luncheon, to dinner, to -the theatre. These tokens of comradeship, at once indifferent and -cordial, appeared to him proofs of loyal affection. Not having observed -Armand any more than, once married, he was to observe his wife, he could -not measure the depth of the abyss which from year to year yawned still -wider between his old classmate and himself. He knew not how to -recognise the visible signs of radical indifference: the absolute -dumbness of the young baron respecting himself, his looks of inattention -during their conversations. -</p> - -<p> -While Alfred, for example, was detailing to him the beginnings of his -love for Mademoiselle de Vaivre, the innocent privacies of his furtive -wooing and his hopes, Armand would smoke a cigar, and think of the loves -which had crossed his own life, amid all the studied elegance and -corruption which at Paris make a woman of pleasure so complex a thing, -an extreme attained in the art of refining upon voluptuousness. He could -by anticipation see in the young girl loved by his friend an awkward and -undesirable creature, with red hands, badly-made dresses, and white -stockings. -</p> - -<p> -Like all men in whom the source of sensibility is not flowing and rich, -he discovered pretexts for disgust in the trifles of petty external -fact, and he involuntarily despised Chazel for not being disgusted like -himself. This contempt was even so continuous, that it prevented him -from looking seriously on the life of this worthy student, this prize of -social excellence, as he used to call him in his absence. The -astonishment caused him by Helen's distinguished appearance, had merely -prompted him to say to himself below his breath: -</p> - -<p> -"It's only ninnies like him that ever get hold of such a woman as that." -</p> - -<p> -Alfred had trembled to know the judgment passed by his friend upon his -wife, and had been enraptured to find that she pleased him. Armand's -constant presence in their home, after they had settled at Paris, caused -him intense joy. He became still more attached to his friend, because he -appreciated the woman he himself loved so dearly, and to the latter -because she appreciated his friend. -</p> - -<p> -"I knew he would please you," he used to say ingenuously to his wife. -"He is such an affectionate fellow, for all his sceptical ways." -</p> - -<p> -And he would tell her how, in the days of their early youth, the elder -Chazel had been in want of ten thousand francs to pay a brother's debts, -and how Armand had immediately lent them. -</p> - -<p> -For the first few months Helen listened to these praises with brilliant -eyes, and a happy soul; she found in them reason for loving still more -the man she loved. Since she had been the young man's mistress, these -same praises darkened her countenance as they wounded her love. Did not -the husband's trust degrade the lover? If Alfred's ingenuous sensibility -discovered in this sign, as well as in many others, a metamorphosis in -his wife's character, he was incapable of discerning its secret cause. -It was just this too delicate sensibility which rendered it intolerable -to him to think continuously of evil instincts, disgraceful actions, -treacheries. There is hardness of heart in all distrust. The admission -of evil tortured Chazel, and he forced himself not to think about it. -</p> - -<p> -What, however, was the matter with Helen, for she was not the same? He -had begun by believing her seriously ill, after the visit to the doctor, -which had passed off as Helen had foreseen. He had accompanied her, had -waited in the drawing-room of the celebrated practitioner, who was a -friend of Armand's, and had afterwards been too modest to ask her for -any details. He was one of those men who shroud the feminine nature in a -deep veneration, to whom the matters relating to the sex are confined -within inaccessible mystery, who have never looked upon complete -nakedness. Let him who will reconcile women's pretensions to refinement -with the profound contempt which most of them feel for such men, while -the purest have in them a slight weakness towards the wicked fellow who -has seen and done everything. Everything? They do not know what this is, -and they dream about it. -</p> - -<p> -Although deeply in love with Helen in the physical meaning of the term, -Alfred had found a species of pleasure in sacrificing to the -requirements of a health so dear, pleasures which she had never shared; -but having scarcely any points of comparison, he had come to dream no -more. Yes, this renunciation was sweet to him—sweet and yet useless, -since Helen's countenance was shadowed every day, and she was evidently -suffering. When Alfred saw her absorbed in indefinite silence, when he -was aware of the thinness and paleness of the cheeks that he had known -so full and rosy, he gave way to unexpressed pity. -</p> - -<p> -"What is the matter with her?" he would then ask himself. "What if she -is in serious danger, and dares not tell me, that she may not make me -anxious?" -</p> - -<p> -The result of these reflections was that his ingenuousness and -trustfulness prompted him to venture upon exactly the same procedure -that would have been dictated to him by suspicion. Helen had thought it -necessary to speak to him on several occasions of fresh visits to the -doctor, in order to avoid further attempts at intimacy. -</p> - -<p> -"Well," said Chazel to himself, "I will go to the doctor;" and one -afternoon towards the end of that winter he again found himself, this -time alone, in the waiting-room, an apartment furnished like a museum -with that wealth of knick-knacks which is characteristic of modern -interiors. -</p> - -<p> -The French windows opened upon the garden of the old house, the -ground-floor of which was occupied by Dr. Louvet. The latter belonged to -that generation of society scientists who visit the hospital in the -morning, receive their clients in the afternoon, and find means to be as -witty as idlers in a drawing-room at ten o'clock in the evening. -Further, they are intelligent enough to prepare for the prolonged -waitings of their fair patients an adornment wherein the latter may find -something of what they have left at home, and an aspect of things -similar to that to which they have been accustomed. Alfred involuntarily -felt uncomfortable in this vast room which, with its tapestries and -wainscotings and pictures, appeared to be intended rather for lordly -receptions than for the use of suffering humanity. -</p> - -<p> -He experienced a feeling of relief on entering the doctor's room, in -which there was nothing but books—a contrast skilfully contrived by -Louvet, who was as able in stage management as he was excellent in -diagnosis. He was a man still young and very fair, with a face that -suggested somewhat the traditional type of the Valois, and dark eyes of -singular penetration. He was slight and pale, and when he placed his -finger against his temple—a familiar gesture of his which was -reproduced in a fine portrait, by Nittis, that hung in the room—he -presented a strange blending of extreme delicacy and studied posture, -which women especially found imposing. -</p> - -<p> -"How is Madame Chazel?" he asked in the polished and detached tone which -he always affected. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, doctor," said Alfred, "it is precisely about her health that I -have come to consult you." -</p> - -<p> -"And why has she not come herself?" asked the physician. -</p> - -<p> -"She does not even know of the step I have taken," replied the husband. -"She causes me much anxiety. You know how she is wasting away; you have -seen her several times lately." -</p> - -<p> -Doctor Louvet listened in the attitude of his portrait, with his eyelids -half closed. Although he was completely master of himself, as became a -man accustomed daily to receive the confidences of many persons deprived -of hypocrisy by the presence of danger, he was unable, on hearing these -words of Chazel's, to restrain a movement of his eyelids. Rapid as was -this movement and the glance which accompanied it, it could not escape -poor Alfred, whose whole powers of attention were at that moment -concentrated upon the doctor's face. Why did that glance cause him a -little shiver, and tempt him to ask: -</p> - -<p> -"When have you seen my wife?" -</p> - -<p> -But it was a question impossible to put. Moreover, the physician was -already making his reply. -</p> - -<p> -"When Madame Chazel did me the honour to consult me last"—and this -word expressed both everything and nothing—"she appeared to me to be -suffering more particularly in the nervous system." -</p> - -<p> -And he entered into lengthened details respecting the delicacy of the -feminine organisation, dwelling upon the contrast between the life to -which his patient had been accustomed in the country and the life of -Paris. Lacking in observation as Alfred might be, his habit of reasoning -with precision forced him to recognise the vagueness of this talk, and -he asked somewhat heedlessly: -</p> - -<p> -"And you have no observation to make to the husband?" -</p> - -<p> -"None," replied Louvet with a half smile, "unless it be to spoil our -dear patient a good deal and to contradict her as little as possible." -</p> - -<p> -Alfred's heart sank within his breast, and while the liveried servant, -who waited fashionably in the physician's ante-chamber, was assisting -him to put on his overcoat, he was already being gnawed by this thought: -</p> - -<p> -"Helen has deceived me. It was not the doctor who ordered her to live -apart from me. She has come to have a horror of me; but, what have I -done to her?" -</p> - -<p> -What had he done to her? A deep melancholy took possession of him from -the time of this visit to Louvet, of which he was very careful not to -speak. What was the use of adding another pain to those which Helen -already felt? For she suffered, as he could see—but why? Ingenuously -he made it his study to find out the wrongs that he had done her. What -frightened him most was that he could almost palpably feel the whole -mystery in his wife's character. This is one of the most cruel trials -that can come to a loving husband. When she was beside him, and alone -with him, drawing out the stitches in her tapestry, he used to look at -her and ask himself of what she was thinking. -</p> - -<p> -Of what? All his superiority of education availed him nothing in the -presence of this silent creature whose mere presence troubled him in so -obscure a fashion. The desire of her person, a desire the satisfaction -of which he was incapable of demanding as a right, paralysed him with a -sort of nervous suffering which, united to natural timidity and to the -anxiety respecting this increasing paleness, was growing into a -veritable torture. And then, when Armand arrived in the middle of such a -silence, a comparison was inevitably instituted on Alfred's part between -his friend's easy manners and his own constraint, and especially between -the difficulty which he found in talking to Helen and the abundance of -words that came to the Baron de Querne. Helen, too, appeared to make the -same comparison, for in Armand's presence she took an interest at once -in what was being said. -</p> - -<p> -These visits gave Chazel an uncomfortable feeling; he experienced a -vague impression that he was in the way in his own house. He had several -times remarked when it was he himself who interrupted a <i>tête-à-tête</i> -between Armand and his wife, that the conversation suddenly ceased on -his arrival; he recognised this by the brightness in Helen's eyes. On -such occasions, that he might not give way to the vexation which he -felt, he used to engage in those already mentioned abstract -disquisitions. He saw that his old comrade had become more of a friend -to his wife than to himself, he was hurt by it, he reproached himself -for feeling hurt, and by the mere fact that he reproached himself, -reflected about it. -</p> - -<p> -He thus grew accustomed continually to unite the thoughts of his friend -with that of his wife. But when we depict to ourselves simultaneously -the images of two living persons, it is not long before we depict them -acting upon each other, and in spite of himself Alfred came to consider -the relations which united Armand to Helen. To ascertain the cause of -his wife's suffering he had proceeded by elimination, instinctively -studying as a problem the data that he possessed concerning her, and -every time that he dwelt upon the mystery, he always struck upon a -thought which he used to drive away, and which came back again. At other -times he asked himself whether she had not confided the reason of her -grief to De Querne, was on the point of questioning his friend, and then -abstained from doing so. -</p> - -<p> -"It would not be delicate," he thought to himself; "if she says nothing -to me, she has her reasons for it." -</p> - -<p> -One day, however, he saw her so pale, so downcast, that he took courage. -</p> - -<p> -"You are suffering, Helen," he said; "will you find a better friend than -I am to whom to confide your troubles, whatever they may be?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, I have no troubles," she had replied, and she spoke falsely once -more. -</p> - -<p> -Why were her eyes then filled with that moisture which speaks of -suppressed tears? Ah! it was because the loving kindness of her husband -was a torture to her in her torture, were it only by its contrast to the -frigidity of another man, the memory of whom was then passing through -her heart. Why did the same memory pass at the same moment through -Alfred's imagination? She, however, kept this memory before her mind, -while he repelled it. -</p> - -<p> -"Helen," he said to himself, "is an honourable woman. Armand is an -honourable man. What right should I have to insult them with suspicion? -He takes an interest in her; did I not desire that it should be so? She -is attached to him—and why not? Can there not be honourable -friendship between a man and a woman?" -</p> - -<p> -Such were the habitual reasonings by which Alfred sought to stifle the -growing viper of suspicion. But the more he reasoned in this way, the -more his suspicion augmented, since by reasoning about his distrust he -thought about it, and in consequence rendered it more present to his -mind. He was striving against these inward thoughts one afternoon of -that same month of February, when returning on foot from the Orleans -terminus, whither a piece of duty had led him. The weather was fine, the -pale, fresh azure of the cool winter days was floating over Paris, and -although it took him out of his way, Alfred entered the Jardin des -Plantes, in order to enjoy his walk a little. At a turning in one of the -main avenues of the garden, his heart beat more quickly, for walking -slowly under the bare trees, and talking together in an absorbed -fashion, he had just perceived a woman who had Helen's figure and a man -with the figure of Armand. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, it was indeed they. He knew so well his wife's easy gait, and that -other somewhat lagging step which reminded him of so many strolls in a -college quadrangle, not very far from this spot. But why was he seized -with acute pain at this meeting? What could be more natural than that -Helen should walk thus with Armand, what more natural or more innocent? -Do people who wish to do wrong come in this way into a public garden? -They were not even arm-in-arm. Yes, but why had not Helen mentioned at -luncheon that she was going to walk with Armand? Did she not know that -he would think nothing of it? Hiding from him? Why? -</p> - -<p> -"I will go up to them," he thought. "I will speak to them, and soon see -whether she is confused. But no; it would look as though I had followed -them. Perhaps they have met by chance? What if I were now to follow -them?" -</p> - -<p> -The thought of such espionage sickened him. -</p> - -<p> -They were still walking in front of him in that vast avenue which runs -beside the bison enclosure and the bear-pits. Overhead, the gigantic -trees curved their naked boughs, the blackness of which stood out sadly -against the blue sky. Chazel felt his limbs shaking beneath him, and -sank upon a bench. He told himself that he must either look upon this -meeting as a most natural thing, and in that case it was childish not to -speak to his wife and her friend, or else—and it was just this second -hypothesis whose sudden thrusting into his mind paralysed him. -</p> - -<p> -"All," he said to himself, "will be explained on her return." -</p> - -<p> -Some minutes passed away in this anguish and irresolution. The couple -disappeared in the direction of the little hill that leads to the -labyrinth. Chazel was almost happy at their disappearance. It provided -him with a pretext for not acting immediately. And, in fact, he went out -of the garden by the opposite gate, saying to himself, in vindication of -the impotence of will to which he had just fallen a victim, that it was, -moreover, the surest way of arriving at a certainty. If Helen spoke to -him in the evening about this walk, the walk was, as he believed it to -be, innocence itself. If not—but what sort of ideas was he again -taking into his head? -</p> - -<p> -The shock had been so great that, instead of returning home, he walked -about for part of the afternoon. The advent of the moment when he would -see his wife again was now what he desired, and at the same time what he -most dreaded. He was on the point of turning back and entering the -garden again, but it was too late. -</p> - -<p> -He stepped upon the deck of one of the boats that ply on the Seine, and -there, mingling with the crowd of lower middle-class folk, he watched -the water breaking against the arches, and shattering against the quays, -the construction of which he mechanically examined; and he followed with -his gaze the huge lighters, with the clean little painted houses -standing in the centre. The air became keen, but he did not notice it -until he had reached Auteuil. He landed under the viaduct, amid the din -of the fair which every afternoon attracts such a strange tribe of -prostitutes and their followers. He returned on foot along the -interminable parapet. His anguish was so great that he could not -remember having ever experienced anything analogous to it. His heart was -paining him in his left breast, so that it seemed as though breath would -fail him. Night was falling fast, the winter night, whose oncoming is so -melancholy. The death struggle of the light is so cruelly like the agony -of thought! -</p> - -<p> -Here he was at last at his own street, in his own courtyard, in front of -his own door. He did not ask whether his wife had returned, but he went -straight to her room, and knocked modestly. Helen's clear voice said, -"Come in." He was in her presence, and involuntarily he looked at her -feet. She still wore her walking boots, with that trifle of dust on them -which shows that a woman has gone on foot. Ah! how he would have liked -to question her! But instinctively he grasped that which constitutes the -powerlessness of all jealousy; what is the use of entering, with a woman -who is mistrusted, upon a discussion turning upon this very mistrust? -She will not destroy it by saying "No," seeing that there is no belief -in her. -</p> - -<p> -"Where do you come from so late?" Helen asked tranquilly. No, never had -a being capable of falsehood such beautiful eyes, and such a beautiful -smile. -</p> - -<p> -"Guess," he said, with more calmness. She was, no doubt, going herself -to tell him of her walk, and as she was silent he went on: -</p> - -<p> -"From Auteuil. I walked because I did not feel well. And you?" he -questioned, with an anxiety grown terrible once more. -</p> - -<p> -"I have been shopping," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! why had he not the courage to tell her that she had just uttered a -falsehood? He sat down with the sharp point buried still deeper in his -heart. She let the conversation drop, and resumed her book. -</p> - -<p> -"A frightful novel that Monsieur De Querne lent me," she said. "It is -the story of a woman who deceives her lover, and does so while loving -him. Authors don't know what to invent nowadays." -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes shone as she uttered these words. She had pronounced the word -"lover" with an intonation which distressed Alfred. She seemed to impart -a mysterious depth to those two syllables. Ah! he would have given his -blood at that moment to have her speak to him of her walk! After all, -she had perhaps attached no importance to her reply. But neither then, -nor at dinner, nor during the evening that followed, did she breathe a -word about it. About ten o'clock, Armand arrived in his dress coat; he -was going out afterwards. She received him with the words: -</p> - -<p> -"You have been quite well since yesterday?" -</p> - -<p> -Ah, the deceiver! the deceiver! -</p> - -<p> -Alfred had seated himself at the corner of a table under the pretence of -having some papers to examine, and from time to time he watched them -conversing, those two beings whom he loved best of all the world. Was it -possible that a criminal mystery united them, and at the expense of -himself, whom they had betrayed? This Armand, whom he had seen playing in -his schoolboy dress—had he been his brother he could not have loved -him more. What nobility of brow! what grace of gesture! And this was the -man who was a villain, for to deceive such a friend as himself was -villainy. -</p> - -<p> -And she, with her medallion-like profile, with her modesty and proud -reserve! No; it was he, Alfred, who was losing his senses. A walk in a -garden—what could be more innocent? Perhaps—for he knew that -she was charitable, and so did Armand—yes, perhaps, they were both -going to visit the poor. But, then, why this reticence? why this -deception? And why did he himself keep silence? To this he could have -given no reply, except that speaking was beyond his strength, just as -acting had lately been. -</p> - -<p> -And Armand and Helen conversed with tranquillity. He listened to their -voices uttering words of unconcern, and all his dim suspicions, all his -repressed doubts, came back simultaneously to his soul. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></h4> - -<p> -When Alfred Chazel had said good-night to Helen as usual and was left -alone, he began to suffer with an intensity of which he himself could -not have believed himself capable. He had now no longer any need to -discuss the fact. His wife had lied to him. The clearness of this simple -fact prostrated him. He could hear her say in that voice whose slightest -inflections he knew so well: -</p> - -<p> -"How have you been since yesterday?" -</p> - -<p> -The last four syllables rang pitilessly in his ear and to the depth of -his heart. He had just lost, never, never again to recover it, complete -trust in that gentle voice, in these beloved eyes. There are no such -things as petty insincerities; a person who has once deceived may always -deceive. The perception of this natural law, the same perception which -had prevented Armand from believing in Helen, was torturing Alfred at -this moment. Liar! Liar! When he came to the utterance of this word, he -gave forth an outbreaking of grief as he paced to and fro about his -study, to which, as often of an evening, he had withdrawn. -</p> - -<p> -On one of the walls was displayed a long blackboard, covered with a -medley of algebraical formulæ. Between the two windows stood a white -wooden table constructed so as to facilitate writing in a standing -position. Another low table, intended for correspondence; a bookcase -filled with tall mathematical volumes; engraved likenesses of Lagrange, -Fresnel, Cauchy, and Laplace; a leathern divan, and a carpet, completed -the furniture of a room, the abstract, peaceful aspect of which -presented a strange contrast to the disturbed countenance of the man who -was walking about in it at that moment; and the contrast symbolised only -too well the drama that was being enacted in the existence of a man born -for study, for prolonged and painful thought, for happy labour, and -constrained to action by the sudden revelation with which he had just -been visited. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, the necessity for action was present and inevitable. To rest at the -suspicion which was tormenting him at that moment was what he could not -do—neither morally, without losing self-respect, nor physically, for -the pain of it was too great. As he raised his head with a gesture of -despair, his eyes encountered the board; he perceived the signs of his -calculations traced in chalk with that absolute equality of lettering, -that absence of thick and thin strokes, which imparted an appearance of -incomparable lucidity to his writing. The sudden sight of this changed -the current of his grief. -</p> - -<p> -"Let us reason out the thing," he said aloud, and involuntarily he -recovered for subservience to his passion all the methodical habits -contracted by his intellect. "Yes," he went on, "let us reason it out." -</p> - -<p> -He sat down beside his fire in an easy-chair, and, with his forehead -resting upon his hands, gathered together all his thoughts, which were -not long in shaping themselves to the following dilemma: -</p> - -<p> -"There are two alternatives. Either the walk and the falsehood are to be -explained by some petty, innocent motive, a visit of charity or a chance -meeting, and they have not spoken to me about it owing to a false dread -of displeasing me; or else, the walk and the falsehood indicate that -there is a mystery between Helen and Armand. Let us speak out and say -that they love each other. There is no means of avoiding the -alternative. In the first case, I should have to scold Helen for -believing me to be so childishly jealous; in the second—" -</p> - -<p> -Here his imagination paused, being taken unawares. There was within him -no anticipatory prevision of a misfortune of the kind. The practical -rules, received and accepted in his youth, upon which his whole life was -based, did not afford an answer to this cruel hypothesis. On the other -hand, he had for the determining of his will neither that dread of -public opinion which serves to guide nearly all husbands in similar -crises, nor the startling physical vision, that besetting, unendurable -vision which maddens a jealous man by showing him sexual union, fleshly -abandonment, irredeemable pollution. -</p> - -<p> -The fact that Helen and Armand loved each other did not for a moment -signify to Chazel that she was the young man's mistress. It signified -that she had given him her heart. But then what was his duty as her -husband? For lack of previously adopted principles, he suffered himself -to be led away by the mania for absolute, ideal theories that is -characteristic of mathematicians. -</p> - -<p> -"My duty, if I am becoming an obstacle to her happiness, is to sacrifice -myself. She must be left free; all must be given up." -</p> - -<p> -He thought immediately of his son; he could see the little gestures, the -pretty face, the bright eyes of the child whom he had already moulded in -his own likeness. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" he said to himself, "I have no right to forsake him. But to take -him with me—to deprive his mother of him?" -</p> - -<p> -The tragic nature of this possibility disconcerted his intellect afresh, -and like a timorous swimmer who has ventured a few fathoms too far, he -speedily returned to the place where he could keep his footing, where -his reasoning stood firm close to the facts. -</p> - -<p> -"I am losing my head," he groaned. "The question is, does she love him? -Does she not love him?" -</p> - -<p> -He had risen once more, and was walking with a more hurried step than -before. -</p> - -<p> -"How can I find out? How? how?" he asked himself, and the emotion of -uncertainty became so insupportable to him that he said to himself: "Let -there be an end of it. I will come to an understanding with Helen—and -at once." -</p> - -<p> -He looked at the clock which was pointing to midnight. He had been in -these throes for an hour. He left his study with the lamp in his hand. -The narrow wooden staircase, which was covered with a red carpet, was -devoid of sound and light. All the servants were in bed. He went down -the steps of the staircase leaning on the bannisters, his legs -trembling, his lips parched, his throat choking. He was in front of the -door of his wife's bedroom. He gave two slight knocks with the back of -his hand. There was no reply. He turned the brass handle and leaned -against it. The door was double-locked, and the key was inside. -</p> - -<p> -"She is asleep," he said to himself. -</p> - -<p> -The action of descending the stairs, and then of pressing against the -door, had used up the feverish impulse produced by excess of -uncertainty. Instead of knocking again, he paused, motionless. -</p> - -<p> -"She is asleep," he repeated to himself; "if I awake her, what shall I -say to her?" -</p> - -<p> -He remained standing against the wall, with the lamp at his feet, -listening. Only the murmur of nocturnal Paris reached him, and he -reflected. He could see by anticipation the manner in which Helen would -receive him. She would be lying in her bed, her plaited hair rolled -about her head, while the lace of her fine night-dress quivered at neck -and wrist. -</p> - -<p> -At the thought of this, Alfred experienced a thrill of amorous emotion -that restored to him the timidity with which the desire of his wife's -person always overwhelmed him, and he continued to picture the scene. -</p> - -<p> -"What shall I say to her?—'You have lied to me.' And what will she -reply?" -</p> - -<p> -He foresaw the countless pretexts that Helen could advance to explain -her walk. -</p> - -<p> -"I shall ask her: 'Are you in love with Armand?'" -</p> - -<p> -He felt himself incapable of being the first to articulate the words in -that way. Moreover, what might not the result of the question be? If it -were not true that she was in love with Armand, he would inflict useless -pain upon her, which would aggravate still further their divorce of -intimacy. What if it were true? She would not acknowledge it. She had -lied just now. What would another lie cost her? -</p> - -<p> -Irresolution proved the stronger. He went up to his study again without -having made a fresh attempt. There was a lull for a few minutes, such as -succeeds to acute crises. It was one o'clock in the morning. -</p> - -<p> -"I will go to sleep," he said to himself. "When I awake it will be time -enough to make up my mind." -</p> - -<p> -As was usual with him, he arranged a few papers, carefully covered up -the fire to avoid accidents, and was almost tranquil as he got into bed. -But scarcely was he there before his anguish began again, more torturing -than before. The avenue in the Jardin des Plantes again extended its -vault of naked branches beneath which Helen and Armand passed along. -What were they saying to each other? The well-known voice uttered again -the fatal syllables, "Since yesterday!" Ah! Liar! liar! the deceiver! -</p> - -<p> -Once more the necessity for action pressed in its inevitableness upon -this purely speculative nature. His thoughts distributed themselves -again into two groups. -</p> - -<p> -"Either they love each other or they do not love each other. If they -do?—If they do not?—How can I find out? From her? From him?" -</p> - -<p> -The thought of coming to an explanation with De Querne presented itself -abruptly, and as this thought, while satisfying the need for acting, -deferred the action for several hours, Alfred began mentally to muster -all the arguments that told in its favour. -</p> - -<p> -Such an explanation would not involve any of the drawbacks which must -follow a conversation with Helen. If Armand and she did not love each -other, everything would remain as it was, since she was in ignorance of -her husband's suspicion and of the step that he had taken. If they were -in love with each other, he would extort the acknowledgment of the fact -more readily from the loyalty of his friend. The latter at least had not -lied to him. Could he have replied otherwise than as he did to Helen's -phrase, that simple phrase that was so terrible to himself, Alfred: "How -have you been since yesterday?" To receive the young man with these -words was tantamount to a prohibition to speak. -</p> - -<p> -Again, there are suspicions respecting which one friend has no right to -keep silence towards another. If he, Alfred, were to learn that Armand -had harboured an insulting distrust of him in his heart without speaking -of it, would he not feel deeply wounded? Would he not consider such -silence an unwarrantable affront? Well, then, he would not offer this -affront to De Querne. He would go to him with open hand and heart, and -show him all his trouble. Such a step had further in its favour the fact -that it would involve practical results. He might ask his friend to come -to the Rue de La Rochefoucauld less frequently. If he were mistaken in -his distrust, and if the real cause of Helen's grief had been confided -to Armand, he might speak of it without indelicacy on that occasion, in -the course of the conversation. -</p> - -<p> -During the whole of that long night he turned this plan over and over, -and in the end it impressed itself upon his will. Towards morning, he -fell into that dark overwhelming sleep which follows upon excessive -deperditions of nervous energy. Upon awaking, he again found himself -face to face with his resolution of the night before; he foresaw, unless -he acted, a day worse than that horrible night, and at nine o'clock he -was ringing at Armand's door, not without a thrilling of his whole -heart, yet with decision. These abstract souls, to whom action is so -repellent, are capable of energy, provided this energy be sustained by -reasoning, just as impassioned souls derive their force from blind -impulse, and arid souls from a clear perception of self-interest. -</p> - -<p> -Many days had gone by since Chazel had entered the rooms in the Rue -Lincoln. The valet who answered his ring, an old servant of the De -Querne family, was the same who formerly used to come to the school to -take Armand away for his holidays. The few words that this man uttered -when asking about his master's old companion with the familiarity of -former days, brought real comfort to Alfred. He experienced an awakening -of memories that to him was equivalent to an impression of friendship. -</p> - -<p> -"The baron is in his bath," the servant went on, "but if Monsieur Alfred -will walk into the drawing-room," and he opened the door with attentive -assiduity, "and read the papers," and he handed them. Then kneeling in -front of the fire to put on a fresh log, he asked: -</p> - -<p> -"Will Monsieur Alfred take tea with the baron?" -</p> - -<p> -These trifling attentions softened Alfred; in them he found as it were a -palpable renewal of the intimacy in which he had lived with Armand. The -aspect of the room heightened this first impression still more. He knew -the room well; he had seen it forming year by year, and furniture being -added to furniture. At every visit he was aware of some slight -alterations. -</p> - -<p> -"Stay, that's new, is it not?" he would say to his friend, who used then -to explain to him the convenience or rarity of his recent acquisition. -</p> - -<p> -He went up to the low bookcase, and by the look of the binding -recognised some books which must have been college prizes. He took one -out and saw the stamp of the Vanaboste School printed on the green -shagreen. He replaced the volume, and the courtyard of the school was -revived before his mind. What delightful hours had been spent in walking -round that yard with Armand—an Armand who, despite the years, -resembled the Armand of to-day; and to convince himself of the fact, he -proceeded to look at a profile of his friend done by Bastien-Lepage, in -the refined and exact manner of this master's portraits. From the -portrait Alfred passed on to the photographs scattered over the -mantelpiece; the comrades, living or dead, that they represented, had -been known by him, ay, by him also. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! from the most insignificant objects in the apartment there issued a -voice to protest on behalf of the friendship that united De Querne and -himself. After the anguish of the night before, this atmosphere of -settled affection operated powerfully on Alfred's heart and brought him -relief. -</p> - -<p> -"How well it was I came," he reflected, throwing himself into an -easy-chair, and looking at the fire, the flames of which were assuming a -joyous brightness: "I will tell him everything in a straightforward way: -what is the good of artifice! And I have full confidence that everything -will be explained." -</p> - -<p> -He had reached this stage in his meditations, when he felt a hand laid -on his shoulder. It was the hand of Armand, who had just come in. But -Alfred's absorption had been too great to admit of his being disturbed -by the noise of the door. The young baron was wearing a handsome morning -jacket of black quilted silk, light trousers, and thin patent leather -shoes, while all about him there floated the fresh odour of a scent -which Alfred suddenly recognised. This same delicate aroma was diffused -around her by his wife in the morning hours when she went about in those -loose dresses which best indicated the suppleness of the lines of her -person. The fact that Helen and Armand made use of the same perfume was -sufficient, in Alfred's present condition of soul, to make the soothing -influence of youthful memories give way once more to the indefinable, -the vague and torturing suspicion of the night before. He looked at his -friend, but the latter seemed to be occupied solely with the -preparations for his breakfast. The valet had wheeled a little movable -table up to the fire, and arranged upon it a silver urn, a cup, slices -of toast, butter and honey. -</p> - -<p> -"Another cup for Monsieur Chazel," said Armand. -</p> - -<p> -"Monsieur Alfred has refused already," said the servant. -</p> - -<p> -"Then you will allow me," Armand resumed in a cheerful tone. -</p> - -<p> -Sitting down, he poured the black tea into the cup, and then the hot -water, calculating the proportion between them just as though his friend -had not been present. Was this the attitude of a man who had a secret to -conceal? -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Alfred to himself, "if there were any mystery between Helen -and him, my visit would put him out, he would want to know the reason of -it. Are you not astonished," he went on aloud, "to see me so early in -the morning?" putting his question with that incapacity for -dissimulation which is characteristic of very sincere people, and which -causes them almost involuntarily to continue outwardly and verbally -their inmost thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -"I suppose you have some little service to ask of me," replied the -other, "and I am quite ready to perform it." -</p> - -<p> -Then to himself: "Poor Alfred is too ingenuous. He wants to know why I -am not astonished. Well, I certainly ought to be so, and should be -expecting a question from him about Helen—what else could it be -about? She would not believe me when I told her that he was growing -jealous. Well, we'll lie as well as we can, since so much is due to her and -he buttered a slice of toast, not without a certain melancholy at this -necessity for lying, for he had preserved the haughtiness of personal -pride which so often outlives true loftiness of feeling. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," Alfred resumed, in a tone of voice the seriousness of which -revealed how deeply he felt the present interview, "you are my -friend—my friend. Yes, I believe it, I know it." -</p> - -<p> -It might have been thought that he was questioning himself the better to -assure himself of his own sincerity. He again repeated, "I believe it," -looking at Armand as he had never ventured to look at him in his life -before. His eyes no longer expressed anything of that awkward timidity -which in all arguments caused Alfred to feel beaten beforehand, even -when he was right a hundred times over. -</p> - -<p> -"And it is because you are my friend," he went on, "that I came to you -to-day. Armand, you see in me the most unhappy of men." -</p> - -<p> -The other raised his head, which, as though to pour some more tea into a -cup that was already half full, he had bent down beneath his friend's -gaze. He looked straight at the loyal man whom, in that very room on the -eve of the first assignation, he had in thought held so cheap. Chazel -had allowed his eyeglass to fall. His clear eyes showed the very depths -of his soul. In them there was legible pain, so terrible and so genuine -that it rendered touching and tragic a situation which, at any other -moment, Armand would have considered very ridiculous—that, namely, of -a deceived husband suffering from suspicion of the deception in the -presence of the very man who has deceived him. No, it was simple, naked -human suffering—that real suffering which grips your vitals like the -shriek of a passer-by when crushed by a carriage at a street-corner. -Armand suddenly felt this sympathy of humanity, then immediately -afterwards a secret feeling of uncomfortableness at the thought that he -was himself the cause of this visible suffering; and he listened to -Alfred, who continued speaking. -</p> - -<p> -"I have come to tell you things that people do not talk about, but you -must listen to me. I am very unhappy, my friend, and for very vulgar -reasons. Ah! there is nothing romantic in my story. It is comprised in a -single line: I love my wife and my wife does not love me. How and how -greatly I love her you cannot understand—no, not even you. I am a -timid, awkward fellow, I know, and have always known. When quite a young -man, I pictured in my dreams the ideal face of a woman. I called her my -madonna—but I am talking nonsense to you. Let me go on. It was she -who comforted me for the rest—those who all treated me with -scorn—and it was she that I loved. When I saw Helen, I found in -her a likeness to this chimera such as I had never met with. Do not -smile. Just understand me. I married her. At first I was quite sensible -of the fact that she was not very happy. I said to myself: Time will -bring everything right. Time has brought nothing right. The martyrdom -that it has been to me to see her dull, wearied, and sad, and to be able -to do nothing for her—ah! no one shall ever know. Especially since -we have been living in Paris, I can see that she is sinking into still -greater melancholy, that her poor face is growing thin and her eyes -hollow. She is suffering and wasting away before my eyes, every day a -little more, and I am unable to do anything and am ignorant of the -cause. Can you understand what a torture it is to see a woman loved as I -love her passing away hour by hour by my very side, and not even to know -the reason?" -</p> - -<p> -He had risen as he uttered these words. In proportion as the phrases -came to him, they swept away the plan of discourse which he had prepared -on his way from the Rue de La Rochefoucauld to the Rue Lincoln. He had -allowed himself to feel aloud. He passed his hand across his eyes and -went on: -</p> - -<p> -"I am wandering. Why do I tell you all these things? I have come to ask -you whether you know what is the matter with her." -</p> - -<p> -And he stopped in front of Armand, who also rose. The latter was trying -to guess the object of his old companion's tirade. He was aware that in -a conversation of this kind the chief point is to abstain from informing -one's interlocutor of what he may not know. To Alfred's abrupt question -he replied in the vaguest of formulas: -</p> - -<p> -"Why, how could I know any more than yourself?" -</p> - -<p> -"Armand," said the other, going up to him and laying his hands upon his -shoulders, "do not deceive me. I am able to hear anything; I am ready -for anything. Yes, if Helen loved some one, I should efface myself, I -should go away. I should take my son with me, and allow her to begin her -life anew. A revengeful husband—how I despise such a man as that! -Either he does not love—and then for what does he take revenge? For a -wound dealt to his pride? What pitifulness! Or else he does love, and -has only to bring about the happiness of the woman he loves at the cost -of his own. Ah, I have not the ideas of the world! Answer me, Armand, is -Helen in love with any one?" -</p> - -<p> -"I tell you again. How should I know?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" exclaimed Chazel, taking his friend's arm and grasping it with all -his strength, "who can know if not you? Did you consider me blind to -such a degree as not to see that you were becoming her most intimate -confidant? If she does not talk to you about herself, her life, her -feelings, what do you say to each other in your endless conversations? -Why do you become silent when I appear, if you are not speaking of -things that you do not want me to hear? Why do you hide from me?" he -continued violently. -</p> - -<p> -"We hide from you?" said Armand. -</p> - -<p> -"Be silent," returned Alfred, laying his hand upon his friend's mouth, -"do not say what is false. I can endure falsehood no longer. I must have -the truth, whatever it may be. I saw you yesterday in the Jardin des -Plantes, in the main avenue. I was there—I saw you. You were walking -together, and in the evening she said to you: 'How have you been since -yesterday?' You do not hide from me? Repeat that now. Ah, why have you -both lied to me?" -</p> - -<p> -"You are right," replied Armand, "we ought to have spoken to you about -it immediately. That is the way in which the most innocent things assume -an appearance of mystery." -</p> - -<p> -While affecting the most absolute calmness, he said to himself: "Helen -is saved." Logical on this point with his everlasting distrust, he used -at every meeting to agree with his mistress upon a common explanation to -be given in case of surprise, and he went on aloud: -</p> - -<p> -"Madame de Chazel was returning from a visit of charity; I met her in -the garden, and we walked together for a little because the weather was -fine. She asked me to say nothing about it to you, because you would -scold her for going in that way into the low quarters of the town." -</p> - -<p> -And it was true that Alfred, still a provincial in this respect, used -often to speak of the dangers that a woman might incur alone in out of -the way corners in Paris. -</p> - -<p> -"You have the means of ascertaining whether I am telling you the truth," -added De Querne. "Take a cab, go home, and ask Madame Chazel. I shall -not have time to forewarn her, shall I? You will see whether she makes -you the same reply." -</p> - -<p> -"For what do you take me?" said Alfred, "I have a horror of such spying -ways. I am already too much ashamed of having spoken to you in this -way.—Armand," he said, advancing towards his friend, "give me your -word of honour that Helen and you are not in love with each other." -</p> - -<p> -"Madame Chazel and I!" exclaimed De Querne, "nay, I give you my word of -honour that not a word has passed between us that was not one of simple, -honourable friendship. In my turn I will ask you: 'For what do you take -me?'" And with the secret loathing of all his pride he added inwardly; -"What mean actions a woman can make a man commit!" -</p> - -<p> -"Then I ask your forgiveness," returned Alfred, "for I suspected you. -Ah! I am not wronging you; I did not believe that there was anything -between you. No, I think too highly of you both. But I thought that she -might have formed an affection for you and you for her. She is charming, -and you, Armand—why you have all that I have not! You are handsome, -refined, witty. And I, I have only this," he said with a heart-broken -gesture, striking his breast above his heart. -</p> - -<p> -"Heavens! what I should have suffered had it been true! Just think, to -have lost both her who is my entire life, and you whom I liked so much! -You do not know, Armand, how sincerely I am your friend—just let -me tell it you for once. At our age these protestations are -ridiculous—but what is ridicule to me? With my father, and before -I knew Helen, you are the person I loved most. I am of the Newfoundland -breed; I must have some one to be attached to. Throughout my youth you -were that some one to me. When we were children, I should have liked you -to have a sacrifice to ask of me, something very difficult, almost -impossible of execution. You were in my eyes like a more fortunate -brother. I was not jealous of all your superior qualities; I was proud -of them. When I got married you were not able to come to Bourges. Well! -will you believe it, my heart throbbed when I introduced you to my wife -in Paris? If you had not been pleased with her I should have been so -unhappy. Think of that my friend, my dear friend," and he clasped his -hands, "and you will excuse me for having said anything painful, or -wounding to you. You and she, to lose you both! Ah! I should have gone -away. I should have sacrificed everything to your happiness. But it -would have killed me!" -</p> - -<p> -He sank into the easy chair as though exhausted by the emotions that he -had just experienced. His agitated face revealed too clearly the -excessiveness of his grief, and Armand felt unspeakably moved by looking -upon such a spectacle of sorrow and weakness. By truthfulness of soul, -Alfred had just re-established between them the true nature of the -situation. Husbands are not so often ridiculous, as the proverb says, -but by reason of the deceived vanity which is at the bottom of nearly -all their bitterness, or of the triumphant vanity which is at the bottom -of their fancied security. But Alfred, face to face with Armand, was -trust face to face with treachery, serious love, ready for the most -tragic sacrifices, face to face with the depraved fancy of pride and -sense that scruple had restrained. -</p> - -<p> -And Armand was silent. Alfred's affection and esteem smote him as with a -hand. Ah! how he would have liked to have said to this man: -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I have lied to you. I have robbed you of your wife. I had the -excuse that I did not know how much you loved her and how much you loved -me. Choose now the reparation that it may please you to require, and I -will grant it you. Let us put an end to it." -</p> - -<p> -Yes, but what of Helen? The secret of adultery does not belong to a -single individual. To his duty towards Alfred was opposed another -duty—a duty of honour also, and one freely contracted—and he -was silent, feeling a very child in the presence of this honesty which -suffered and wept before him, honesty possibly deceived and certainly -simple. But a man who entrusts you with his pocket-book, and whom you -rob of the bank-notes in one of the pockets of it, is also deceived and -simple; only, on the other hand, you are a thief. Whatever Armand's -superiority to Alfred might be, he found himself, by the mere fact of -his own treachery and his friend's good faith, in that condition of -humiliation which is intolerable to all higher natures. It was an -experience that lasted for only a few minutes, but it was a very bitter -one. -</p> - -<p> -"Do not pay any attention to this complaining of mine," Alfred resumed; -"my nerves are unstrung. I really do not know why I am like this, seeing -that I have found with you the certainty that I needed. Ah! thank -you!"—and he sprang forward to kiss his friend as brother kisses -brother. Under this kiss Armand could feel the blood rising to his face. -</p> - -<p> -"Come," he said in confusion, "calm yourself." -</p> - -<p> -"Nay, I am calm," said Alfred; "you have been so good, you have listened -to me with so much heart. Alas!" he added mournfully, "how is it that I -cannot have an explanation with Helen like that which I have had with -you? In her presence I feel so embarrassed, so constrained." -</p> - -<p> -"And," replied Armand, who perceived the possibility of sparing his -mistress a cruel scene, "you also take an exaggerated view of trifles. -Shall I tell you my opinion about Madame Chazel? And this opinion has -been confirmed by all the conversations that I have had with her. What -she is suffering from is the change in her mode of life. The atmosphere -of Paris, the habits of Paris, the people of Paris, are all enervating -to her. She needs great consideration. Take my advice and spare her all -discussion. Be gentle with her." -</p> - -<p> -"You are right," said Alfred, who remembered having heard almost the -same words in the mouth of the doctor, and this coincidence succeeded in -momentarily tranquillising him. He shook his head, and uttered the -following words, at which Armand felt no inclination to smile: -</p> - -<p> -"I am an egotist; I see nothing but my own grief. But Helen has -confidence in me. You see that I am jealous no longer. Speak to her of -me; tell her how much I love her, how I desire only her happiness. -Explain it all to her; she will believe you. God! I would give my whole -life for a glance of tenderness in her eyes when she looks at me." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a></h4> - -<p> -When Alfred Chazel had left the drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln, Armand, -being left alone, felt the need of seeing clear within himself. The -visit from the friend of his childhood had brought him a strangely -uncomfortable feeling which he was unable to shake off either during the -close of that morning, or during the afternoon, which was entirely taken -up with going about from one place to another. By a line alleging an -imaginary excuse he had released himself from the appointment made with -Helen the evening before, and in his room as well as in the cab which -drove him from one neighbourhood to another, he had the courage to -question himself frankly. -</p> - -<p> -He strove to beguile with physical motion the indefinable and unbearable -sadness with which the scene that he had gone through continuously -overwhelmed him. He went from tradesman to tradesman, paying bills that -were in arrears, leaving cards at houses in which he had not set foot -for months, and unceasingly he reverted to this questioning of the -recesses of his conscience: Why was he so greatly shaken by a natural -event which it was so easy to foresee, and which, when all was said, did -not result in any disastrous consequence? -</p> - -<p> -But no; he could not think of Chazel without feeling an inward wound, -bleeding and keen. His pride had been stricken to its deepest depths. -He, who since their common adolescence had in thought treated Alfred as -an inferior creature, he, who had robbed the poor wretch of his wife -without the slightest remorse, he now had suddenly been crushed with -generosity by this man, had been almost outrageously contemned. There -was no means of rebelling against it, of standing out against it. Of the -two it was he, Armand, who was playing the unworthy part, and he was -pained by it in the baser portions of his being, in that pride in taking -the first place, which, from their childhood, had been manifested in the -pettiest details. Did they enter a restaurant, or take part in a country -excursion? It was Armand who sought to pay, just as he sought to surpass -at every game, and to win prizes at the distributions. Vanity had -prevented him from choosing a career. Vanity again had inclined him to -intrigues with women. Thus he was humiliated to the very soul. -</p> - -<p> -But his painful sensations proceeded at the same time from a more noble -cause. The cord of pity had thrilled within him at the sighing forth of -the terrible lament to which he had listened for an hour. Aridity of -soul was not an essential part of Armand de Querne's nature. It was -caused by the fact that with him emotion passed through the brain before -it reached the heart. By a rooted deformity to be found in all -intellectual lives, he must needs give himself reasons for feeling in -such or such a manner. The powerlessness to love of which he was a -victim proceeded from this peculiar disposition. He had never been able -to believe in the truth of any woman's heart, and as a consequence he -had always given himself reasons for not loving any of them -unreservedly. -</p> - -<p> -Such a nature is the most miserable of all, for it prompts those who -possess it to the worst acts of egotism without securing to them the icy -and unconscious serenity of true egotists. Thus it was that the young -man was able to become Helen's lover without a scruple, and to tread -upon friendship as tranquilly as upon the carpet in the room where they -met; and yet Alfred's suffering had just moved him to the inmost fibre. -Ah! the reason was that he did not dispute the sincerity of this -suffering; he had touched it as though it were an object, and as he -believed in it, he felt it. -</p> - -<p> -At the same moment, and for the first time, he perceived the real scope -of his conduct. If he had only suspected the depth of Chazel's love for -Helen! If he had known with what ardent friendship this man had been -attached to himself, Armand! But, people form ideas concerning a person, -and proceed to no further verification. They say to themselves: "This -man is nothing." They make no more account of his existence than that of -a beast or a plant. And then they find themselves face to face with a -heart that beats and that has been stricken, with a happiness -that was living and that has been slain. What misconceptions lie -at the root of our errors! And how many of the latter are merely the -misunderstandings—but the irreparable misunderstandings—of -others! -</p> - -<p> -Armand de Querne pursued these thoughts the whole day, and at the end of -them all, encountering him in a continuous fashion above all the rest, -was the image of Helen, and again of Helen. For whom had he betrayed -Alfred's confidence? For Helen. To whom had he so lightly sacrificed the -memories of his childhood and his youth? To Helen. In whose interest had -he just pledged that shameful word of honour? In Helen's. Now the young -man had in his feelings towards his mistress reached that moment when -the slightest contrariety is so exaggerated as to become almost -unbearable; what, then, was to be said of such a humiliation? He had not -deceived himself when, on the very eve of the first assignation, he had -recognised that he could never love her. -</p> - -<p> -He had at first passed through a sufficiently sweet period of -intoxicated pleasure, during which he had abandoned himself to the charm -of having a delightful mistress, as endearing as she was pretty, as -submissive as she was impassioned. But even at that period he -entertained no illusions regarding the nature of the feelings with which -she inspired him or regarding their duration. As to the demonstrations -of affection to which Helen surrendered herself, he looked upon them as -a display of romanticism to be accounted for by long residence in the -country among bad books and absurd dreams. -</p> - -<p> -"She is a Madame Bovary," he said to himself, and with this simple -phrase he had answered everything. -</p> - -<p> -When once the malady of disbelief has assailed a tormented heart, every -fresh detail serves as food for it. Helen's transports and fits of -melancholy, her utterances, and her silences, had served for weapons -against her. Did she abandon herself to her feelings with the ardour of -a deeply affected soul? He thought badly of her; she was a libertine and -nothing more. Did she shroud herself in melancholy reserve? He thought -badly of her; she wanted to produce an effect, to assume an attitude. -Did she question him respecting himself and his wife? What tyranny! Was -she silent? What hypocrisy! -</p> - -<p> -For all this, and by a seeming inconsistency such as characterises the -facile kindliness of the indifferent when anxious to save themselves -useless shocks, Armand had lent himself to the requisitions of Helen's -passion. To evade petty contradictions, he had laid aside many of his -habits. He declined dinner after dinner, deferred visit after visit, -distanced his appearances at the club, in the Rue Royale, where formerly -he used to show himself nearly every day. "You are never to be seen -now." "I thought you were abroad." "You rascal, what good fortune are -you hiding from us?" Such were the phrases with which he was greeted by -nearly every one he met at the corner of a footpath, on the threshold of -a restaurant, in the lobby of a theatre. -</p> - -<p> -These phrases had at first made him smile. They now caused him a vague -regret for his former mode of life. In proportion as habituation -deadened his pleasure in the possession of Helen, did he surprise -himself remembering with longing the insipid diversions of his freedom, -which, as soon as they were renewed, he was again to look upon as -hateful drudgery. All these different shades of feeling were beginning -to have the effect of rendering his connection with Helen burdensome to -him, and that long before the scene, the cruel recollection of which was -persecuting him now. But the scene once passed through, how could he -maintain his actual relations with his mistress? -</p> - -<p> -No, a thousand times no. He could not do it. And first with respect to -himself. -</p> - -<p> -"Upon my word," he said to himself, "I will despise myself up to a -certain point, but not beyond. So long as he had not spoken to me—" -</p> - -<p> -He paused upon this thought, then went on aloud with an evil laugh: -</p> - -<p> -"Ha! ha! so long as he had not spoken to me, it was exactly the same -thing. Yes, but I did not feel it as I do now. I have had enough of all -this lying. Pah! Pah!" and there was a physical bitterness in his mouth, -almost a real nausea at the thought of deceiving Alfred again, after the -step that the other had taken so loyally and so affectionately. -</p> - -<p> -"And then," he reflected, "I cannot do it on her account. When jealousy -has been roused, it is never completely lulled again. Alfred would -understand it all in the end. He would follow his wife or have her -followed. Then, behold a surprise, a scandal, and the unhappy Helen -loses at a blow her position, her child, a part, doubtless, of her -fortune, and all to be constrained to live with me who do not love her, -and whom she does not love." -</p> - -<p> -In order to give force to the plan of a final rupture which was already -being sketched in his brain, he took pleasure in considering this last -thought. No, Helen did not love him. She thought that she loved him, as -she had probably thought she loved Varades and the rest; for there must -have been others, in conformity with the axiom that a man is never a -woman's first or second lover. -</p> - -<p> -"If we break, there will be a tearful scene to be gone through, she will -spend a few melancholy weeks, enabling her to say to her next lover, -with eyes raised heavenwards, 'How I have suffered, love!' or else to -her most intimate confidante, 'Oh! men! men!'" -</p> - -<p> -There was a moment of base merriment; then his reflections began again. -</p> - -<p> -"What strange animals women are! Here is a fellow who has a heart, -frankness, and fidelity, as they call it; he can love—which is -another of their expressions—and his wife must deceive -him—for whom? For a cynic like me who am just the opposite. And if -it had not been I, it would have been some one worse. It is humiliating -to one's vanity, but refreshing to one's conscience—yes, it would -have been some one else." -</p> - -<p> -And a few minutes later: -</p> - -<p> -"What fine reasoning, too, in order to justify myself! Suppose one -applied it to assassination! If I do not kill you to-day you will die -sooner or later in some other fashion. The truth is that adultery is a -great pollution. Pah! Pah!" -</p> - -<p> -He returned home, turning these melancholy conclusions over and over. -When he was again in his drawing-room and in front of the easy-chair in -which Alfred had sat that morning, he felt still more incapable of -continuing to be Helen's lover—no, not two days, not a single day -longer. -</p> - -<p> -"We must put an end to it and break with each other, and that -immediately," he said aloud. -</p> - -<p> -He sat down at his table to write to Helen, but a note asking merely for -an appointment, for to break with her by letter and leave such a weapon -in her hands would be madness. Why not withdraw without seeing her again -as he had done in the case of more than one mistress? It was impossible -under the circumstances; it would be necessary also to renounce ever -seeing Alfred again. He must therefore resign himself to a rupture by -means of a scene. -</p> - -<p> -The most important point was the choice of a locality. At her own house? -And what if she had hysterics and some one came in? In the Rue de -Stockholm? But what if she threw herself into his arms and the fever of -the senses led him to take her once more, only to leave her afterwards -like a clown, after possessing her? Once more, no. -</p> - -<p> -"This is the best place after all," he said to himself. "The fact that -the servant is at the door will be enough to restrain me from yielding -to her. And if she has an hysterical attack, I have my little travelling -medicine chest." And he scribbled a note absolutely correct in form. Had -Alfred intercepted the missive he would have found in it nothing but an -offer very natural, considering their somewhat exceptional degree of -intimacy, to show Helen some albums for the choice of a costume for a -fancy dress ball. In order to justify the meeting at his own house, he -alleged the size of the albums and the difficulty of transporting them. -</p> - -<p> -When he had sent this letter, melancholy took possession of him. A -sudden vision showed him in anticipation the gladness that Helen would -feel on the receipt of this note. The two occasions on which she had -visited the rooms in the Rue Lincoln had been holidays of the heart to -her. What a deception was there awaiting her on the morrow! -</p> - -<p> -"Come, come," said Armand with energy. "In one short month I shall be in -London for the season. On my return they will be spending their holidays -away from Paris. This ugly story will have a better ending than many -others. Poor Alfred! There is still time to act as an honourable man." -</p> - -<p> -He said this to himself, and our miserable hearts are so ingenious in -duping themselves, that while he said it he believed it. -</p> - -<p> -It was a little after two o'clock in the afternoon of the following day, -when Helen Chazel entered this same drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln -where the day before her husband had spoken, and her lover reflected, in -a manner that would have prostrated her soul with despair had she been -able to know their words and thoughts; but she was aware of but one -thing—her deep joy at seeing her lover again after so long a time. -The past forty-eight hours had seemed endless to her. When passing in front -of the servant she had experienced a slight impulse of nervous emotion, -although she had her veil over her face, and the man would probably -never know her name. Joy at this meeting prevailed—joy and also -anxiety. Since she had lost the intoxicated certainty of the early days -of their love, she never parted from Armand without asking herself: -</p> - -<p> -"How shall I find him next time?" -</p> - -<p> -And now again, while he was relieving her of her muff and cloak, she was -at once enraptured and uneasy. She took off her veil and then merely -said to him: "How do you do!" laying her head upon the young man's -shoulder and looking at him. This look was sufficient to enable her to -discern on his countenance the premonitory tokens of the impending -conversation. He had said nothing to her, and already she knew that he -had not brought her to show her albums, that the excuse of the preceding -day for not seeing her was a false one, that an important event had come -to pass. -</p> - -<p> -But what event? On the occasion of their walk in the Jardin des Plantes, -just two days before, he had been more coaxing, more loving, less -reserved than was his wont. She had almost ventured to feel aloud in his -presence. A sudden transition had again ruffled the intimacy between -them. What was he going to say? He had forced her to sit down without -giving her any other caress than the stroking of her hair with his hand, -and he began to speak to her, relating Alfred's visit of the previous -day, the result of their explanations, and the meeting in the Jardin des -Plantes. -</p> - -<p> -"You reproached me for being over-prudent. You see now whether I was -wrong in telling you that he was growing jealous. What did he say to you -in the evening?" -</p> - -<p> -"Nothing," she replied. -</p> - -<p> -Although this birth of jealousy on Alfred's part, and the evidence of -his deception towards herself were facts of weighty importance to her -security, what chiefly concerned her at that moment was to ascertain how -her lover had defended his love—their love—and she asked him: -</p> - -<p> -"What did you say to him yourself?" -</p> - -<p> -"If I alone had been involved," returned Armand, "you can understand -that I should not have resorted to subterfuge in the presence of such -loyalty. In short, I have wronged him, he has a right to every -reparation, and I should have felt it a great relief to offer him such; -but you were implicated, and I gave him my word that there had never -been anything but the relations of friendship between us." -</p> - -<p> -He paused for a moment, and then went on with visible irritation. -</p> - -<p> -"As it has never been our custom, neither his nor mine, to have two such -words, one true and the other false, he believed me, and for the moment -he is quieted." -</p> - -<p> -She listened to him and looked at him, while he himself looked at the -fire, his elbows upon his knees, and his chin on his hands. She was -asking herself: -</p> - -<p> -"If we were driven to such an extremity would he love me sufficiently to -go away with me, to give me all his life and to accept mine?" -</p> - -<p> -She was silent, absorbed in the expectation of that which was to follow, -and which she could not yet foresee. On his part, he employed his last -phrase in continuation. -</p> - -<p> -"He is quieted—for the moment," he repeated, and he emphasized the -last three words. "But our relations will be rendered very difficult ones. -You see, when a man is not suspicious, everything that should serve as a -proof against, serves as a proof for. When a man is suspicious, the -contrary happens. Am I right?" -</p> - -<p> -He was embarrassed by the silence in which she continued to look at him. -Leaning back in her easy-chair, her hands extended on the two arms of -it, her lips parted, she watched, panting as it were, for a gleam of -tender emotion on her lover's face. She read on it nothing but the dry -reflectiveness with which men set forth the data of a piece of business. -His voice especially—that voice whose slightest tones she knew, the -voice which always made its way into the remotest chambers of her -heart—ah! that voice had a cruel, almost metallic harshness. Well! -'twas another episode to join to the tale of her prolonged martyrdom, -the torture of a living creature chained to a dead soul wherein that -which caused her to writhe in anguish did not awake so much as a -vibration. Nevertheless, to this question, "Am I right," she replied in -a voice choking with anxiety: -</p> - -<p> -"It is possible; you are a better judge of such matters than I am." Then -with an effort: "And what conclusion do you draw?" -</p> - -<p> -"First promise me," replied Armand, "that you will not take ill what I -am going to say to you. Be persuaded that I shall never have any object -in view but your own interest. You do not doubt this?" -</p> - -<p> -Why did Helen bow her head at these simple words as though she had -plainly read the fatal words of rupture on his lips? Why was she on the -point of crying out like the woman condemned during the Terror: -</p> - -<p> -"Sir executioner, a moment longer." -</p> - -<p> -Ah! why does the heart that loves possess this second sight which -increases misfortune by the anticipation of them? -</p> - -<p> -"We must endure a separation for a short time," the young man resumed, -"until Alfred's suspicions have been set at rest—four or five months, -perhaps six, but not more. I will make all easy for you by leaving Paris -myself, although it is very inconvenient for me to do so just now. But -your peace is the first thing to be considered, is it not?" -</p> - -<p> -He continued speaking, but she had ceased to listen to him. It was not -danger that she perceived before her. What was danger to her? Only one -misfortune existed for her, that of seeing Armand no more. He spoke of -separation for four or five months, perhaps six, just as he would have -spoken of the beauty of the day, of a new play, of the paying of a -visit. To him it appeared a very simple matter to be absent from the -town in which she lived, to lay aside the sweet custom of their daily -interviews! No, no, the man did not love her. -</p> - -<p> -"And you announce this news to me calmly like that," she said; "and if -you were to love me no longer after this absence, what would become of -me? What would be left to me." -</p> - -<p> -"I entreat you," replied Armand impatiently, for he felt that the lead -in the conversation was slipping from him, "not to let us confuse the -questions at issue. Just now we have to deal with your husband's -jealousy and your own safety. Is an absence necessary? Yes or no? -Everything turns on that." -</p> - -<p> -"But what if I suggest another plan to you," she asked. "My husband is -jealous—be it so. My safety is compromised—be it so. Then, take -me away with you. I would rather lose everything and keep you." -</p> - -<p> -And she devoured him with her eyes as she uttered these words. He was -obliged to show the bottom of his heart this time. She was in one of -these crises in which one stakes all to win all, to learn—yes to -learn the truth, to hold it, clasp it, feel it as though it were a body, -should death be the consequence! -</p> - -<p> -"You know better than I," he replied, "that I cannot do that, and the -reason why I cannot. You were forgetting your child. A wife may be taken -from a husband, but never a mother from a son!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she exclaimed, "why do you not tell me that you have ceased to -love me? Why these phrases and this circumspection? Do you think that I -am not brave enough to look reality in the face, whatever it may be? I -swear to you, Armand, that it would be less cruel on your part to tell -me everything at once. Armand, say that you have ceased to love me; I -will not be angry with you, and will go away quite alone with my grief. -A grief that you have caused will still be something of yourself; but do -not leave me in this horrible uncertainty, do not speak so coldly of -going far away from me if you love me. Heavens! what I am enduring!" -</p> - -<p> -Her mouth was distorted with emotion, her breath came short, and tears -started from her eyes, big, heavy tears that flowed down her cheek one -after another, leaving what looked like furrows behind them. -</p> - -<p> -"It is just as I expected," said Armand to himself, and these tears, -instead of softening him, enervated him even to anger. He did not -sympathise with this grief as he had sympathised with Alfred's, perhaps -owing to that difference between the sexes which brings it to pass that -a woman's grief is not always as intelligible to us as that of a -fellow-man; at times, also, the feeling of cowardice that we feel when -giving pain to a mistress so provokes us, by lowering us in our own -eyes, as to exclude tenderness. He had risen, and was walking about the -room, thinking to himself: -</p> - -<p> -"Why not put an end to the whole thing at once?" -</p> - -<p> -Then he added aloud: -</p> - -<p> -"I really do not know what it is that makes you cry. In what I have said -to you there was nothing that did not breathe the deepest affection for -you." -</p> - -<p> -How could she have failed to notice that already he no longer made use -of the word "love." -</p> - -<p> -"But since you require me to speak frankly to you, I will obey you. No; -it is not only on your own account that I request this separation, but -also on my own. There is now a barrier between us, Helen, that a man of -honour cannot cross." -</p> - -<p> -"What is it?" replied Helen, finding strength enough to raise her pale, -tear-stained face. -</p> - -<p> -"The unqualified trust of another man," he answered brusquely. "When -Alfred came here, to this very spot, he did not speak to me of his -jealousy only, he displayed such esteem and friendship towards me as I -forbear from describing to you. He suspected me, and he came to me with -open heart. There is no bitterness, no bitter sentiment in that heart, -but beauty of feeling, straightforwardness and sincerity of friendship. -No, Helen, I can deceive that man no longer. I should despise myself too -much if I did." -</p> - -<p> -"Well! and what of me?" she cried, rising in her turn. This praise of -her husband by her lover completed her distraction, and anger was -overtaking her. "Did I not trample upon all that, in order to come to -you? Do you think that I was born for treachery and falsehood? Did you -hesitate for one moment about asking me to deceive this honest man, this -confiding friend, when you wished to have me? Ah! you are not ashamed of -it on my account and you are on your own! I forbid you to speak of -honour, and perjured faith, and betrayed friendship. You have no right -to do so, seeing that it is upon yourself, upon yourself, understand, -that it all recoils. Did you entreat me to be yours? Answer in your -turn, yes or no?" -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon me," returned Armand. "Let us go back to the facts. We loved -each other. You were not a young girl so far as I know. I was not a -youth. We were not making our first entry upon life—we were both -persons of experience. Is that not so? We knew where we were going. I -owed it to you not to compromise you. Did I speak of you to any living -soul? I owed it to you not to disturb your peace? I am disturbing it and -I withdraw. As to my conscience, permit me to be the sole judge of what -it enjoins and what it forbids." -</p> - -<p> -"And in six months," replied Helen, "will your conscience be more -accommodating? Come, be logical and frank. It is not a momentary -separation that you want but a rupture. Let me at least hear you say as -much since you desire people to esteem you." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," replied the young man brutally, exasperated by the revolt of a -woman usually so gentle and submissive. -</p> - -<p> -"So you thought that you were free from all duty towards me?" she -continued. "You were leaving me all alone in that way. You were going -away. You would have written me five or six letters, and then that would -have been the end. You would have uttered these fine phrases to -yourself: 'We knew where we were going.' 'She was not a young girl.' 'We -were both persons of experience.' I should be curious to know," she -added with that mournful irony which is imparted by rising frenzy, "just -what you understand by that." -</p> - -<p> -"What would be the use?" he said. -</p> - -<p> -"I want to know," she returned vehemently. "I have a good right to know -at least what you think of me." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you believe that I am not acquainted with your life?" -</p> - -<p> -"With my life," Helen questioned, crushed by a kind of stupor, which the -young man took for terror at this sudden revelation. -</p> - -<p> -"Do you wish for facts?" he returned harshly. "Well, you shall have -them. Have you forgotten your intrigue with Monsieur de Varades!" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she cried, "nay, that is infamous. Monsieur de Varades!" And she -passed her hands wildly across her forehead. "Tell me that you did not -believe that, I entreat you. My love, tell me that you did not think -that of me. Oh! tell me, tell me, tell me!" -</p> - -<p> -"I did believe it," he replied, his heart closed to the wail of his -mistress by that keen, insidious jealousy of the past which, by a -strange anomaly of his nature, had always caused him some pain when by -her side, although he did not love her. -</p> - -<p> -"Then," said Helen, frozen now by this reply, "if you believed it, why -did you never speak of it to me? If the thought of it governed you when -you asked me to be yours, if you considered that you had less -responsibility towards me by reason of it, why did you entertain no -doubt about it? Were you sure of it? Had you seen it? Was there not a -chance against it being true—a chance, a single chance? Why, are you -not aware that it is a crime to take all a woman's heart, and to keep -thoughts of that kind in one's own?" -</p> - -<p> -"Tut!" he replied, shrugging his shoulders; "you would have thought me -perfectly ridiculous if I had not been your lover. Your past belonged to -you alone, and I had no right to call you to account for it any more -than for your future. As to the present, I know you well enough to be -sure that you are not a woman who would take two lovers at the same -time." -</p> - -<p> -"'Tis a great honour," she replied in an almost stifled voice. She was -pale as death. The egotism and insensibility of the man she loved -paralysed her with such horror that her tears would no longer come. She -felt but one desire: to leave this man, to see no longer those eyes and -those lips—those lips that she had loved so well, and which had -always lied so to her, since from the very first day he had believed this -without proof! Mechanically she resumed her cloak and muff, and fastened -her veil. -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye," she said. It would have been impossible for her to continue -the conversation just then, so choked was she with indignation. -</p> - -<p> -He did not try to detain her, and also said: -</p> - -<p> -"Good-bye." -</p> - -<p> -She left the room, and he accompanied her, without a word being spoken -on either side, to the outer door. The latter once closed, he returned -to the drawing-room, where no trace of the tragic scene enacted in it -remained but the disarrangement of the easy chair that had been pushed -aside by Helen as she rose. -</p> - -<p> -"All has passed off better than I expected," he said to himself. "How -easy it is to pin them to the wall with a little fact! Well! it is -over." -</p> - -<p> -"It is over," he repeated aloud with that strange feeling both of relief -and of distress which accompanies the interruption of love. "She was -very pretty," he reflected to himself. "Now we must be on the look out -for revenge. But what revenge? She has not a note in which I speak -familiarly to her. I shall have the trouble of taking away all those -trifles of hers at Madame Palmyre's. I will have them returned to her -later on, when we have reached the stage at which she can say to me 'You -gave me great pain,' with the letter of my successor in her bosom, -between the chemisette and her skin." -</p> - -<p> -He sat down again in front of the fire, from which he drew a few sparks. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" he continued, "the after-taste of life is too bitter!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></h4> - -<p> -REVENGE! Such was scarcely the subject of Helen's reflections while -returning from the Rue Lincoln. The sudden blow which she had just -received had been too heavy a one to leave room within her for any other -feeling but that of the most continuous and crushing grief. At the -dinner table, during the evening, then during the night when alone in -her own room with every light extinguished, and sleepless, then during -the day that succeeded to that night, and during the other nights and -days that ensued for a fortnight afterwards, what she perceived -unremittingly and with the same cruel, uninterrupted clearness was the -brutal fact that had at last been grasped in its indisputable reality, -the fact that her lover had never loved her! -</p> - -<p> -Not for a moment? No, not for a moment, seeing that when he had -possessed her for the first time, he had believed himself in the -possession of the former mistress of Monsieur de Varades, and perhaps of -others. The smiles and reticences and unresponsiveness and mistrust on -the part of Armand were now clearly accounted for, and her whole being -rebelled against the murderous injustice, as she compared what she had -given with what she had received. What! the tender refinements of her -dreams, the noble madness of her dear love, the idolatry of her -ecstasies, the sincerity of the sacrifices made without regret or -remorse to give happiness to the man she loved, all this wasted upon a -lie, upon a void, as vainly as the leaves driven by the wind along the -walks of the old garden in which they had walked together, as uselessly -as the motes dancing in a sunbeam on the edge of the window in the -little room during those afternoons devoted to their loves. -</p> - -<p> -Devoted to their loves? Yes, she had loved deeply, madly, and alas! for -nothing—to find herself looked upon as a woman that passed from one -intrigue to another, as one that had loosed her robe for this man and -for that, as one that collected sensations, just as others collect fans -or trinkets. Ah! she could not endure the injustice of it. To be -deprived of the sight of Armand—for on the day following the -explanation that had proved so tragical to her, Alfred had received a -line from his friend announcing a temporary absence necessitated by -business of importance—yes, to be deprived of the sight of Armand was -an anguish to her, but she possessed a weapon against this anguish: the -contempt with which she had been inspired by her lover's poverty of -heart, by the implacable egotism of the man that the last conversation -had revealed. -</p> - -<p> -How should she ever accustom her heart to the iniquity of this same -being whom she had so greatly loved. He had parted from her abruptly, -and unworthily, but the recognition of the extent of her love for him -would not have caused her so much suffering as she had endured. The -martyrdom, the intolerable martyrdom consisted in the impotence of her -love, not to command a return, but to make itself merely understood. She -was like one under sentence of death who is willing indeed to die, but -whose worst agony is the powerlessness to exclaim before death: "I am -innocent." -</p> - -<p> -How keenly he had made her feel the arrogant outrage inflicted by his -honour as a man, for it was in the name of this honour that he had -sacrificed her. Ah! had he loved her, how lightly he would have held -this honour, just as she had lightly held her own; but how could he have -loved her since from the very first he had believed her guilty of -deception? She used to come and say to him: "I have kept myself for -you," and he used to say to himself: "After Monsieur de Varades!" All -the proofs of her affection—and how she had lavished them upon -him!—had been shattered against this invincible conviction, and yet, -heavens! her affection was real, as real as the life which had begun -only on the day when she had come to know him. And she could hear his -voice saying: -</p> - -<p> -"We were both persons of experience. Do you believe that I was not -acquainted with your life?" -</p> - -<p> -Oh! what injustice, what hideous injustice! She sobbed her heart out at -the thought of it. She came and went, a prey to continual fever, finding -no more rest for her poor burning head than for her poor bleeding heart, -and inwardly given over to a medley of emotions—despair for happiness -that was lost for ever, keen regret for her absent lover, frenzy at -having been misunderstood in the noblest and most genuine of her -feelings. To repent of having belonged to this cruel Armand before the -hour of her supreme deception, was what she could not do. Love, sublime -love had impelled her to the act, as sublime as itself. Sublime love! -"No," she now exclaimed, "blind, insensate love!" -</p> - -<p> -And she walked to and fro, at random, in her room like a caged animal, -and ever, as against an irrefragable wall, she struck against this -thought: -</p> - -<p> -"What was the use of having loved like that? What was the use? Ah! the -lying, lying, lying!—" -</p> - -<p> -What served to complete her provocation in the mortal crisis through -which she was passing was the tender and untimely solicitude of her -husband. As he had no suspicion of the drama that was being enacted in -this distempered soul, he would chance to say to her, in the belief that -he was holding out an agreeable prospect: "We will make a trip as soon -as I am free. Perhaps Armand will come with us." Or perhaps: "I am -surprised at not having heard from Armand. Has he not written to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," she would reply. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred now reproached himself for the explanation that he had had with -his friend, feeling persuaded that the latter had gone to travel only in -order to spare his jealousy. He thought about his wife's melancholy, he -found it ever more inexplicable, and he told himself that he had -deprived her of one of her few relaxations. She, on the other hand, was -profoundly sensible of angered pride on thus encountering her husband's -trust, which contrasted too sharply with the distrust of her lover. And -then these plans of travelling together, which Alfred called up, were -they not the very ones that she had herself formerly cherished? They -showed her with only too great precision what might have been—those -summer months whose intimate holiday-making she had imagined beforehand. -They would have lived together by the seashore in one of the villages of -Normandy, where the trees grow green to the very margin of the blue -waves. Perhaps they would have seen together one of those Italian towns -whose mere names seem to shroud a promise of happiness with light. And -then there came nothing but freezing solitude, nothing but desertion! He -had not written her a note since their rupture, not a line of pity. But -why should he have pitied her? Doubtless he believed her already -comforted, perhaps in the arms of another. Why not? He had deemed her -capable of having Varades before himself. Two lovers, three, ten, what -matters the total if there be more than one? -</p> - -<p> -From day to day the keen pain of this injustice became more keen within -her, and the pain resulted in a mad and morbid thought, yet the only one -that could satisfy somewhat the despair that raged in her heart. Yes, in -those hours of anguish she conceived the criminal thought of indeed -committing frightful actions, since she had been deemed capable of them, -of being like the image that Armand had formed of her, like that fast -and facile woman whom he had believed himself to possess. -</p> - -<p> -Moral life, like physical life, has its suicidal fevers, its damning -frenzies. There are moments when we are driven at all costs to renounce -our inner personality, to assassinate it, to become another being. It is -especially injustice that produces these crises, mysterious yet so -necessary, and so natural that even children, like animals, are subject -to them. Are not the best rendered the worst by being beaten without -having deserved it? The more Helen was sensible of having been -irredeemably misunderstood, the more a frightful attraction impelled her -to become just the opposite of what she had formerly been. A vertigo -seized her, and, as it were, a delirious longing for degradation. "'Tis -too foolish," she said to herself, "to have any heart." -</p> - -<p> -This appetite for destruction which works in all creatures -simultaneously with the sense of love, recoiled upon herself. She set -herself to attack her own inner nature systematically, as some men -intoxicate themselves, in analogous circumstances, glass by glass, in -spite of disgust and, so to speak, from a sense of duty. She began to -exhibit strange phenomena of nervous gaiety in the ordinary affairs of -life. She, who hitherto had detested light conversation, affected to -fill her talk with the most direct allusions to the things of love. She -sent for those works which, during the last few years, she had heard -spoken of as being the most audacious, in order to have them upon her -table. She was seized with a sort of frenzy for pleasure, and every -evening there would be a party at the theatre to which she brought -Alfred, and she would speak of her intentions of going again into -society, and interest herself with surprising activity in the disguise -that she was to wear at a fancy ball given by the Malhoures, a ball for -which Armand was to have chosen her costume. Her voice seemed to be of a -higher pitch. She laughed a more sonorous laugh, and at all the -demonstrations of this painful merriment Alfred, in spite of himself, -felt affected by an indefinable anxiety, so completely were her eyes -characterised by that extraordinary brightness, her gestures by those -nervous jerkings, and her words by that abruptness which occasion a -dread lest a woman capable of looking, gesticulating, and talking in -this way should suddenly be seized by a fit of insanity, and should -commit some extravagant and irretrievable action. -</p> - -<p> -She was stranger still on the morning of the day on which she was to go -to the Malhoures' ball. It was the first time since her quarrel with -Armand that she was going out for the evening. She did not come down to -breakfast. Alfred, seated at the square table with his wife's cover laid -opposite to him, and with his son on his right, ate without speaking, a -prey to the increasing distress inflicted upon him by the mournful -oddness of Helen's behaviour. She no longer seemed to be aware of the -little boy's existence. "Good morning, dear," "Good night, dear," and -that was nearly all. She, a mother usually so loving, seemed to have the -maternal instinct paralysed within her, and for the moment such was -indeed the case. -</p> - -<p> -A settled idea produces upon the heart the same effect as is produced by -a bright and motionless point upon our eyes; it hypnotises the being -which it sways, and limits its susceptibility to a tiny circle of -sensations. It was impossible for the unhappy woman to have any feeling -whatever in respect of her son, because in her condition of lucid -aberration it was impossible for her to be sensible of his existence. -</p> - -<p> -The little boy was raised on a high chair, and had that morning on his -face the sad, and at the same time perplexed expression of a child that -grieves without knowing why. A depth of undefined sorrow was in his -eyes; his father was aware, merely by observing the way in which he ate -with the tips of his teeth, that a hidden trouble was tormenting this -curly head. -</p> - -<p> -"Have you not been good this morning," he said to him, "that you are so -sad?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I have been good," Henry replied, and was again silent; then -suddenly he said: "Papa, what does 'to prejudice' mean?" -</p> - -<p> -"It is a wrong done to a person unjustly. But why do you ask me that?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because Miette said the other day that someone had prejudiced her uncle -against her cousin." This expression, heard for the first time, and only -half understood, had struck his childish imagination, and he went on: -"Could anyone prejudice you or mamma against me?" -</p> - -<p> -"What notions are you taking into your head?" replied the father. -</p> - -<p> -He had just become sensible that his son was himself perceiving the -change in his mother's disposition. He looked at him, and felt that -inclination to weep which comes upon a widower at the sight of his -orphan child—a poor little thing who has lost the greatest of earthly -blessings, who does not suspect this, but who nevertheless forebodes and -guesses irretrievable misfortune. Father and son preserved silence, when -through the dining-room door, which had been left open, was heard a -voice, Helen's voice, completing an order to a workwoman. "For nine -o'clock then, punctually." She was engaged about her ball-dress. She was -not there where her glance, her smile, would have cast such a ray of -joy, and Alfred reflected upon the incomprehensible, and at the same -time unconquerable disaster which had brought them all there, himself, -his son, and his wife—especially his wife. Heavens! what was the -matter with her? -</p> - -<p> -He was still thinking of this many hours later, in the brougham that was -taking them both in the direction of the Rue du Bac, where the Malhoures -lived. She was in the corner of the carriage, with powdered hair and two -patches at the corner of her thin, pale cheek. The powder, and the -patches, and the dark touches that she had put round her eyes, in which -the flame of fever was burning, imparted to her beauty something -dangerous, and disquieting, and more inaccessible than ever to the man -who was sitting by her side, and looking at her without venturing to -speak. -</p> - -<p> -Her neck, mobile and graceful, issued from the furs which hid her -disguise as a flower-girl of the time of Louis XV. She wore pink silk -stockings, pink satin shoes, a flowered skirt, and in her soul was the -mortal blending of frenzy and despair of a woman who would ruin herself -with delight, for nothing—for the sake of being ruined and ruined for -ever! Through the brougham windows, the glass of which she had let down -in order to inhale something of the keen night air, she watched the -houses filing past, and the picture presented by Paris after the toils -of the day. The shops were flaming on the ground floor; the cafés were -opening their doors to customers; the wind was sending a quiver through -the gas flames that outlined the notices of the theatres. Along the -Boulevards, as in the Avenue de l'Opéra and in the Rue des Tuileries, -there was a moving crowd. -</p> - -<p> -Of what was this crowd in quest? Of pleasure, and of nothing but pleasure. -<i>She</i> had pursued an ideal which had proved most false! It was -time to live like the rest. A woman's amusement consists of coquetry, of -intrigue. She would be a coquette. She would have lovers—yes, lovers. -She repeated these words, in thought, with strange passion, for the face -of the man she had loved had just appeared again before her -recollection, and with it the unbearable palpitation of the heart had -begun again. Ah! between that face and herself, between that memory and -her heart, she would put other faces, other memories! -</p> - -<p> -Yet, how he had mocked her! She now at certain moments felt a genuine -hatred towards him. By a sort of backward crystallisation, she -multiplied reasons for animosity round the thought of Armand that she -bore in her mind, and she calumniated him fiercely on her own behalf. -Did not his whole behaviour towards her bear the stamp of abominable and -daily calculation? When he had entreated her to be his under the -pretence that he would not believe in her love without this proof, was -it not that he would not fail where another had succeeded? Was it true -even that Alfred was jealous? This was doubtless a pretext devised for -the purpose of bringing about a rupture. And how carefully he had kept -the name of Varades to himself, to throw it into his mistress's teeth -only at the last moment, without giving her time to justify herself! She -ought to have spoken, to have looked for old letters, to have found some -testimony. But why? Would he have believed her for an instant? And -bruising herself afresh against the poisoned point of injustice, she -detested all men in this man, she envied those who mock the hateful -race, the jades who take the initiative in this duel of distrust and are -the first to betray. How glad she would be to have been one of them, to -have really had a dozen intrigues before that one with Armand, and to be -able to tell him so, and to degrade herself and him, and to pollute -everything within her and about her, her soul and her body, with a -pollution such as no water could wash away. -</p> - -<p> -She was enduring, while in this carriage, one of those tempests of -passion which she had to pass through several times in the day, and -especially at night, for she had not slept two hours out of the -twenty-four during the past three weeks. It was as though a tide of -bitterness were rising within her, and the whirling of her thoughts -became so rapid that all idea of ambient things was blotted out from her -consciousness; and she did not emerge from her dream until some -inevitable detail compelled her to action, such as Alfred's hand shaking -her arm as the brougham stopped, and his voice saying to her: "We have -arrived." The stupor of an awakening from sleep showed in her eyes, and -she recognised the Malhoures' gate. -</p> - -<p> -The house stood at the back of a courtyard and was one of those old -mansions such as are still found in that part of the Faubourg -Saint-Germain, with views behind over vast stretches of garden, while in -front there is the narrow, populous, noisy street. The house was let in -floors, and the Malhoures occupied the second. The lofty windows were -gleaming, and the shadows of the various couples were thrown in black, -moving silhouettes upon the luminous glass. Old Malhoure, as he was -familiarly called, was a professor in the École Polytechnique, a member -of the Institute, and tolerably rich by inheritance from his father, the -celebrated inventor. He had three marriageable daughters, and received -every Wednesday. Twice a year he gave a fancy dress dance. On these -evenings a general clearance was made. All the rooms, even the -<i>savant's</i> study, were in requisition for the entertainment, and -although they were large and lofty apartments, they scarcely sufficed -for the number of the guests. -</p> - -<p> -People used to visit the Malhoures a great deal. Their house was in the -first place a centre of reunion for the great professor's former pupils -who were separated by their modes of life; intrigue also went on behind -the doors with important personages of the Academy of Sciences; finally -people were amused by the youthfulness of the three young ladies and the -good nature of their father, whose appearance—a legendary one in the -École—was in itself an element of mirth. He was huge and short, with -eyes hidden behind blue spectacles, a beard collar of greenish-white, -clothes of extraordinary cut, and a continual nodding of the head. -Though he presented this figure, it was pretended that the old man had -once been a lady's man, a gay dog, as the students used to say -facetiously to one another. At twenty-two, he had discovered a theorem, -which bore his name, and since then he had multiplied treatises after -treatises. When, wearied by fourteen hours of work, he went out in the -evening, he used to follow the young workwomen in the Quartier de -l'Observatoire, where he then lived. He used to heap up engaging offers -to entice them, but he was so ugly—so ugly—that they laughed -impudently in his face. The savant used to look round him to make sure -he was not heard, and then murmur as a supreme argument: -</p> - -<p> -"I am Malhoure, the inventor of the theorem!" -</p> - -<p> -After his marriage he had grown somewhat religious, but he had remained -very cheerful, especially when he had discovered some particularly -elegant formula during the day. Such was doubtless the case that -evening, for he was standing on the threshold receiving the guests with -his most cordial smile, although he did not recognise one person out of -ten; he had no memory for faces. By his side, and grumbling, was his -intimate friend, Professor Moreau, a calculator long and lean, and as -great a pessimist as Malhoure was an optimist. Just as Madame Chazel -reached the landing, and while she was leaving her furs in the care of -the servant, the two professors were speaking of a lady who had just -passed, wearing a dress as outrageously low as she herself was faded, -and old Malhoure was saying to his friend: -</p> - -<p> -"Well, geometry does not grow old. The square of the hypotenuse is -always young." -</p> - -<p> -"For my own part," replied Moreau, "I can see whether a woman is -hump-backed or blind of an eye, whether she walks straight or is lame. -But what difference there is between ugliness and beauty I have never -been able to conceive." -</p> - -<p> -The piano was playing a quadrille, the din of the dance filled the -rooms, and Malhoure clasped both of Chazel's hands, taking him for some -one else, and calling him "My dear, my very dear Arthur." Helen was -looking, with strange feeling of envy, at the professors, whose -conversation she had just overheard. They at least would never know that -continuous, settled torture which brings with it incapacity for a -thought foreign to itself, for study, for reading, for conversation! -</p> - -<p> -But she was already in the hands of Madame Malhoure and her three -daughters, all four being equally unreasonable, and having no object -save that of amusing themselves. The mother was dressed as Catherine de -Médicis, and the three daughters as a gipsy, a milk-woman, and a -Cauchois peasant. Their costumes savoured of work done at home, and -fashioned with chance materials after the engravings of the illustrated -papers, and the same held good of the toilets worn by these ladies' -friends. The men, on their side, seemed uncomfortable in their black -coats; several looked like people who had to get up early in the -morning, and were computing that every call from the piano robbed them -of a little of their sleep. -</p> - -<p> -The talk that was flying about in the warm atmosphere was astonishing by -contrast. Fragments of frivolous phrases alternated with thoughtful -conversation. -</p> - -<p> -"Don't talk to me of these new theories about space that has more than -three dimensions—" -</p> - -<p> -"Have you danced much this winter, mademoiselle?—" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! what a genius Cauchy had, what power of analysis!—" -</p> - -<p> -"Mamma, will you allow me to stay for the cotillon?—" -</p> - -<p> -Alfred Chazel had lighted upon one of his old companions, and was -communicating to him a long-cherished project of a new algebra—that, -namely, of order—and Helen, assailed by the effusiveness of the -Malhoure ladies, was telling herself that it had been scarcely worth -while to take trouble about her dress. Thanks to the education received -from her step-mother, and also to her talks with Monsieur de Querne, she -had acquired tolerably accurate ideas concerning society. She -comprehended the distinction that separates true assemblies of the world -from middle-class carnivals such as she was now present at. -Nevertheless, as she was charming in her pale blue and bright pink -costume, and could read the triumph of her beauty in the envious glances -of many women, and the admiring gaze of the men, she gave herself up of -set purpose to that sensation of success so intoxicating to feminine -pride, even when it is a success that is despised; and she proceeded to -dance every dance that she might exhaust the inward torture by physical -activity, and she desisted only to visit the refreshment room and drink -a little champagne. The wine sent a trifle of light and sparkling froth -to her head that was so wearied by excessive thought. -</p> - -<p> -She was standing thus beside the table in the refreshment room, fanning -herself with one hand, and holding in the other the cup containing the -last golden drops of the drink whose vague enervation was pleasant to -her; her partner, an insignificant and sufficiently correct young man, -who was quite proud of having promenaded with her on his arm, was trying -to talk; he was speaking of the new play, a middle-class comedy which -Monsieur de Querne had cruelly ridiculed one evening, and Helen was -replying with praise of a work which hitherto on her lover's authority -she had considered detestable. At the mere mention of the actors' names -and the title of the play, she could see herself in a box beside him, -and a flame coursed through her blood as she suddenly heard close to her -a voice that completed her emotion—that voice?—no, but the -voice of Monsieur de Varades, of the man who had exercised so fatal an -influence upon the destiny of her love, the voice of him whose name -Armand had flung in insult into her teeth during the scene of their -rupture. By what cruel mystery of fate was the officer here, almost -within two steps of her, and talking without appearing to see her? -</p> - -<p> -Had she been able to reflect for a moment she would have deemed the -presence of old Malhoure's former pupil as natural as her own. Was she -not at this ball as the wife of an old fellow-student of De Varades? She -would also have reflected that living for months and months, as she had -done, apart from the society frequented by her husband, she was ignorant -of the movements of Alfred's companions. But in her present state of -morbid over-excitement, this sudden meeting struck her with a sort of -almost terror-stricken stupor, which was immediately replaced by a fresh -sweep of her secret grief, of that maddening grief which made her long -to cry <i>Fire!</i> and <i>Murder!</i> -</p> - -<p> -Without paying any further attention to what her partner was saying, she -looked with devouring curiosity at De Varades as though she had not met -him for years. He was a handsome fellow, slenderly built, and muscular -all over. The contrast in colour between his hair, which had become -nearly white, and his moustache, which had remained very dark, gave a -singular aspect to his refined head. A low forehead, a hooked nose, eyes -that were somewhat too small and close together, and a flashing glance, -in which bravery and temerity could alike be read, caused his -countenance to be vaguely suggestive of the profile of a bird of prey. -The stiffness, as of a uniform, assumed by the officer's evening coat, -which he wore in a military style, was all that was further required to -single him out and render him remarkable in an assembly wherein the -wearied race of the men of desk and study was predominant. Since the -audacious attempt at Bourges, Helen had never seen this disquieting -individual coming towards her without feeling dimly uncomfortable, so -sensible was she that in him she had an enemy capable of anything. And -now, a prey to a maddening ulceration, she would on the contrary have -liked him to approach her, to pay her attentions as he did formerly. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, to pay her attentions, and she would not be childish and silly as -she had been before. In her misery and madness, she went so far as to -regret her former behaviour! She had been a loyal wife, and what had -this done for her? Only brought her to an hour when nothing in the world -remained to her save an incurable wound in the most sensitive portion of -her heart. She drank a few more drops of champagne in order to relieve -her thoughts, and De Varades, off whom she never took her eyes, turned -in her direction. Did he see her for the first time, or had he perhaps -affected not to notice her? He bowed and came to greet her, with the -expression at once ironical, respectful, and freezing, with which he -used to accost her at Bourges; and instead of replying to it, as she did -then, with equal coldness, she had a light in her eyes and a smile on -her lips. She held out her hand to him, and after the first polite -formulas, immediately asked: -</p> - -<p> -"Are you passing through Paris?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, madame, I am living here," he replied; "I was appointed professor -at the School of War four months ago." -</p> - -<p> -"Four months, and you have not come to see us?" she said in a -coquettishly reproachful tone of voice. -</p> - -<p> -"No, but I heard about you," replied the young man, and to himself: "How -Paris has changed her!" He detested her deeply, first because she had -wounded his pride, and then by reason of the infamous conduct of which -he had been guilty towards her. He had boasted of having been her lover, -giving details in proof; it was not true, and he could not forgive her -for the irreparable wrong that he had done her. Ah! if the calumny had -only been like those others that are stated aloud and that it is -possible to grasp! But no, it passes from ear to ear and from lip to lip -until it reaches a man who might have loved this woman, and whose heart -is stayed, suddenly paralysed by the terrible uncertainty concerning the -answer to the question: "Has she that in her past?" -</p> - -<p> -To the young officer's credit it must be said that he had not seen so -far. He had yielded to the hideous spite of masculine vanity, and it was -again this vanity which, on Helen's unexpected reception of him, -prompted him to murmur an interrogative "Eh?" and immediately to begin -again the love-comedy that had formerly been played. A waltz was -sounding—the waltz of <i>Faust</i>, for the second of the young -Malhoure ladies was at the piano, and she, the artist of the family, liked -people to dance to classical subjects, whereas the eldest and the youngest, -who prided themselves upon being regular Parisians, doted on popular music, -and airs from the operettas and musical cafés. -</p> - -<p> -"May I have the honour of this waltz, madame?" asked De Varades of -Helen. -</p> - -<p> -"Was I engaged or was I not?" said the latter. "So much the worse! I -restore you your liberty," she added, addressing the young man who had -accompanied her to the refreshment room, but who through timidity did -not venture to remind her of the promise she had given of dancing with -himself; and immediately she was whirling round in the ball-room in the -arms of De Varades. -</p> - -<p> -She was whirling round, prettier than ever with the feverish pink that -coloured her cheeks and imparted to them a tint similar to that of her -stockings, her skirt, and her corsage. The two patches at the corner of -her cheek, her black eyes, and her powdered hair, clothed her with a -sovereign grace that, apart from feelings of pride, stirred old longings -in the young man's heart. He was speaking to her while they danced. She -listened to him with—strange contrast!—Armand's image before -her thoughts. "If he could see me," she said to herself, "he would have -doubts no longer, he would triumph. Well! what does that matter to me?" -</p> - -<p> -This strange inclination to act exactly contrary to her inmost nature, -which, when light and artificial is called spite, was exalted in this -distempered soul to the pitch of aberration, and she listened with a -pleased smile to what De Varades said to her. The latter, clever enough -to discern that something extraordinary was going on in Madame Chazel's -mind, and too desirous of requital not to take advantage of the -opportunity, had again begun to speak to her of his feelings. In -passionate terms he depicted to her his despair at Bourges when he had -displeased her, his vain attempts at self-consolation, his resolve never -to marry for her sake; he gave her to understand that she was the only -woman he had ever loved, and that he had sought an appointment at Paris -solely that he might meet her again. Never had he dared to tell her so -much at the period of their early relationships, and before his brutal -assault. But to all these falsehoods, repeated over and over again -during this first waltz, then in the square dances which followed, and -then in the quietude of the cotillon which they danced together, she -responded by such slight interjections of doubt as encourage avowals. -She seemed to be delirious for coquetry; she spent upon this flirtation -of an evening the fever that was preying upon her. Thus, a few hours -later, the officer, on his return to his small abode in the Rue -Saint-Dominique—a suite of apartments of which only two were -furnished, the others being filled with uniforms, weapons, and big -boots—swore inwardly as he undressed that he would carry this -affair through with a high hand. From his grandfather, who had served -under the Emperor, De Varades inherited the maxim that everything, in -all circumstances, should be ventured with women. And so, when he laid -his head upon his pillow before going to sleep, he had resolved to essay -the possession of Madame Chazel, no matter where, even were it on the -couch in her drawing-room, at the risk of a servant's entrance. "And -this time she shall not escape. She told me she was always at home -between two and four. Till to-morrow," he added, and closed his eyes on -the sweet hope of repairing his former wrong. -</p> - -<p> -Poor Helen! While this man, anticipating the temerity with which frenzy -for injustice endured had inspired her, was falling asleep over his -dangerous plan, she herself was watching, a prey to those memories each -one of which was hurrying her to some act of madness. Her husband had -been unlucky enough to say to her on their return to the Rue de la -Rochefoucauld after the party at the Malhoures': -</p> - -<p> -"I thought you had quite an antipathy to Varades, and you danced with -scarcely anybody else." -</p> - -<p> -"Does that make you jealous?" she had asked him abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he had replied, "but how is it possible to change one's -disposition towards people in this way?" -</p> - -<p> -"I am what it pleases me to be," she had replied. -</p> - -<p> -She might at that moment have been forbidden to throw herself into the -water, and in her rage for contradiction, and to relieve her nerves, she -would have hastened to the Seine. On entering her room again, she felt -so unhappy that she did not even undress. She walked about in her ball -costume until morning, and the champagne she had drunk, the bewilderment -of the party, the fund of despair upon which her soul had been living -for so many hours, all united to confuse her understanding. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," she said to herself at certain moments, "'tis he that I must have -and no other—for the time being," she added with such implacability -in the imagining of ill as at dark moments relieves the heart somewhat, -"and when I have done it, when I am low and in the mire, then perhaps I -shall forget, and then all this will be over, over, over." -</p> - -<p> -And when her soul recoiled at the wildness of this monstrous plan, then, -that she might resume her inclination for the shame to which she was -being dizzily impelled, she pictured Armand to herself, she saw him with -his eyes and his smile, she heard his voice: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you believe that I was not acquainted with your life?" -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she would then exclaim like a wounded creature uttering a cry, and -she would stretch herself upon her bed with that whirl in her sick brow -which was intolerable to her. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning she had an hour's heavy sleep, visited with nightmare. At -about nine o'clock she rose to attend to household affairs, as was her -habit, indolently and with soul roaming elsewhere. Extreme fatigue and, -as it were, a dying languor had taken possession of her. After breakfast -she went up to her room again, and, in spite of herself, her -hands opened the box containing Armand's letters. There were not -fifteen—she counted them—and the longest of them had but two -pages. She read them again, as she did nearly every day, and their -aridity showed to her even worse than on former occasions. Every phrase -in these notes might have been quoted without compromising her to whom -the notes were addressed; and so there was not one that might have been -traced in a moment of self-surrender, or to give passage to the -overflowing of a heart. She had believed formerly that he used to write -to her in this way out of regard for her peace, and she had been -grateful to him for it. -</p> - -<p> -Fool! Fool! He wrote to her thus because he did not love her, because he -had never loved her, and why should he have loved her, judging of her as -he did? In his eyes, what was she? A woman like all the rest! Of what -did he not believe her capable? Of making use, perhaps, of his letters -against him? Her soul was bleeding again at every pore. Ah! what remedy -was there, what remedy?—and as she was asking herself this question -for the hundredth time the servant entered and inquired whether she would -see Monsieur de Varades. The officer had kept his word, and had not lost -a day in taking advantage of the permission to come and see her which -she had granted him. -</p> - -<p> -"Show him into the drawing-room," she said; suddenly the memory of -Armand's injustice awoke keener than before, and the crisis of sorrow -through which she had just been passing resulted in one of those rushes -of frenzy in which she really no longer knew what she was doing. She -went into her dressing-room. With a little water she removed the traces -of her tears, for at the times when she renewed, one by one, the details -of her wretchedness, she used to weep, almost without perceiving it, and -mad, as it were, through grief, she went down to the little -drawing-room. -</p> - -<p> -"How kind of you to come to keep me company!" she said, holding out her -hand to the young man. Voluntarily she made him sit down in the -arm-chair in front of her, the one in which Monsieur de Querne used -generally to sit. How he had lied to her in that place! How he had -misunderstood her! It seemed to her that she was taking vengeance upon -him at that moment by this profanation of their common memories. She -herself took a seat on the couch which stood obliquely against the -fireplace, in which the remnant of a fire was burning. She looked at De -Varades with eyes that did not see him, but he, as he began to talk, -watched her with much attention. The obvious wildness that she -displayed, the almost incoherent rapidity of her speech, the element of -nervelessness that was manifested in her laughter, in her gestures, in -the movements of her head, all evidenced a woman that was half beside -herself. -</p> - -<p> -The evening before De Varades had inwardly said in explanation of her -coquetry at the Malhoures' ball: "She wants to make some one jealous." -Then he had not discovered any one wearing towards her the countenance -of a wounded lover. In the twilight in the little drawing-room he said -to himself: "'Tis she who is jealous, and wishes to be revenged." -Insensibly he caused the conversation to glide upon the same slope as on -the previous evening; he spoke to her again of his despairing and -melancholy feelings. She listened to him almost without reply, with the -thought of the indignation that Armand would feel after all, if he could -see her at that moment. De Varades meanwhile was reasoning thus to -himself: -</p> - -<p> -"What do I risk? Being shown the door once again as at Bourges?" -</p> - -<p> -He made up his mind to take advantage of the disquiet which, as he could -see, possessed her, and he rose and seated himself on the couch by her -side, saying to her: -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! I loved you dearly!" -</p> - -<p> -She turned towards him with a delirious expression which he took for the -frenzy of spite, and he seized her in his arms. Was it that kind of -momentary aberration which at certain moments prompts us to the -performance of actions in which later on we fail to recognise ourselves? -Was it the domination of a distempered will by a will that was cold and -steady? To what extent did that frenzy for degradation, that madness for -her own ruin which had haunted this hapless soul the evening before, -enter into her weakness? The fact remains that she did not defend -herself against the young man's embrace. He grew more bold, and she was -completely his. Yes, in that very drawing-room where formerly she had -shrunk in horror from giving herself to the man she loved, she suffered -herself, alas! to be taken by a man whom she did not love, and the -latter was stupefied both by the ease of his victory and by the -corpse-like insensibility encountered in this unlooked-for mistress, of -whom he had not even been thinking twenty-four hours before. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -De Varades had been gone for a long time, and evening was falling. Helen -had remained in the same place, seated in the same corner of the couch, -as though dead. The enormity of the event that had just come to pass had -suddenly dispersed the hallucination in which grief had been causing her -to live during the past few weeks. What! she was the mistress of -Monsieur de Varades—she, Helen Chazel! No, it was not true, seeing -that she loved Armand. Where was she? What had she done? Impelled by what -madness? -</p> - -<p> -And through the supreme horror by which she was possessed on finding -that she was alive, and that all was true, a sudden idea rose in her -mind, the idea of seeing Armand. Why? She could not have told exactly, -but the desire had swooped upon her, irresistible; she felt that it must -be done, and not on the morrow, not that evening, but immediately. She -must speak to him, were she to fly from her home in order to find him -wherever he might be. At all costs she would see him. Had he returned to -Paris? She would ascertain. In ten minutes she had put on a fashionable -dress and a bonnet, had called a cab, and shivering with fever in a -corner of it—how great a change from the day on which a similar -vehicle was conveying her to the meeting with her lover!—was -proceeding to the Rue Lincoln. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a></h4> - -<p> -The cab went slowly along the streets, and every moment Helen said to -herself: "Shall I see him again?" She was now facing the irresistible -thought, the mere appearance of which had hurried her to the immediate -quest of Armand when she had barely emerged from her horrible delirium. -She must be able to cry to this man that he had ruined her. Yes, she -must do this, and he must at last believe her and understand the infamy -of his behaviour. She would say to her former lover: -</p> - -<p> -"I am Monsieur de Varades's mistress, and you are the cause of -it—you, your injustice, and your desertion." And how could the man -help believing her when she went on to say to him: "Before knowing you I -was pure." -</p> - -<p> -This indisputable proof of the genuineness of her love, this proof which -she had so greatly desired, she now held fast, and she would not let it -go. Would not her present sincerity be a guarantee of her past -sincerity? If she acknowledged the guilt of to-day, what motive of -modesty, hypocrisy or interest could prompt her to deny that of -yesterday? This strange reasoning appeared to her to carry with it a -sort of obviousness from which Armand could not escape. He would believe -her, and this should be her revenge. "But how will he receive me? Yet, -what does it matter? I will spit my misery and my shame, and his -responsibility for them, into his face." -</p> - -<p> -Her distempered soul found relief in the audacity of this plan. She -hated Armand now, she trembled lest he should be absent, lest he should -escape her. "Faster," she said several times to the driver. Would she -ever arrive soon enough? She recognised the smallest details of the -road—the road traversed with such lightness of heart the last time -that she had visited him! And the scene which she had been obliged to go -through showed in her mind still more terrible and clear. During that -scene she had been choked with indignation. She had been unable to make -any reply. He could not have believed her then, but he should believe -her now. She would show him what had been the drama of her existence for -months past. She would at last lay bare all her heart's hidden wounds. -She would make him touch with his finger the work of death that he had -wrought, and she would depart, leaving him, if he had any honour left, -at least this hideous remorse, this poisoned arrow in his conscience. -Then she thought: "In what condition shall I find him. What has he been -doing since our rupture?" -</p> - -<p> -At last the vehicle stopped at the corner of the Rue Lincoln and the -Champs-Élysées. In two minutes Helen had gained the door of Armand's -house. How her voice shook as she asked the porter: "Is Monsieur de -Querne at home?" How completely the affirmative reply upset her. She -hesitated for a second in spite of the resolve she had taken; then she -climbed the staircase with deliberate foot. Her hand pressed the bell -without hesitation. A servant's footstep became audible. The door -opened. It was no longer possible to draw back. -</p> - -<p> -What had Armand been doing during that period in which she had been in -the throes of despair? Had she known, even when in front of the open -door, disgust would perhaps have restrained her and drawn her back. She -would have fled in horror from the threshold of the abode to which she -had come in order to defend, not her person, not her happiness, but the -truth of her former love, as we defend the memory of the dead. -</p> - -<p> -The young man had spoken the truth in his note to Chazel. A ten days' -journey had brought him to an estate which he possessed close to -Nantes—the De Querne family came from this town—and he had -stayed there to arrange some business respecting farm rents. Then he had -returned to Paris, persuaded that the rupture was a final one, seeing -that during those ten days Helen had not hazarded any attempt at -reconciliation. -</p> - -<p> -By a contradiction in his nature, too usual with him to cause him -astonishment, these early moments had been melancholy ones. He was one -of those men who are moved by memories after having remained nearly -indifferent to the reality, who become enamoured of the women whom they -cast off, just as they regret the places of which they tired when living -in them—a restless race, who know nothing of the present but its -weariness, and for whom the past assumes a unique and affecting charm -from the mere fact that it is the past. -</p> - -<p> -Armand had never loved poor Helen; he applauded himself for breaking -with her as for an action that was most reasonable, regard being had to -his own interests, and withal exceedingly meritorious, seeing that he -had responded to Alfred's generosity with similar generosity; but -neither the grounds of interest nor those of merit could prevent him -from thinking with painful emotions of the sweet and dainty mistress who -after all had never deceived him except for the purpose of pleasing him -the more. To be sure he doubted less than ever that she had had that -first intrigue with De Varades at Bourges, of which Lucien Rieume had -spoken to him. What more evident token could there have been of this -than the manner in which she had received the accusation? Immediately -she had bowed her head, and had, as it were, collapsed beneath the -insult. -</p> - -<p> -But even though he had had two, three, four predecessors, by what right -had he been indignant against her? Had she not displayed during their -connexion all the loyalty of which such amours are capable? Had she ever -manifested so much as a trace of coquetry towards any one? Had she made -him jealous for but a single hour, with jealousy such as women of the -world, more abandoned in this than abandoned women themselves, do not -hesitate to inflict upon a lover, in order to gratify the pettiest -impulse of vanity, to please a man who has some claim or other to -celebrity or who has merely been noticed by another woman. No, Helen had -been perfect towards him. The consciousness of this pleased and at the -same time tormented him, for, if she flattered his pride, she also -rendered more present to him the faded charm of a love which he had not -been able to enjoy at the time when he dreaded its obligations. -</p> - -<p> -But what he regretted in Helen, even more than her gracious tenderness, -was her physical person. From the time that he had become her lover he -had, contrary to all his principles, remained entirely faithful to her, -and this fidelity increased in him the exactitude of the memory of the -senses. He could again see in thought the room in the Rue de Stockholm, -and on the pillow that refined head, its eyes laden with mysterious -voluptuousness. Slight and scarcely observed details recurred to him: a -certain fashion that she had of leaning her pretty face over him, the -aroma which hung about her kisses and their special flavour. -</p> - -<p> -A yearning then seized him, against which he employed the infallible -remedy to which he was accustomed. He felt that he must place between -Helen and himself bodily shapes that might afford his senses a pasture -of beauty, bosoms fit to serve for the modelling of cups, sinking -shoulders worthy of statues, supple hips, slender legs, and skilful -caresses. Such instruments of forgetfulness abound in first-class houses -of pleasure. The young man used them on this occasion, as on others, -even to excess, so that when Helen rang at the door in the Rue Lincoln, -she had come to be almost as great a stranger to him as though he had -never known her. -</p> - -<p> -He was turning over the leaves of a book, lying rather than sitting in -an easy-chair, and waiting until it should be time to dress in order to -rejoin some dinner companions at the club. He was in that condition of -pleasing weariness which heartless pleasure always brings to men who are -wise enough to ask nothing of women but the enjoyment of palpable -beauty. Helen and the intrigue of the previous months were, so far as he -was concerned, shrinking into a background that each day made more -inaccessible than before. It was another chapter to be added to the -others in the mournful romance of gallantry in the course of which his -feelings had been exhausted without being expended. -</p> - -<p> -Already, as he thought about it, he had ceased to feel anything more -than a sick spot in his heart. He was sorry for having so greatly -misunderstood Chazel, but a satisfied conscience softened this sorrow. -Had he not unhesitatingly sacrified to his friend's confidence all the -pleasure that his intrigue might still have brought him? Accordingly, he -experienced the most disagreeable of surprises when, after being -informed by his servant that a lady wished to speak to him, he saw -Helen. She had not taken the trouble to put on a veil. He perceived at a -glance her wasted countenance, her discoloured eyes, her bright and -steady gaze, her bitter lips. Mechanically, he pushed an arm-chair -towards her, which she declined. -</p> - -<p> -"It is not worth while," she said, "what I have to say to you will not -take long. I shall not take up much of your time." -</p> - -<p> -"Well," he thought to himself, "another scene. It shall be the last." -</p> - -<p> -The complete absence of physical desire resulting from his recent -debauches, made him singularly dry and hard. He reflected that it had -been very stupid on his part not to close his door against her, and he -forthwith determined to enter into no explanations, and to keep her at a -distance by the employment of the most commonplace politeness. -</p> - -<p> -"I feel quite put out," he said to her, just as though there had never -been anything but the most official relations between them; "I ought to -have called on you after my return, and then a dozen wretched trifles -prevented me. You know how it is when one is on the point of going away. -I expect to be in London towards the end of the month." -</p> - -<p> -"Do not trouble yourself to make excuses," Helen interrupted, shrugging -her shoulders; "what is the use? Why should you have come? To avoid -compromising me? I will dispense with such delicacy on your part. To -tell me again that you do not love me, and have never loved me, and to -see me suffer? You are not a monster. All that you had to tell me you -told me. Do not be afraid," she added with a nerveless smile, "it is not -to resume our former conversation that I am here." -</p> - -<p> -She paused as though the words that she was about to utter were already -burning her lips, the lips parched by so many feverish nights. She had -spoken in so bitter and withal so grave a voice that the young man felt -a pang. On seeing her again he had expected a pleading scene, the eager -appeal of a forsaken mistress who entreats for but a day of the old -happiness, and the solemnity of Helen's accents heralded a prayerless, -hopeless revelation, tidings such as to her appeared of tragic -importance. Was she going to tell him that she was pregnant? Or had she -in an hour of wildness confessed everything to her husband? She remained -silent, and it was his turn to be impatient. -</p> - -<p> -"Speak," he said, "I am listening to you." -</p> - -<p> -"In that last conversation, which once more I have no wish to resume," -she went on, "you told me that you were acquainted with my life. You -even entered into particulars by mentioning a name, the name of Monsieur -de Varades. You asserted that this man had been my lover." -</p> - -<p> -"I told you what had been told to me," he said with emphasis. -</p> - -<p> -"And that you believed it?" she questioned. -</p> - -<p> -"As people do believe such things," he returned; "you misunderstood me, -or else I expressed myself badly, very badly." And he thought: "She is -going to produce some letter or other from her pocket, witnessing to De -Varades's deep respect for her." He recollected having written similar -letters to former mistresses, to be shown to one having special -privileges. "A foolish discussion," he sighed to himself, "but how is it -to be avoided?" -</p> - -<p> -"Well," she retorted with strange energy, "if you are told that now, you -may believe it, and reply that you have it from a sure source." And -looking at him with an air at once of triumph and of despair, she added: -"I am Monsieur de Varades's mistress, do you hear?" And she repeated: "I -am Monsieur de Varades's mistress." -</p> - -<p> -Armand listened to her repetition of these words by which she was -inflicting dishonour upon herself, and his feeling was one rather of -pain than of sorrow. It appeared to him as well piteous as insane that, -impelled by some sickly appetite for drama and emotion, she should thus -come and tell him of the renewal of her amour with her former lover. On -the other hand, he had not, at the period of his first suspicions, been -in possession of an absolute, indisputable assurance respecting the -guilty nature of the relations between Helen and De Varades, and now she -had come to denounce herself to him in so brutal a fashion that he could -not help feeling a spasm of base jealousy; and he replied with -involuntary abruptness: -</p> - -<p> -"You are perfectly free; how do you think that concerns me? Unless," he -added, cruelly, "I can be of use to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Don't play the wit," she went on more violently still. "You owe it to -me to listen to me; the least a man can do is to listen to the woman he -has ruined. For you have ruined me; yes, you, and I wish you to know it. -Ah! you thought that I was lying, that I was showing off to please you, -when I told you that I had never had a lover before yourself; will you -believe me now when I tell you in the same breath that I am to-day -Monsieur de Varades's mistress, and that I was not so before? I have met -him again, and I have given myself to him. Do not ask me why, but it is -a fact. You see that I am not seeking to play a part, that I am not -afraid of your contempt, that I have not come to renew relations with -you; but it is equally true that I have degraded and polluted all that -is in me. And when I gave myself to you I was so pure! I had nothing, -nothing on my conscience! I had kept myself for you alone, as though I -had known that I was one day to meet you. Ah! that is what I want you to -know. A woman who accuses herself as I am doing now has nothing left to -be careful about, has she? Why should I lie to you now? Tell me, why? -You will be forced to believe me, and you will say to yourself: 'I was -her first love; she did not deny herself because she loved me. She loved -me as man dreams of being loved, with her whole heart, her whole being, -and not in the present merely, but in the past. And see what I have made -of the woman who loved me thus—a creature who has ceased to believe -in anything or respect anything, who has taken a fresh lover in caprice, -who will take a second and a third—a ruined woman.' Yes, once more, -it is you who have ruined me, and I want, I want you to know it, and it -will be my revenge that you will never more be able to doubt it. Ruined! -Ruined! You have ruined me—you! you! you!" -</p> - -<p> -She had hurled forth these words in a panting voice, drawing closer to -Armand as she went on in a convulsion of frenzy, and in the tone of her -voice, in her looks, in the whole of her agitated person, there was that -levelling power of truth against which doubt in vain tries to stand. The -kind of frightful, dishonouring proof of her former purity resting upon -the cynical avowal of her present infamy became irrefutable through the -evident exaltation which possessed her and which did not suffer her to -conceal anything in her thoughts. But what rendered this reasoning still -more decisive to the man listening to the miserable confession with a -blending of astonishment and terror, was the sudden crisis of emotion -wrought in her after she had spoken. Passion, sated by this frantic -utterance, suddenly gave way to despair. All at once she looked at -Armand with eyes in which the flush of indignation was drowned in tears, -and uttering a shriek she sank upon the floor. -</p> - -<p> -There, stretched at length, she began to moan. It was a slow, continuous -sob, the dull, uniform wail of a dying creature. It came up, up to -Armand, and this supreme wail gathered into itself the echoes of all the -wails that she had stifled, of all the sighs that had been checked on -the margin of her heart. It was the throes of many days breathed forth -in a last appeal. If on coming into contact with Alfred's distress, -Armand had experienced an irresistible feeling of sorrowful humanity, -how much the more and with how much greater power was he visited with -this feeling now, on coming into contact with the distress of the woman -lying thus on the ground? The frail and potent tie which had united him -to this vanquished being, the unconquerable tie of mutual -voluptuousness, suddenly bound him to her anew. He believed that he had -forgotten her, and here, beneath the two-fold influence of unconscious -jealousy and physical pity, he was again finding within himself feelings -of which he had deemed himself no longer capable. A passionate impulse -prompted him to fling himself upon his knees, and he strove to raise her -as though she had been his mistress still. -</p> - -<p> -"Helen," he said, "recover yourself. In pity to me do not weep in this -way. Stand up." -</p> - -<p> -She obeyed, and slowly turned towards him her swimming eyes and parted -lips. An expression of unspeakable gratitude passed across her mournful -countenance. He seated her in an arm-chair, placing himself at her feet -to wipe away her tears. Then she was able to speak again. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" she said, "all is over—over! Ah! never again—! You do -not know, Armand, how I loved you, how I love you. Ah! why have I done -what I did? You see, I was like a madwoman. I could do nothing, I could -do nothing but love you. You were my whole life, my whole faith, all -that to me was noble and good. And then, suddenly, it all failed me! I -have suffered so greatly! I could always hear you saying those frightful -words to me. It was like a knife turning every moment in my heart. I -wanted to forget you, to forget myself, to destroy everything, unhappy -woman! What have I done? Why did I not come to entreat you to take me -back again, to believe in me? I should have found words to convince you. -Now, all is over. Do not touch me; I loathe myself." -</p> - -<p> -And she freed herself, and repulsed him. He perceived that she had just -seen the other, her new lover. Then she went on passionately: -</p> - -<p> -"No! tormentor! tormentor! 'Tis your fault. Yes, 'tis you who flung me -there. Had you any right to treat me so? Answer. What wrong had I done -you? When had I deceived you? Why did you doubt me? No, my love. 'Tis -you who are so good, so kind, whom I love so much. Forgive me! Forgive -me! Grief is killing me!" -</p> - -<p> -Thus she lamented, revealing by the reciprocation of her alternately -reviling and loving utterances the incoherence of the feelings whose -tempest was shaking her. Then came relief from this frenzy, and she -said: -</p> - -<p> -"Let me weep a little. It eases me. Do not speak to me. Presently." -</p> - -<p> -And he left her side. How powerless he felt in presence of this outbreak -of despair. He began to pace backwards and forwards in the room, which -was being invaded by the melancholy of the twilight; and Helen's sobbing -had grown quite humble now, quite low, almost like that of a little -girl. Instead of the frantic rebellion that there had been at first, -there was a long sigh, ceaselessly broken and ceaselessly resumed, which -completed the young man's perturbation. He no longer tried to comfort -her, and he tried no more to contest the cruel evidence that had become -fixed within him, never more to leave him. Pity for such agony, -shivering horror at such irretrievable pollution, and the sight of the -cruel injustice which he had committed, blended together to torture him. -But what more than all beside overwhelmed him, and laid upon his heart a -weight which he could feel would thenceforward be irremovable, was the -feeling of his own terrible responsibility for the ruin of this woman. -What! it was through knowing him and loving him that the unhappy woman -had sunk so low! Helen's instinct had not deceived her; he could doubt -no longer. He believed her, and in all respects. He believed that she -had really loved him. He believed that before meeting him she had been -pure. He believed that frenzy at an iniquitous desertion had led her so -far astray as to throw her into the arms of another, and that he, -Armand, was the cause, the sole cause of it all. He continued to walk up -and down, and every time that he turned to retrace his steps he could -see between the dismally lighted windows that sunken form, that face -standing out so pale against the background of shadow! What had become -of his indifference before Helen's entrance? And his power of negation, -what had he done with it? People do not dispute with a death-rattle, and -he had been present at the death of a soul. It was too true that she -asked for nothing and wished for nothing, unless that he should see her -heart laid bare; he had seen it, he saw it still and the blood that -flowed from the wound inflicted by himself. How long did they continue -thus without speaking, he still walking, and she still weeping? In the -end he went up to her, took her hand with a shudder at feeling this -soft, damp, cold hand, raised it to his lips, and let fall upon it the -first tears that he had shed for years. In the depths of the abyss of -despair in which she was lying, she could still find pity for her -tormentor's tears. "Do not weep," she said to him, and drawing him to -her, she passionately covered his face with kisses. He could feel -burning lips traverse his eyes, his brow, his mouth. Then she disengaged -herself from him. She rose. Once again had she just seen the other. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah," she exclaimed, in anguish, "I cannot even comfort you now. -Good-bye, good-bye," she repeated, "and this time it is good-bye for -ever." -</p> - -<p> -She passed her hands over the young man's hair, and over his face, as -though to convince herself of the real existence of the countenance she -had loved so dearly, and then she broke away, hastening towards the -door. -</p> - -<p> -"Where are you going?" he asked her. -</p> - -<p> -"I am flying from you," she said wildly, and already she was out of the -room. -</p> - -<p> -The outer door had closed after her and he had not found energy enough -to follow her. He remained standing on the spot where she had left him, -as though he had been smitten with a stroke of paralysis. A terrible -dread suddenly sent an icy shiver through his whole body. What if Helen -in the frenzy of her despair had fled from his house in order to kill -herself? For a moment he had before his eyes a horrible -hallucination—the shadow of a quay, the great, dim, moving sheet of -river, and a woman's body rolled along in the icy water. In his turn he -rushed away. He descended the staircase four steps at a time. On the -footpath there was a woman going in the direction of the Champs -Élysées. He hurried after her. It was not she. He reached the Avenue, -which was filled with a swarm of passengers and vehicles. How could he -find her in such a crowd? How guess in what direction the unhappy woman -had fled. A drizzling rain was falling. He hailed several cabs in vain, -and not until he had reached the crossways could he stop one. He gave -the driver the address in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, and on the way -he, too, knew an anguish driven to the point of madness. But he was -already at the foot of the street and in front of the little house. It -was with a trembling of his entire heart that he drew the bell at the -door, and asked the servant whether Madame Chazel had come in. On -hearing the man's affirmative reply he nearly fell to the ground in the -excess of his emotion. And forthwith—for the play of the passions -constantly causes us to conflict with these countless trifles of -existence—he felt like a fool in presence of the man, who stood aside -to let him pass. How could he endure Helen's presence at that moment, -or, more than all, Alfred's? He stammered out a sentence alleging that -he had forgotten a piece of business, and saying that he would return in -the evening. He threw himself again into his cab. -</p> - -<p> -"The thought of her son has saved her!" he said to himself. "I am at -least not a murderer!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a></h4> - -<p> -A few days after this scene, Armand sent Chazel a letter dated from -London in which he made his excuses for not shaking hands with his -friends before his final departure. To set foot again in the little -house in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, to see again the two beings whose -lives he had broken, but who both had nevertheless only words of trust -or forgiveness for him, to be present once more at those moral throes -whose every sigh echoed in intolerable fashion to the very depths of his -soul—this effort had been beyond his actual energy. He had said to -himself when thinking on the one hand of Alfred's probable melancholy, -and on the other, of Helen and of the life that she would lead amid such -a bankruptcy of all modesty and feeling: -</p> - -<p> -"It is horrible, but I cannot help it. I must forget it." -</p> - -<p> -And to put petty facts, in accordance with one of his favourite maxims, -between himself and his grief, he had hastened his journey to England. -During the years of his cruelly idle and empty life, he had done his -best to beguile weariness by cosmopolitan wanderings. He had thus formed -three or four social centres for himself through Europe. In London, -especially, he had a life ready made, rooms in Bolton Street, off -Piccadilly, two clubs in which to find hospitality, and twenty houses in -which to be received as a friend. But this year, when settled as usual -in the three furnished apartments reserved for him, he felt incapable of -entering immediately upon the whirl of society. "I will leave my cards -in a few days," he said to himself. -</p> - -<p> -The few days passed by, and he had the same repugnance to seeing his -acquaintances again. He allowed a week to glide away in this manner, two -weeks, three, and he continued to experience an unconquerable aversion -to all conversation and all friendly meeting, to all things and all -persons. He went so far as to walk only in the evening, the more surely -to evade the human face. If he went out in daylight, it was to take one -of those two-wheeled cabs, the driver of which is perched high up -behind, and the horse in which trots so quickly. -</p> - -<p> -Without an object, he had himself driven at random through the -interminable streets of the huge city. Small, dark houses succeeded to -small, dark houses, squares with railings and miserable trees, open -spaces with discoloured statues, and boundless parks with herbage -browsed by flocks, opened up at distant intervals. Over the monstrous -ant-hill extended the vault of a sooty sky. Sometimes the said sky was -wholly drowned in a yellow fog; at other times the mist broke in pelting -rain, or else there was a dim, cold azure in which coal-dust seemed to -be floating. A population was hurrying along these streets, but Armand -did not recognise a single face, and he would go on thus for whole -hours, alone with his thought as when he awoke, and dressed, and -ate—with that thought which was always present and was always similar -to itself. -</p> - -<p> -And what was it that was shown him by this fixed and torturing thought? -Unceasingly, unceasingly Helen, and the terrible confession during their -last interview showed itself in all its details, and he could see the -act which she had avowed in terms so pitilessly precise and clear. She -was evoked before him in the arms of De Varades; for he told himself -that after the first crisis of despair she must have relapsed again, and -the vision inflicted upon him a feeling which he again compared to a -weight upon his heart, crushing it with sadness. -</p> - -<p> -This dull weight had descended upon it on the day when she had lamented -so tragically in the drawing-room in the Rue Lincoln. And, as on that -occasion, he endured an unbearable oppression in knowing himself to be -the cause of this woman's misery. After the present intrigue with De -Varades, doubtless she would have others. Is there ever a check on that -slippery incline which leads from the second lover to the tenth? When -the habit and power of self-respect, that unique principle of all -dignity, has been lost, what dike can be opposed to the invading flood -of temptation and curiosity? Helen was beautiful and would be courted. -Her successive falls occurred by anticipation now beneath his eyes, he -could do nothing to prevent them, and it was he, as she had exclaimed -through her tears, it was he who had ruined her. -</p> - -<p> -In presence of the image of this woman's life, he felt as though set -over against a being for whom he had poured out poison with his own -hands. The mortal discomposure of the face, the cold sweat, the terrible -convulsions, how could these be prevented when the fatal drug was -flowing in her blood? The venom of adultery with which he had infected -this creature would accomplish its work of destruction. What excuse had -he for having done this? None, seeing that he had taken her without -loving her. Yes, if only he had loved her, if he had repaid her a little -happiness in exchange for the gift of her person! -</p> - -<p> -But to the inevitable humiliation of guilt he had united another ground -of humiliation, namely, the most cruel disillusion. Of a child rich in -hopes, and led astray by a generous seeking after the most elevated -feelings, what had he made? One undeceived and in quest of -forgetfulness. What would she be in a year, and then in another year, -and in yet another? He repeated the celebrated phrase: "<i>All the -perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.</i>" And he bent -beneath the weight of remorse, a weight so heavy, ah! so cruelly heavy, -that he was rendered incapable of any experience save that overwhelming, -continuous crushing beneath the thought of the act committed. -</p> - -<p> -"What an absurd machine man is," he thought, "and what contemptible -weakness this distress! To justify such remorse I should of necessity be -guilty, that is so say, responsible and free. Is not freedom an empty -word, as also in consequence good and evil, virtue and vice?" -</p> - -<p> -He had thought much on these questions in his youth, and had allowed as -accurate the chief modern arguments against the freedom of the will. He -studied himself that, by applying them to his own case, he might destroy -the moral misery that affected him. -</p> - -<p> -"What am I?" he went on; "the product of a certain heredity placed in a -certain environment. The circumstances once given, I could not but feel -as I felt, think as I thought, desire as I desired." -</p> - -<p> -And he decomposed his own personality into its elements, as he had done -only too often in his periods of "Hamletism," as he called his analytic -crises of inward paralysis. He recognised the first beginning of his -egotism in the absence of family life; he took cognisance of the fact -that college life had too early polluted his imagination, and the sight -of the slaughter in the civil war too early awaked his misanthropy. He -could see himself losing his religious faith by precocious reading, -becoming uninterested in all ambition for lack of a cause in which he -could believe, and because he was rich enough to live without a -profession. Then he watched the long, useless, and fatal series of his -love experiences unfold itself down to the hour when he had met Madame -Chazel. -</p> - -<p> -"How could I have judged of her otherwise than I did?" he went on. "She -in a measure threw herself at my head. Could I understand that this was -the madness of a romantic, irrational, but sincere nature? I thought she -was a woman like the rest. I thought so, and it was inevitable that I -should think so." -</p> - -<p> -He thrust the words expressive of necessity—"it was -inevitable"—into his heart, like a lever wherewith he might raise -the weight of his remorse, but the weight continued there still. His -striving was in vain; something within him that was stronger than -himself constrained him to consider himself the author of this woman's -ruin. -</p> - -<p> -Then he exerted himself to devise some other process of alleviation. He -reverted in imagination to all the halting-places in their mutual -intrigue, and he passed along this road of perdition seeking for the -crossways, the moments when he might have entered and caused her to -enter upon a different route. Why during the first few weeks of the -Chazels' stay in Paris had he, when walking with Helen, taken pains to -assume a sentimental attitude towards her? That he might appeal to her -thoughts and influence them to curiosity. Could he have helped it? "No," -he replied, angrily; "seduction is a part of my nature, as the chase is -of the nature of a greyhound." -</p> - -<p> -A moment had come when he had perceived that Helen was beginning to love -him. Could he then have withdrawn himself from her life? Yes, if he had -believed himself to be her first love. But does a man command himself to -believe this or that, to think in one way or another? What would he not -now have given to judge of Helen as he formerly did, and this was -impossible just as it had been impossible that he should judge of her -during that period as he did now! -</p> - -<p> -On the night before their first secret interview, he could again see -himself hesitating and on the point of writing her a truthful letter in -order to break with her before the irreparable hour had come. But could -he have prevented such or such an image from beleaguering his thought -and restraining his pen? -</p> - -<p> -During the few months of their union he had not loved her, and his lack -of feeling had martyred her! But is emotion to be commanded, and -tenderness? If he had broken brutally with her, this was a further -effect of the potency of ideas over the human will. The perception -within him of his friend's sorrow had been stronger than that of his -mistress's. He grasped as through a magnifying glass the internal -mechanism of which his actions had been the visible sign, the final -result; he buried himself in this minute examination of his past. -</p> - -<p> -It was all in vain. The weight of his remorse was still there. He -succeeded in convincing his intellect, and the conviction did not -relieve his heart. His conscience, as the vulgar phrase has it, was -tormenting him. But what is conscience other than an illusion? A stone -that has been thrown, and that feels itself rolling without even knowing -that a hand has thrown it, might also believe itself to be the cause of -its own motion. Its conscience might reproach it for the crushing of the -grass-blades in its path. Remorse might start up in it. -</p> - -<p> -"If I had a spectre before my eyes in consequence of an hallucination," -Armand concluded, "should I place credence in apparitions? I should tell -myself that I saw a spectre, an empty form, that the condition of my -bodily organs inflicted the obsession upon me, and that would be all. -Let me suffer from my spectre if it must be so, but let me not believe -in it." -</p> - -<p> -Granted! Good, evil, remorse, conscience, freedom—all so many unreal -apparitions, so many bodiless shadows! But there was indisputable -reality in the ruin of a soul, and in the fact that a dreadful destiny -had made him the instrument of its ruin. A ruined soul? There are then a -life and a death of souls, something that fosters them and something -that destroys them, after the manner of spiritual damnation and -salvation. Then he thought of Helen's soul before the final disaster, -all the episodes of their common past recurred simultaneously to him, -and he interpreted and understood them. -</p> - -<p> -Now that he knew the truth concerning her, and the extent to which he -had misjudged her, the pettiest facts in that past were possessed of -unlooked-for significance. The mute moments of his sad sweetheart, her -melancholy, her effusiveness, showed to him in turn, and each memory -revealed to him at once his own ingratitude and the strength of the -feeling that he had inspired. How living was then that woman's soul! How -noble even in guilt! What richness in its sensibility! What fulness in -its emotions! What depth in its sorrow, and what magnificence in its -striving after an inaccessible happiness! And now, in the same soul, -what ineffaceable pollution! -</p> - -<p> -His reflections turned upon Alfred, and he recalled his last -conversation with the man he had so unworthily deceived. He too -possessed a living soul whence gushed, as from kindly springs, -tenderness and loyalty, all the forces of belief and love. Then Armand -directed his thought to himself: "Ah! It is I," he said, "I who have the -dead soul!" -</p> - -<p> -He retraced the course of his youth. He saw himself young and incapable -of devoting his activity to an ideal faith, a libertine incapable of -steadying his heart upon a passion—powerless for self-surrender, -belief, love! He went over the fatal list which had been drawn up -certainly no less by his vanity as a seducer than by his curiosity as a -debauchee. He sought again the names and countenances of the women who -had given themselves to him, from those who had been his in rooms of -infamy, where the mirrors of alcove and ceiling multiply the whiteness -of naked charms, to those whom he had possessed in modesty and who -required that endearments should be shrouded in the shadow of lowered -curtains. What had he made of the first and of the second, of the -impassioned and of the venal, of the romantic and of the depraved, of -little Aline and of Juliette, of Madame de Rugle and of Helen? -Instruments of sensation and nothing more. Could he remember a single -one to whom he had been good and helpful, and who was the better for -having known him? The prostitutes he had caused to commit an act of -prostitution among a thousand others. The adulteresses had lied once -more for him. His soul had not only been dead; it had spread around it -the infection of its own essential death. With his keen intellect, his -rare imagination, and all the implements of superiority that fortune had -placed in his hands, what work had he been accomplishing since his -youth? And all was to end in the moral assassination of a woman who had -believed in him! -</p> - -<p> -Then the weight increased in heaviness and he strove anew. -</p> - -<p> -"Life and death of the soul! Words! Words! A trifling cerebral -alteration and the soul is changed. The microscope would reveal the -slight disposition of cells which has it that I have never loved. But -why," he added "does this soul live by means of certain ideas and die -through others? Why? I do not know, and there are many other things that -I do not know. I talk of the brain. What is the brain? It is matter. And -what is matter? No one knows, no one understands. What is the use of -asking: Why this or why that? There is but one question: Why anything? -And the only thing we really know is that we shall never be able to -answer that question." -</p> - -<p> -He perceived the gulf of mystery, the abyss of the unknowable which -science shows to be at the basis of all thought and of all existence. -Beneath the problem of his own particular destiny, he touched upon the -problem of all destiny, and his moral pain was so intense that he felt a -temptation to interpret, in a consolatory sense, the mystery wherein he -felt drowned. Why should not the key to this enigma of life, -undecipherable by reason according to reason's own avowal, be one of -salvation, a key that should redeem the universal distress here below, -that should restore life to dead souls such as his own soul, and deep -peace to tortured consciences such as his own conscience? Why should -there not be a heart like to our own hearts and capable of pitying us at -the centre of that nature which has nevertheless produced us, us with -our bitter or tender manner of feeling, with our appetite for the ideal -and our infirmities, with our greatness and our depravity? -</p> - -<p> -"But then," he reflected, "God would exist. I might throw myself upon my -knees now in this hour of suffering, and say, 'Our Father, which art in -heaven.' Our Father!" -</p> - -<p> -When the young man had reached this stage in his reasonings, tears rose -to his eyes. He who had known neither father nor mother was caused -unspeakable emotion by this single phrase of the sublime prayer. -</p> - -<p> -Then he immediately grew steady again. Thoughts came to him that were -stronger than such mystic effusion. He was disputing with his intellect -against his heart, and his intellect was always victorious. The -objections to a belief in God, drawn from the existence of evil, took -shape before him. How reconcile a Father's goodness with that law of -reversion which wills it that the sins of some shall fall ceaselessly -upon others? Of Helen and himself, which was guilty? Himself. Which of -the two had committed a crime in love? Himself, by seducing this woman -without loving her, solely to satisfy a whim of pride, weariness, and -sensuality. Who was punished? Helen. Of the latter and Alfred, who was -guilty? Helen. Who suffered? Alfred. Thus the sin of each, if there be -sin, bears its poisonous fruit in the soul of another, and the same -solidarity governs all the relations of men among themselves. The sons -atone for the fathers, the just for the wicked, the innocent for the -guilty! Ah! how is it possible, in presence of this uninterrupted -transmission of misery, to believe in the existence of a principle of -justice and goodness in that obscurity beyond the day? -</p> - -<p> -"No," said Armand to himself, "just as errors are produced by the -combined necessities of circumstances and temperaments, so are the -consequences of these acts distributed at random—at least on earth." -</p> - -<p> -The mystic effusion then returned: "On earth? Can there be then another -world whereof this is but the symbol or the preparation? But how can any -link subsist between this and that? How can any help come in hours of -distress? Ah! if He were a heavenly Father, would not all suffering be -in his sight a prayer?" -</p> - -<p> -Through the tumult of all these contradictory thoughts, the unhappy man -perceived that grand, unique problem of human life which religion alone -can solve, that of knowing whether beyond our limited days, our brief -sensations, our fleeting actions, there be something which does not pass -away, and which can satisfy our hunger and thirst for the infinite. -Armand was perhaps to become religious again some day; at the present -moment he was not so, and he answered himself: -</p> - -<p> -"If there be nothing, why this terrible remorse? If there be something, -why am I unable either to conceive it with my intellect or to feel it -with my heart? How can I put an end to this unbearable anguish? How -raise the weight that is stifling me?" -</p> - -<p> -The principal incidents during these gloomy days were some letters from -Alfred, filled with affection and with complaints about his wife's -health, the sadness of his home, his anxieties for the future. Helen -therefore continued to be unhappy. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" thought Armand, "it is possible that the words 'good' and 'evil,' -'soul' and 'God,' have no kind of meaning. For thousands of years -philosophers have been disputing inconclusively about them, and -religions have been succeeding to one another and crumbling away. I have -measured the impotence of reason and I have not faith. But there is need -neither of reason nor of faith to know whether human misery exists, and -to know that we ought to do everything to avoid being the cause of this -misery." -</p> - -<p> -We ought! As though we were free! But free or not, let us be sensible of -this misery and pity it! When the young man entered upon the new path of -pity, he experienced, not absolute relief from his remorse, but a sort -of despairing tenderness which at last moistened his heart. He pictured -Helen to himself when quite a little girl in a past such as her -confidences had revealed to him, and he pitied her for her sad childhood -and her oppressed youth. He pitied her for her marriage and for the -moral divorce which had separated her from Alfred. He pitied her for -having known himself, Armand, for the words that he had uttered to her -and which she had believed, for the kisses which he had asked of her and -which she had given him. But especially for that second fall, for that -frenzy which had thrown her into the arms of Varades did he passionately -pity her, and for all the errors into which this first error would draw -her. He pitied her for her birth, for her existence, for her subjection -to an unconquerable fate! -</p> - -<p> -He was now more sensible of her life than he had been in the days when -she had been his, lost in emotion on his breast. By a strange kind of -soul-transposition he suffered from the sorrows of a mistress whose joys -he had been unable to share. He abode in thought within that sick heart, -and the feeling of pity became so strong and full that it overflowed -from him upon all life. -</p> - -<p> -When in the evening he walked along the streets and reached the sinister -corners of the Haymarket and Regent Street, the sight of the girls of -different nationalities wandering there in all weathers moved him to the -bottom of his soul. They walked in their dark toilets and accosted the -passers-by in every idiom. There were tall, heavy Germans, delicate -Frenchwomen, and Englishwomen recognisable by faces that had often -retained an expression of purity. The majority were old, with fierce -gleaming in their gaze. What lamentable adventures—criminal ones, -perhaps—had cast these foreigners, far from their native lands and -beneath an ever-gloomy sky, upon the pavement of these streets, -pitilessly traversed by the busy work of commerce? And the young, with -profiles as of angels—for there were some such—how melancholy -to see them pushing open the bar-doors, and drinking large glasses of -brandy at a draught! They came out with a little colour on their cheeks and -resumed their pilgrimage of infamy, warmed by the draught of alcohol -against the rude climate, the sudden showers, the penetrating fog. -</p> - -<p> -Armand watched them going and coming, accosting this man, abusing that, -and talking among themselves. There was a whole populace of these lost -ones passing through the streets. Yes, lost ones, for nothing can save -them any more than the prostitutes of luxury who go in pursuit of men -with diamonds and horses, or the adulteresses, those victims of the -search for new sensations. Nothing can save them, for there is nothing -that can save! Sometimes, however, the young man chanced to pass in -front of temples and to remember that thousands of beings believe in a -Saviour. -</p> - -<p> -"But if I do not believe in Him," he asked himself, "is it my fault? A -true Saviour would be one who saved even the incredulous, even the -renegades, even the rebellious, even those who do not repent, seeing -that they are most to be pitied! No, there is no redemption, and Christ -has died in vain!" -</p> - -<p> -Then he perceived life as the work of blind and destructive necessity, -of an evil force impelling creatures to ruin one another. Prostitution -below, adultery above, such are the products of the noblest of human -feelings—love. Civilisation appeared to him as a huge orgie where the -dishes are more numerous, the wines more heating, the guests a larger -crowd; but on what mystic plate will the bread of ransom be found by -those hungering for forgiveness? Meanwhile the orgie hums and roars, the -women offer the fruit of their red lips, a colossal hymn of mirth -encompasses the intoxication, every moment one of those present rolls -beneath the table, thunder-smitten by death who takes his victims at -random; he is so quickly replaced by another that his disappearance is -not even noticed, and joy plays on every brow and laughs in every eye. -Joy? Yes, provided that no thought be given to one's own distress, and -further that one's own misery be endured with courage; but the misery of -another—when can we find courage to endure that when we are ourselves -its cause? And suddenly his visions would fade away, and his theories -and dreamings, to give place to the sole image of Helen in agony, or -else of Helen depraved, and of these two images Armand could not have -told which tortured his thought the most. -</p> - -<p> -"Can I be in love with her?" he asked himself one morning as he was -rising, "and is what I am taking for remorse simply love?" -</p> - -<p> -He found it impossible to answer this question. When a man loves, he -conceives happiness as coming from the woman he loves, and how could he -imagine a single minute of happiness as coming from Helen now? He might -return to Paris, try to renew relations with her, carry her off, take -her to a land where everything should be strange to them, and where they -might forget! He felt that the worst follies committed for her would -remove nothing of his present anguish. Therefore he did not love her. -</p> - -<p> -But then, why this cruel throbbing of the heart at the mere thought of -the act to which despair had led her? Why this continual anxiety which -caused him at the sight of Chazel's letters to pause with trembling hand -before opening them, as though he were about to read some fresh intrigue -that had been at last discovered by the unhappy man? Why was he unable -to take a book, or sit down to table, or go out, or come in, without -having the spectre of this woman beside him. Yet he had not killed her, -he had not shed her blood with his hands. Why this unwearied recurrence -to their mutual relations with the everlasting reflection as a -despairing background: "If I had known?" If he had known the worth of -what she gave him when she was giving it to him, if he had felt as he -was feeling now when she used to come and rest so tenderly, so -sincerely, upon his heart, if he had had that in his heart towards her -which was in it now, then—then he would have loved her—he would -have loved her! -</p> - -<p> -That impotence to arrive at complete emotion, the martyrdom of egotism -to which he had been a victim, his lack of feeling, his barren rancour, -his vexation of spirit in solitude and distress, all his moral miseries -would have been brought to an end if he had had a simpler heart, if he -had understood, if he had believed! He believed in her now, and it was -too late. He understood her when she had ceased to be pure. He loved her -when she had endured pollution from the endearments of another. He was -discovering that he had passed by the side of happiness, now that the -enchanted palace which he had traversed without seeing it was closed to -him for ever. He was beginning to cherish her, like one dead to whom he -could never speak more. But one that is dead remains sheltered from -pollutions, and Helen? "All the perfumes of Arabia," he repeated, -rubbing his hand like the blood-stained queen. The weight was again on -his heart. How could he ever remove it? -</p> - -<p> -But what if this remorse were merely a mirage fostered by absence? When -children are afraid of a dim form at night, what remedy does their -father adopt? He leads them to the object of their terror, and by -touching it cures their panic. What if he, too, tried this remedy? What -if he saw Helen again, and with his own eyes measured the evil that he -had wrought her? "It is the only step that is left to try," he said to -himself one day, and he abruptly resolved to return to Paris. He had -spent more than six weeks in preying thus upon his heart. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a></h4> - -<p> -What a charming and coquettish summer-like Paris Armand passed through -in going from the Rue Lincoln to the Rue de La Rochefoucauld on the day -after his return! It was two o'clock; a slight breeze was quivering -among the green leaves of the trees in the Champs Élysées, and the -carriages were driving gaily along. There was a light such as makes all -women pretty, but he had darkness within. -</p> - -<p> -His memories rose from the pavement to form his melancholy escort, and -especially those of that cold winter night when he had passed on foot -through the same avenue on the eve of their first secret meeting. An -entire year had not passed away since then. How swift is time, and how -it carries away chances of happiness with it! Certainly, he had been -mournful even to death on that night, but not with the same sadness as -to-day, and yet he recognised that to-day's sadness was of higher worth -than the other. He would no longer act as he had done. Had, then, his -remorse purified while torturing him? Is there, then, a source of -ennoblement in sorrow? But of what use is this nobleness if it only -serves to show what a criminal use we have made of our powers? -</p> - -<p> -He passed in front of the Marché de la Madeleine, and inhaled on the -warm wind the aroma of the bouquets and plants. He recollected that the -previous winter he used to bring violets to his mistress. On each -occasion she used to place one of these violets between the leaves of -some favourite book. There was one that was quite filled with these love -relics, one that she had lent one day with these words written in her -own handwriting on the first page: "Take care of my little flowers." It -was a childlike and charming token of the tender carefulness which she -bestowed upon the smallest detail of their mutual romance! And what had -he made of this passionate tenderness with which he had inspired her but -a means of perdition? -</p> - -<p> -At last he was in front of the door of the little house. He rang, and -had scarcely entered the narrow courtyard when a joyful voice cried: -"Monsieur de Querne! Monsieur de Querne!" and little Henry Chazel, who -was making ready to go out with his nurse, ran up to him to welcome him. -The child's reception increased still more the melancholy of his return. -Armand was pained by encountering the brightness of affection in the -eyes of the son of the woman whom he had tortured and the man whom he -had betrayed. -</p> - -<p> -"Is your father at home?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"He's gone out," replied Henry; "but mamma's at home. She has been very -ill while you were away." -</p> - -<p> -"And now?" -</p> - -<p> -"She is better," said the little boy. -</p> - -<p> -His nurse was already leading him away, and De Querne passed -into the narrow entrance-hall, and climbed the red-carpeted wooden -staircase that led to Helen's drawing-room. The aspect of things had not -altered—those things which had seen him so cheerfully plan and -commit the crime in love for which he had during the past two months -been going through a terrible expiation! How light had been his foot in -clearing the low steps of this staircase in the house of a friend of his -childhood, when on his way to outrage that friend! Whither without our -knowledge do our footsteps lead us? -</p> - -<p> -He was shown into the drawing-room where, like a robber, he had given -his mistress so many kisses as soon as the master of the house was gone. -Why had these actions left him indifferent at the time, and why did the -sick place of his sensibility bleed so cruelly for them to-day? The -servant had uttered his name when opening the door. Helen, who was -seated near the window, and working, raised her head, laying her work -upon her knees. He saw her face, which was still more worn than on the -day of their last interview, and her features became discomposed as -though she were going to be ill. Suddenly he perceived the ravages that -grief had wrought: the eyes were hollow, the lips drawn, the chin wasted, -and—a detail which touched him more than anything else—her -gray dress, a dress which he had known the previous summer, lay on the -shoulders in folds that witnessed to the decline of the whole of her -poor body. -</p> - -<p> -She did not say a word to him, and he, too, remained for a moment -without speaking. Mechanically he sought with his eyes for the low -arm-chair which he used formerly to wheel beside her, in order to talk -the better with her. This arm-chair had disappeared, as well as the -couch which formerly had stood crosswise at the corner of the fireplace. -They had spent so many intimate evenings together, seated, she on the -couch and he in the easy-chair! It was no doubt for the purpose of -forgetting those scenes of tenderness that the deserted woman had -banished these pieces of furniture from her home in this room. If he had -known the true reason of the change! -</p> - -<p> -He seated himself on a chair beside her, and taking her hand said to -her: -</p> - -<p> -"I have come to ask you to forgive me." -</p> - -<p> -She withdrew that little hand whose almost convulsive trembling he had -felt. She looked at him with eyes of singular depth. The dark point of -the pupil dilated strangely. Then in a low, almost stifled voice she -replied: -</p> - -<p> -"It is not for me to forgive you. If you have made me unhappy, it was -never your fault. Ah!" she went on, "I am greatly changed. I have been -ill, very ill, but I wished for my son's sake, and for yours also, that -you might not have that upon your conscience. I have thought so much of -you, during so many feverish nights! No, it was not your fault if you -were unable to believe me. Heavens! I have greatly pitied you!" -</p> - -<p> -He listened with infinite gratitude to these words of charity coming -from lips from which his injustice had wrung so many sobs. For a moment -this forgiveness coming to him from his victim melted to tenderness the -weight of remorse, the alleviation of which he had so long sought in -vain, and he said to her in tones of deep emotion: -</p> - -<p> -"What suffering I have caused you!" -</p> - -<p> -"Do not reproach yourself for it," she said, with that angelic mildness -which caused in him so strange a feeling at once of sadness and of -consolation—of sadness, for this mildness betokened so great a -shattering, of consolation, for the balm of this pity penetrated to the -most secret recesses of his wounded heart—"Yes," she went on, shaking -her head, "it is this suffering that has saved me, and it is through it -that I have judged my life. When we parted in the way you know, I -returned here nearly mad, I had to take to my bed for many days, and -unceasingly I found the eyes of the man I had deceived fixed upon me -with devotion and sadness! By what I suffered, I understood the -suffering that I had caused and the evil that I had spread around one. -The shame into which I had fallen appeared to me, and in the presence of -death I inwardly vowed to make every endeavour to become once more a -virtuous woman." -</p> - -<p> -She paused; he saw clearly that she wished to speak to him of the other, -to tell him that man had not been received at her house again; but -was not her silence after the last sentence sufficiently eloquent? -</p> - -<p> -"And then," she resumed, "that was again for your sake. To cause you -that remorse for having ruined me—ah! the distraction caused by -injustice could alone have impelled me to such unworthy revenge. But I -had seen you weep. I thought to myself: He will return to me some day if -he is suffering, and if he be not suffering, why cause him to suffer? -But no, he will return to me, and I will tell him to live in peace. -There is now nothing in my life but my duty towards my son and his -father, and you must know that I found strength for this resolve only in -the remnant of my affection for you. But I have perhaps the right to ask -you for a promise in exchange for what I have given you." -</p> - -<p> -She added in a deep tone: -</p> - -<p> -"In memory of me, for we must see each other no more, say that you will -never trample upon a heart, that you will respect feeling wherever you -may find it." -</p> - -<p> -He was silent. These last words, in revealing to him the transformation -wrought in this soul by its martyrdom, reassured him concerning the -terrible anxiety of those cruel weeks in London. After perceiving all -the ruin that may be multiplied by egotistical and mistrustful -injustice, he felt the supreme beneficence of pity. It was through -having pity for her lover's remorse, pity for her husband's love, pity -for her son's future, that Helen had been arrested in the fatal path. It -was from pity that she was blotting out all their sad and gloomy past. -It was further from pity for her husband and for her son that she might -perhaps find means to live a life of reparation if only he, Armand, -pitied and assisted her. -</p> - -<p> -Thus, the principle of salvation which he had failed to obtain from -impotent reason, and which the dogmas of faith had not given him, he now -met with in that virtue of charity which foregoes all demonstrations and -all revelations—though is it not itself the abiding and supreme -revelation? And he felt that something had sprung up within him through -which he might always find reasons for living and acting—the religion -of human suffering. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END.</h4> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE CRIME ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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