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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76965 ***
+
+
+
+
+                          THE COUNTERFEITERS
+
+
+                                   *
+
+                             _Other books
+
+                                  by_
+
+                              ANDRÉ GIDE
+
+                                   *
+
+
+                          STRAIT IS THE GATE
+                         LAFCADIO’S ADVENTURES
+                              DOSTOEVSKY
+
+
+                                   *
+
+
+
+
+                          THE COUNTERFEITERS
+
+                        (_Les Faux-Monnayeurs_)
+
+
+                    _Translated from the French of_
+
+
+                              ANDRÉ GIDE
+
+
+                          _by Dorothy Bussy_
+
+
+
+
+               _New York_ ALFRED · A · KNOPF _Mcmxxvii_
+
+
+
+
+                COPYRIGHT 1927 BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
+
+                       PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1927
+                     SECOND PRINTING OCTOBER, 1927
+                     THIRD PRINTING OCTOBER, 1927
+                    FOURTH PRINTING NOVEMBER, 1927
+                     FIFTH PRINTING NOVEMBER, 1927
+                     SIXTH PRINTING DECEMBER, 1927
+                    SEVENTH PRINTING DECEMBER, 1927
+
+
+                            ORIGINAL TITLE
+                          LES FAUX-MONNAYEURS
+                 COPYRIGHT 1925 BY LIBRAIRIE GALLIMARD
+                                 PARIS
+
+
+
+
+             MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+
+                                   *
+
+                              I DEDICATE
+
+                         THIS, MY FIRST NOVEL,
+
+                                  TO
+
+                         ROGER MARTIN DU GARD
+
+                         IN TOKEN OF PROFOUND
+
+                              FRIENDSHIP
+
+                                 A. G.
+
+                                   *
+
+
+
+
+                               CONTENTS
+
+                                   *
+
+                           FIRST PART: PARIS
+
+ I. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS                             3
+
+ II. THE PROFITENDIEUS                                 9
+
+ III. BERNARD AND OLIVIER                             23
+
+ IV. VINCENT AND THE COMTE DE
+  PASSAVANT                                           32
+
+ V. VINCENT MEETS PASSAVANT AT LADY
+  GRIFFITH’S                                          41
+
+ VI. BERNARD AWAKENS                                  50
+
+ VII. LILIAN AND VINCENT                              54
+
+ VIII. EDOUARD AND LAURA                              60
+
+ IX. EDOUARD AND OLIVIER                              69
+
+ X. THE CLOAK-ROOM TICKET                             73
+
+ XI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: GEORGE
+  MOLINIER                                            77
+
+ XII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LAURA’S
+  WEDDING                                             86
+
+ XIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: FIRST VISIT TO
+  LA PÉROUSE                                         106
+
+ XIV. BERNARD AND LAURA                              115
+
+ XV. OLIVIER VISITS THE COMTE DE
+  PASSAVANT                                          124
+
+ XVI. VINCENT AND LILIAN                             130
+
+ XVII. THE EVENING AT RAMBOUILLET                    136
+
+ XVIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: SECOND VISIT
+  TO LA PÉROUSE                                      144
+
+                         SECOND PART: SAAS-FÉE
+
+ I. FROM BERNARD TO OLIVIER                          155
+
+ II. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LITTLE BORIS                 160
+
+ III. EDOUARD EXPLAINS HIS THEORY
+  TO LA PÉROUSE                                      167
+
+ IV. BERNARD AND LAURA                               180
+
+ V. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: CONVERSATION
+  WITH SOPHRONISKA                                   189
+
+ VI. FROM OLIVIER TO BERNARD                         195
+
+ VII. THE AUTHOR REVIEWS HIS CHARACTERS              202
+
+                           THIRD PART: PARIS
+
+ I. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: OSCAR
+  MOLINIER                                           209
+
+ II. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: AT THE
+  VEDELS’                                            218
+
+ III. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: THIRD VISIT
+  TO LA PÉROUSE                                      228
+
+ IV. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TERM                       235
+
+ V. OLIVIER MEETS BERNARD                            242
+
+ VI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: MADAME
+  MOLINIER                                           256
+
+ VII. OLIVIER AND ARMAND                             262
+
+ VIII. THE ARGONAUTS’ DINNER                         269
+
+ IX. OLIVIER AND EDOUARD                             283
+
+ X. OLIVIER’S CONVALESCENCE                          289
+
+ XI. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: PAULINE                      294
+
+ XII. EDOUARD AND THEN STROUVILHOU
+  VISIT PASSAVANT                                    299
+
+ XIII. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: DOUVIERS
+  PROFITENDIEU                                       310
+
+ XIV. BERNARD AND THE ANGEL                          319
+
+ XV. BERNARD VISITS EDOUARD                          325
+
+ XVI. EDOUARD WARNS GEORGE                           329
+
+ XVII. ARMAND AND OLIVIER                            340
+
+ XVIII. THE STRONG MEN                               350
+
+ XIX. BORIS                                          359
+
+ XX. EDOUARD’S JOURNAL                               363
+
+
+
+
+                              FIRST PART
+                                 PARIS
+
+
+
+
+                                   I
+
+                        THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS
+
+
+“THE time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said
+Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His
+father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother
+paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother
+Caloub--the youngest--he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in
+his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his
+“_bachot_”;[1] he had only three more weeks before him. His family
+respected his solitude--not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped
+off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street
+stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming.
+A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the
+letter he was holding in his hand.
+
+“Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than
+to weep.”
+
+Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him,
+Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to
+his mother--a love-letter--seventeen years old, unsigned.
+
+“What can this initial stand for? A ‘V’? It might just as well be an
+‘N.’... Would it be becoming to question my mother?... We must give her
+credit for good taste. I’m free to imagine he’s a prince. It wouldn’t
+advance matters much to know that I was the son of a rapscallion.
+There’s no better cure for the fear of taking after one’s father, than
+not to know who he is. The mere fact of enquiry binds one. The only
+thing to do is to welcome deliverance and not attempt to go any deeper.
+Besides which, I’ve had sufficient for the day.”
+
+Bernard folded the letter up again. It was on paper of the same size
+and shape as the other twelve in the packet. They were tied up with
+pink ribbon which there had been no need for him to untie, and which he
+was easily able to slip round the bundle again to keep it tight. He put
+the bundle back into the casket and the casket back into the drawer of
+the console-table. The drawer was not open. It had yielded its secret
+from above. Bernard fitted together the pieces of wood which formed its
+top, and which were made to support a heavy slab of onyx, re-adjusted
+the slab carefully and gently, and put back in their places on the top,
+a pair of glass candelabra and a cumbersome clock, which he had been
+amusing himself by repairing.
+
+The clock struck four. He had set it to the right time.
+
+“His Honour the judge and his learned son the barrister will not
+be back before six. I shall have time. When His Honour comes in he
+must find a letter from me on his writing table, informing him in
+eloquent terms of my departure. But before I write it, I feel that
+it’s absolutely essential to air my mind a little. I must talk to my
+dear Olivier, and make certain of a perch--at any rate a temporary
+one. Olivier, my friend, the time has come for _me_ to put your
+good-fellowship to the test, and for _you_ to show your mettle.
+The fine thing about our friendship so far has been that we have never
+made any use of one another. Pooh! it can’t be unpleasant to ask a
+favour that’s amusing to grant. The tiresome thing is that Olivier
+won’t be alone. Never mind! I shall have to take him aside. I want to
+appal him by my calm. It’s when things are most extraordinary that I
+feel most at home.”
+
+The street where Bernard Profitendieu had lived until then was quite
+close to the Luxembourg Gardens. There, in the path that overlooks
+the Medici fountains, some of his schoolfellows were in the habit of
+meeting every Wednesday afternoon, between four and six. The talk was
+of art, philosophy, sport, politics and literature. Bernard walked to
+the gardens quickly, but as soon as he caught sight of Olivier Molinier
+through the railings, he slackened his pace. The gathering that day was
+more numerous than usual--because of the fine weather, no doubt. Some
+of the boys who were there were new-comers, whom Bernard had never
+seen before. Every one of them, as soon as he was in company with the
+others, lost his naturalness and began to act a part.
+
+Olivier blushed when he saw Bernard coming up. He left the side of
+a young woman to whom he had been talking and walked away a little
+abruptly. Bernard was his most intimate friend, so that he took great
+pains not to show that he liked being with him; sometimes he would even
+pretend not to see him.
+
+Before joining him, Bernard had to run the gauntlet of several groups
+and, as he himself affected not to be looking for Olivier, he lingered
+among the others.
+
+Four of his schoolfellows were surrounding a little fellow with a beard
+and a pince-nez, who was perceptibly older than the rest. This was
+Dhurmer. He was holding a book and addressing one boy in particular,
+though at the same time he was obviously delighted that the others were
+listening.
+
+“I can’t help it,” he was saying, “I’ve got as far as page thirty
+without coming across a single colour or a single word that makes a
+picture. He speaks of a woman and I don’t know whether her dress was
+red or blue. As far as I’m concerned, if there are no colours, it’s
+useless, I can see nothing.” And feeling that the less he was taken
+in earnest, the more he must exaggerate, he repeated: “--absolutely
+nothing!”
+
+Bernard stopped attending; he thought it would be ill-mannered to
+walk away too quickly, but he began to listen to some others who were
+quarrelling behind him and who had been joined by Olivier after he
+had left the young woman; one of them was sitting on a bench, reading
+_L’Action Française_.
+
+Amongst all these youths how grave Olivier Molinier looks! And yet he
+was one of the youngest. His face, his expression, which are still
+almost a child’s, reveal a mind older than his years. He blushes
+easily. There is something tender about him. But however gracious his
+manners, some kind of secret reserve, some kind of sensitive delicacy,
+keeps his schoolfellows at a distance. This is a grief to him. But for
+Bernard, it would be a greater grief still.
+
+Molinier, like Bernard, had stayed a minute or two with each of the
+groups--out of a wish to be agreeable, not that anything he heard
+interested him. He leant over the reader’s shoulder, and Bernard,
+without turning round, heard him say:
+
+“You shouldn’t read the papers--they’ll give you apoplexy.”
+
+The other replied tartly: “As for you, the very name of Maurras makes
+you turn green.”
+
+A third boy asked, deridingly: “Do Maurras’s articles amuse you?”
+
+And the first answered: “They bore me bloody well stiff, but I think
+he’s right.”
+
+Then a fourth, whose voice Bernard didn’t recognize: “Unless a thing
+bores you, you think there’s no depth in it.”
+
+“_You_ seem to think that one’s only got to be stupid to be funny.”
+
+“Come along,” whispered Bernard, suddenly seizing Olivier by the arm
+and drawing him aside. “Answer quickly. I’m in a hurry. You told me you
+didn’t sleep on the same floor as your parents?”
+
+“I’ve shown you the door of my room. It opens straight on to the
+staircase, half a floor below our flat.”
+
+“Didn’t you say your brother slept with you?”
+
+“George. Yes.”
+
+“Are you two alone?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Can the youngster hold his tongue?”
+
+“If necessary.”
+
+“Listen. I’ve left home--or at any rate I’m going to this evening. I
+don’t know where to go yet. Can you take me in for one night?”
+
+Olivier turned very pale. His emotion was so great that he was hardly
+able to look at Bernard.
+
+“Yes,” said he, “but don’t come before eleven. Mamma comes down to say
+good-night to us and lock the door every evening.”
+
+“But then...?”
+
+Olivier smiled. “I’ve got another key. You must knock softly, so as not
+to wake George if he’s asleep.”
+
+“Will the concierge let me in?”
+
+“I’ll warn him. Oh, I’m on very good terms with him. It’s he who gives
+me the key. Good-bye! Till to-night!”
+
+They parted without shaking hands. While Bernard was walking away,
+reflecting on the letter he meant to write for the magistrate to find
+when he came in, Olivier, not wishing it to be thought that Bernard
+was the only person he liked talking to in private, went up to Lucien
+Bercail, who was sitting by himself as usual, for he was generally left
+a little out of it by the others. Olivier would be very fond of him, if
+he didn’t prefer Bernard. Lucien is as timid as Bernard is spirited. He
+cannot hide his weakness; he seems to live only with his head and his
+heart. He hardly ever dares to make advances, but when he sees Olivier
+coming towards him, he is beside himself with joy; Lucien writes
+poetry--everyone suspects as much; but I am pretty sure that Olivier is
+the only person to whom Lucien talks of his ideas. They walked together
+to the edge of the terrace.
+
+“What I should like,” said Lucien, “would be to tell the story--no,
+not of a person, but of a place--well, for instance, of a garden path,
+like this--just tell what happens in it from morning to evening. First
+of all, come the children’s nurses and the children, and the babies’
+nurses with ribbons in their caps.... No, no ... first of all, people
+who are grey all over and ageless and sexless and who come to sweep
+the path, and water the grass, and change the flowers--in fact, to set
+the stage and get ready the scenery before the opening of the gates.
+D’you see? _Then_ the nurses come in ... the kids make mud-pies
+and squabble; the nurses smack them. Then the little boys come out of
+school; then there are the workgirls; then the poor people who eat
+their scrap upon a bench, and later people come to meet each other, and
+others avoid each other, and others go by themselves--dreamers. And
+then when the band plays and the shops close, there’s the crowd....
+Students, like us; in the evening, lovers who embrace--others who
+cry at parting. And at the end, when the day is over, there’s an old
+couple.... And suddenly the drum beats. Closing time! Everyone goes
+off. The play is ended. Do you understand? Something which gives
+the impression of the end of everything--of death ... but without
+mentioning death, of course.”
+
+“Yes, I see it all perfectly,” said Olivier, who was thinking of
+Bernard and had not listened to a word.
+
+“And that’s not all,” went on Lucien, enthusiastically; “I should like
+to have a kind of epilogue and show the same garden path at night,
+after everyone has gone, deserted and much more beautiful than in the
+daytime. In the deep silence; all the natural sounds intensified--the
+sound of the fountain, and the wind in the trees, and the song of a
+night-bird. First of all, I thought that I’d bring in some ghosts to
+wander about--or perhaps some statues--but I think that would be more
+common place. What do you say?”
+
+“No, no! No statues, no statues!” said Olivier absent-mindedly; and
+then, seeing the other’s disappointed face: “Well, old fellow, if you
+bring it off, it’ll be splendid!” he exclaimed warmly.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 1: Schoolboy’s slang for the _baccalauréat_ examination.]
+
+
+
+
+                                  II
+
+                           THE PROFITENDIEUS
+
+   _There is no trace in Poussin’s letters of any feeling of obligation
+                                                  towards his parents._
+
+         _He never in later days showed any regret at having left them;
+       transplanted to Rome of his own free will, he lost all desire to
+       return to his home--and even, it would seem, all recollection of
+                                                                   it_.
+
+                                           PAUL DESJARDINS (_Poussin_).
+
+
+MONSIEUR PROFITENDIEU was in a hurry to get home and wished that his
+colleague Molinier, who was keeping him company up the Boulevard St.
+Germain, would walk a little faster. Albéric Profitendieu had just had
+an unusually heavy day at the law-courts; an uncomfortable sensation
+in his right side was causing him some uneasiness; fatigue in his case
+usually went to his liver, which was his weak point. He was thinking
+of his bath; nothing rested him better after the cares of the day than
+a good bath--with an eye to which he had taken no tea that afternoon,
+esteeming it imprudent to get into any sort of water--even warm--with
+a loaded stomach. Merely a prejudice, perhaps; but prejudices are the
+props of civilisation. Oscar Molinier walked as quickly as he could
+and made every effort to keep up with his companion; but he was much
+shorter than Profitendieu and his crural development was slighter;
+besides which there was a little fatty accumulation round his heart and
+he easily became short-winded. Profitendieu, who was still sound at
+the age of fifty-five, with a well-developed chest and a brisk gait,
+would have gladly given him the slip; but he was very particular as
+to the proprieties; his colleague was older than he and higher up in
+the career; respect was due to him. And besides, since the death of
+his wife’s parents, Profitendieu had a very considerable fortune to
+be forgiven him, whereas Monsieur Molinier, who was _Président de
+chambre_, had nothing but his salary--a derisory salary, utterly
+disproportionate to the high situation he filled with dignity, which
+was all the more imposing because of the mediocrity it cloaked.
+Profitendieu concealed his impatience; he turned to Molinier and looked
+at him mopping himself; for that matter, he was exceedingly interested
+by what Molinier was saying; but their point of view was not the same
+and the discussion was beginning to get warm.
+
+“Have the house watched, by all means,” said Molinier. “Get the reports
+of the concierge and the sham maid-servant--very good! But mind, if
+you push the enquiry too far, the affair will be taken out of your
+hands.... I mean there’s a risk of your being led on much further than
+you bargained for.”
+
+“Justice should have no such considerations.”
+
+“Tut, tut, my dear sir; you and I know very well what justice ought
+to be and what it is. We’re all agreed that we act for the best, but,
+however we act, we never get nearer than an approximation. The case
+before us now is a particularly delicate one. Out of the fifteen
+accused persons--or persons who at a word from you will be accused
+to-morrow--nine are minors. And some of these boys, as you know,
+come of very honourable families. In such circumstances, I consider
+that to issue a warrant at all would be the greatest mistake. The
+newspapers will get hold of the affair and you open the door to every
+sort of blackmail and calumny. In spite of all your efforts you’ll
+not prevent names from coming out.... It’s no business of mine to
+give you advice--on the contrary--it’s much more my place to receive
+it. You’re well aware how highly I’ve always rated your lucidity and
+your fair-mindedness.... But if I were you, this is what I should do:
+I should try to put an end to this abominable scandal by laying hold
+of the four or five instigators.... Yes! I know they’re difficult to
+catch; but what the deuce, that’s part of our trade. I should have the
+flat--the scene of the orgies--closed, and I should take steps for the
+brazen young rascals’ parents to be informed of the affair--quietly
+and secretly; and merely in order to avoid any repetition of the
+scandal. Oh! as to the women, collar _them_ by all means. I’m
+entirely with you there. We seem to be up against a set of creatures
+of unspeakable perversity, and society should be cleansed of them at
+all costs. But, let me repeat, leave the boys alone; content yourself
+with giving them a fright, and then hush the matter up with some vague
+term like “youthful indiscretion.” Their astonishment at having got
+off so cheaply will last them for a long time to come. Remember that
+three of them are not fourteen years old and that their parents no
+doubt consider them angels of purity and innocence. But really, my dear
+fellow, between ourselves, come now, did _we_ think of women when
+we were that age?”
+
+He came to a stop, breathless rather with talking than with walking,
+and forced Profitendieu, whose sleeve he was holding, to stop too.
+
+“Or if we thought of them,” he went on, “it was
+ideally--mystically--religiously, if I may say so. The boys of to-day,
+don’t you think, have no ideals--no! no ideals.... A propos, how are
+yours? Of course, I’m not alluding to them when I speak so. I know that
+with your careful bringing-up--with the education you’ve given them,
+there’s no fear of any such reprehensible follies.”
+
+And indeed, up to that time, Profitendieu had had every reason to
+be satisfied with his sons. But he was without illusions--the best
+education in the world was of no avail against bad instincts. God be
+praised, _his_ children had no bad instincts--nor Molinier’s
+either, no doubt; they were their own protectors against bad companions
+and bad books. For of what use is it to forbid what we can’t prevent?
+If books are forbidden, children read them on the sly. His own plan was
+perfectly simple--he didn’t forbid bad books, but he so managed that
+his children had no desire to read them. As for the matter in question,
+he would think it over again, and in any case, he promised Molinier to
+do nothing without consulting him. He would simply give orders for a
+discreet watch to be kept, and as the thing had been going on for three
+months, it might just as well go on for another few days or weeks.
+Besides, the summer holidays were upon them and would necessarily
+disperse the delinquents. _Au revoir!_
+
+At last Profitendieu was able to quicken his pace.
+
+As soon as he got in, he hurried to his dressing-room and turned on
+the water for his bath. Antoine had been looking out for his master’s
+return and managed to come across him in the passage.
+
+This faithful man-servant had been in the family for the last fifteen
+years; he had seen the children grow up. He had seen a great many
+things--and suspected a great many more; but he pretended not to notice
+anything his masters wished to keep hidden.
+
+Bernard was not without affection for Antoine; he had not wanted to
+leave the house without saying good-bye to him. Perhaps it was out of
+irritation against his family that he made a point of confiding to a
+servant that he was going away, when none of his own people knew it;
+but, in excuse for Bernard, it must be pointed out that none of his own
+people were at that time in the house. And besides, Bernard could not
+have said good-bye to them without the risk of being detained. Whereas
+to Antoine, he could simply say: “I’m going away.” But as he said it,
+he put out his hand with such a solemn air that the old servant was
+astonished.
+
+“Not coming back to dinner, Master Bernard?”
+
+“Nor to sleep, Antoine.” And as Antoine hesitated, not knowing what he
+was expected to understand, nor whether he ought to ask any further
+questions, Bernard repeated still more meaningly: “I’m going away”;
+then he added: “I’ve left a letter for....” He couldn’t bring himself
+to say “Papa,” so he corrected his sentence to “on the study writing
+table. Good-bye.”
+
+As he squeezed Antoine’s hand, he felt as moved as if he were then and
+there saying good-bye to all his past life. He repeated “good-bye” very
+quickly and then hurried off before the sob that was rising in his
+throat burst from him.
+
+Antoine wondered whether it were not a heavy responsibility to let him
+go in this way--but how could he have prevented him?
+
+That this departure of Bernard’s would be a blow to the whole
+family--an unexpected--a monstrous blow--Antoine indeed was well
+aware; but his business as a perfect servant was to pretend to take
+it as a matter of course. It was not for him to know what Monsieur
+Profitendieu was ignorant of. No doubt, he might simply have said to
+him: “Do you know, sir, that Master Bernard has gone away?” But by so
+saying, he would lose his advantage, and that was highly undesirable.
+If he awaited his master so impatiently, it was to drop out in a
+non-committal, deferential voice, and as if it were a simple message
+left by Bernard, this sentence, which he had elaborately prepared
+beforehand:
+
+“Before going away, sir, Master Bernard left a letter for you in the
+study”--a sentence so simple that there was a risk of its passing
+unperceived; he had racked his brains in vain for something which would
+be more striking, and had found nothing which would be at the same time
+natural. But as Bernard never left home, Profitendieu, whom Antoine was
+watching out of the corner of his eye, could not repress a start.
+
+“Before going....”
+
+He pulled himself up at once; it was not for him to show his
+astonishment before a subordinate; the consciousness of his superiority
+never left him. His tone as he continued was very calm--really
+magisterial.
+
+“Thank you.” And as he went towards his study: “Where did you say the
+letter was?”
+
+“On the writing table, sir.”
+
+And in fact, as Profitendieu entered the room, he saw an envelope
+placed conspicuously opposite the chair in which he usually sat when
+writing; but Antoine was not to be choked off so easily, and Monsieur
+Profitendieu had not read two lines of the letter, when he heard a
+knock at the door.
+
+“I forgot to tell you, sir, that there are two persons waiting to see
+you in the back drawing-room.”
+
+“Who are they?”
+
+“I don’t know, sir.”
+
+“Are they together?”
+
+“They don’t seem to be, sir.”
+
+“What do they want?”
+
+“I don’t know. They want to see you, sir.”
+
+Profitendieu felt his patience giving way.
+
+“I have already said and repeated that I don’t want to be disturbed
+when I’m at home--especially at this time of day; I have my consulting
+room at the law-courts. Why did you let them in?”
+
+“They both said they had something very urgent to say to you, sir.”
+
+“Have they been here long?”
+
+“Nearly an hour.”
+
+Profitendieu took a few steps up and down the room, and passed one hand
+over his forehead; with the other he held Bernard’s letter. Antoine
+stood at the door, dignified and impassive. At last, he had the joy of
+seeing the judge lose his temper and of hearing him for the first time
+in his life stamp his foot and scold angrily.
+
+“Deuce take it all! Can’t you leave me alone? Can’t you leave me alone?
+Tell them I’m busy. Tell them to come another day.”
+
+Antoine had no sooner left the room than Profitendieu ran to the door.
+
+“Antoine! Antoine! And then go and turn off my bath.”
+
+Much inclined for a bath, truly! He went up to the window and read:
+
+SIR,
+
+ Owing to an accidental discovery I happened to make this afternoon, I
+ have become aware that I must cease to regard you as my father. This
+ is an immense relief to me. Realizing as I do how little affection
+ I feel for you, I have for a long time past been thinking myself
+ an unnatural son; I prefer knowing I am not your son at all. You
+ will perhaps consider that I ought to be grateful to you for having
+ treated me as if I were one of your own children; but, in the first
+ place, I have always felt the difference between your behaviour to
+ them and to me, and, secondly, I know you well enough to feel certain
+ that you acted as you did because you were afraid of the scandal and
+ because you wished to conceal a situation which did you no great
+ honour--and, finally, because you could not have acted otherwise. I
+ prefer to leave without seeing my mother again, because I am afraid
+ that the emotion of bidding her a final good-bye might affect me too
+ much and also because she might feel herself in a false position in
+ my presence--which I should dislike. I doubt whether she has any very
+ lively affection for me; as I was almost always away at school, she
+ never had time to know much of me, and as the sight of me must have
+ continually reminded her of an episode in her life which she would
+ have liked to efface, I think my departure will be a relief and a
+ pleasure to her. Tell her, if you have the courage to, that I bear her
+ no grudge for having made a bastard of me; on the contrary, I prefer
+ that to knowing I am your son. (Pray excuse me for writing in this
+ way; it is not my object to insult you; but my words will give you an
+ excuse for despising me and that will be a relief to you.)
+
+ If you wish me to keep silent as to the secret reasons which have
+ induced me to leave your roof, I must beg you not to attempt to make
+ me return to it. The decision I have taken is irrevocable. I do not
+ know how much you may have spent on supporting me up till now; as long
+ as I was ignorant of the truth I could accept living at your expense,
+ but it is needless to say that I prefer to receive nothing from you
+ for the future. The idea of owing you anything is intolerable to me
+ and I think I had rather die of hunger than sit at your table again.
+ Fortunately I seem to remember having heard that my mother was richer
+ than you when she married you. I am free to think, therefore, that the
+ burden of supporting me fell only on her. I thank her--consider her
+ quit of anything else she may owe me--and beg her to forget me. You
+ will have no difficulty in explaining my departure to those it may
+ surprise. I give you free leave to put what blame you choose on me
+ (though I know well enough that you will not wait for my leave to do
+ this).
+
+ I sign this letter with that ridiculous name of yours, which I should
+ like to fling back in your face, and which I am longing and hoping
+ soon to dishonour.
+
+                                                  BERNARD PROFITENDIEU.
+
+ P.S. I am leaving all my things behind me. They belong more
+ legitimately to Caloub--at any rate I hope so, for your sake.
+
+Monsieur Profitendieu totters to an arm-chair. He wants to reflect, but
+his mind is in a confused whirl. Moreover he feels a little stabbing
+pain in his right side, just below his ribs. There can be no question
+about it. It is a liver attack. Would there be any Vichy water in
+the house? If only his wife had not gone out! How is he to break the
+news of Bernard’s flight to her? Ought he to show her the letter? It
+is an unjust letter--abominably unjust. He ought to be angry. But it
+is not anger he feels--he wishes it were--it is sorrow. He breathes
+deeply and at each breath exhales an “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” as swift
+and low as a sigh. The pain in his side becomes one with his other
+pain--proves it--localizes it. He feels as if his grief were in his
+liver. He drops into an arm-chair and re-reads Bernard’s letter. He
+shrugs his shoulders sadly. Yes, it is a cruel letter--but there is
+wounded vanity, defiance--bravado in it, too. Not one of his other
+children--his real children--would have been capable--any more than
+he would have been capable himself--of writing it. He knows this, for
+there is nothing in them which he does not recognize only too well in
+himself. It is true that he has always thought it his duty to blame
+Bernard for his rawness, his roughness, his unbroken temper, but he
+realizes that it is for those very things that he loved him as he had
+never loved any of the others.
+
+In the next room, Cécile, who had come in from her concert, had begun
+to practise the piano and was obstinately going over and over again the
+same phrase in a barcarole. At last Albéric Profitendieu could bear
+it no longer. He opened the drawing-room door a little way and in a
+plaintive, half supplicating voice, for his liver was beginning to hurt
+him cruelly (and besides he had always been a little frightened of her):
+
+“Cécile, my dear,” he asked, “would you mind seeing whether there’s any
+Vichy water in the house and if there isn’t, sending out to get some?
+and it would be very nice of you to stop playing for a little.”
+
+“Are you ill?”
+
+“No, no, not at all. I’ve just got something that needs thinking over a
+little before dinner, and your music disturbs me.”
+
+And then a kindly feeling--for he was softened by suffering--made him
+add:
+
+“That’s a very pretty thing you’re playing. What is it?”
+
+But he went away without waiting for the answer. For that matter, his
+daughter, who was aware that he knew nothing whatever about music
+and could not distinguish between “_Viens Poupoule_” and the
+_March_ in _Tannhäuser_ (at least, so she used to say), had
+no intention of answering.
+
+But there he was at the door again!
+
+“Has your mother come in?”
+
+“No, not yet.”
+
+Absurd! she would be coming in so late that he would have no time to
+speak to her before dinner. What could he invent to explain Bernard’s
+absence? He really couldn’t tell the truth--let the children into the
+secret of their mother’s temporary lapse. Ah! all had been forgotten,
+forgiven, made up. The birth of their last son had cemented their
+reconciliation. And now, suddenly this avenging spectre had re-risen
+from the past--this corpse had been washed up again by the tide.
+
+Good! Another interruption! As the study door noiselessly opens, he
+slips the letter into the inside pocket of his coat; the portière is
+gently raised--Caloub!
+
+“Oh, Papa, please tell me what this Latin sentence means. I can’t make
+head or tail of it....”
+
+“I’ve already told you not to come in here without knocking. You
+mustn’t disturb me like this for anything and everything. You are
+getting too much into the habit of relying on other people instead of
+making an effort yourself. Yesterday it was your geometry problem, and
+now to-day it’s ... by whom is your sentence?”
+
+Caloub holds out his copy-book.
+
+“He didn’t tell us; but just look at it; _you’ll_ know all right.
+He dictated it to us. But perhaps I took it down wrong. You might at
+any rate tell me if it’s correct?”
+
+Monsieur Profitendieu took the copy-book, but he was in too much pain.
+He gently pushed the child away.
+
+“Later on. It’s just dinner time. Has Charles come in?”
+
+“He went down to his consulting room.” (The barrister receives his
+clients in a room on the ground floor.)
+
+“Go and tell him I want to speak to him. Quick!”
+
+A ring at the door bell! Madame Profitendieu at last! She apologizes
+for being late. She had a great many visits to pay. She is sorry to see
+her husband so poorly. What can be done for him? He certainly looks
+very unwell. He won’t be able to eat anything. They must sit down
+without him, but after dinner, will she come to his study with the
+children?--Bernard?--Oh, yes; his friend ... you know--the one he is
+reading mathematics with--came and took him out to dinner.
+
+
+Profitendieu felt better. He had at first been afraid he would be
+too ill to speak. And yet it was necessary to give an explanation of
+Bernard’s disappearance. He knew now what he must say--however painful
+it might be. He felt firm and determined. His only fear was that his
+wife might interrupt him by crying--that she might exclaim--that she
+might faint....
+
+An hour later she comes into the room with the three children. He makes
+her sit down beside him, close against his arm-chair.
+
+“Try to control yourself,” he whispers, but in a tone of command; “and
+don’t speak a word. We will talk together afterwards.”
+
+And all the time he is speaking, he holds one of her hands in both his.
+
+“Come, my children, sit down. I don’t like to see you standing there as
+if you were in front of an examiner. I have something very sad to say
+to you. Bernard has left us and we shall not see him again ... for some
+time to come. I must now tell you what I at first concealed from you,
+because I wanted you to love Bernard like a brother; your mother and I
+loved him like our own child. But he was not our child ... and one of
+his uncles--a brother of his real mother, who confided him to us on her
+death bed--came and fetched him away this evening.”
+
+A painful silence follows these words and Caloub sniffles. They all
+wait, expecting him to go on. But he dismisses them with a wave of his
+hand.
+
+“You can go now, my dears. I must speak to your mother.”
+
+After they have left the room, Monsieur Profitendieu remains silent
+for a long time. The hand which Madame Profitendieu had left in his
+seems like a dead thing; with the other she presses a handkerchief to
+her eyes. Leaning on the writing table, she turns her head away to
+cry. Through the sobs which shake her, Monsieur Profitendieu hears her
+murmur:
+
+“Oh, how cruel of you!... Oh! You have turned him out....”
+
+A moment ago, he had resolved to speak to her without showing her
+Bernard’s letter; but at this unjust accusation, he holds it out:
+
+“Here! Read this.”
+
+“I can’t.”
+
+“You _must_ read it.”
+
+He has forgotten his pain. He follows her with his eyes all through the
+letter, line by line. Just now when he was speaking, he could hardly
+keep back his tears; but now all emotion has left him; he watches his
+wife. What is she thinking? In the same plaintive voice, broken by the
+same sobs, she murmurs again:
+
+“Oh! why did you tell him?... You shouldn’t have told him.”
+
+“But you can see for yourself that I never told him anything. Read his
+letter more carefully.”
+
+“I did read it.... But how did he find out? Who told him then?”
+
+So _that_ is what she is thinking! _Those_ are the accents of
+her grief!
+
+This sorrow should bring them together, but, alas! Profitendieu feels
+obscurely that their thoughts are travelling by divergent ways. And
+while she laments and accuses and recriminates, he endeavours to bend
+her unruly spirit and to bring her to a more pious frame of mind.
+
+“This is the expiation,” he says.
+
+He has risen, from an instinctive desire to dominate; he stands there
+before her upright--forgetful or regardless of his physical pain--and
+lays his hand gravely, tenderly, authoritatively on Marguerite’s
+shoulder. He is well aware that her repentance for what he chooses to
+consider a passing weakness, has never been more than half-hearted;
+he would like to tell her now that this sorrow, this trial may serve
+to redeem her; but he can find no formula to satisfy him--none that
+he can hope she will listen to. Marguerite’s shoulder resists the
+gentle pressure of his hand. She knows so well that from every event of
+life--even the smallest--he invariably, intolerably, extracts, as with
+a forceps, some moral teaching--he interprets and twists everything to
+suit his own dogmas. He bends over her. This is what he would like to
+say:
+
+“You see, my dear, no good thing can be born of sin. It was no use
+covering up your fault. Alas! I did what I could for the child. I
+treated him as my own. God shows us to-day that it was an error to
+try....”
+
+But at the first sentence he stops.
+
+No doubt she understands these words, heavy with meaning as they are;
+they have struck home to her heart, for though she had stopped crying
+some moments before, her sobs break out afresh, more violently than
+ever: then she bows herself, as though she were going to kneel before
+him, but he stoops over her and holds her up. What is it she is saying
+through her tears? He stoops his ear almost to her lips and hears:
+
+“You see.... You see.... Oh! why did you forgive me? Oh! I shouldn’t
+have come back.”
+
+He is almost obliged to divine her words. Then she stops. She too can
+say no more. How can she tell him that she feels imprisoned in this
+virtue which he exacts from her ... that she is stifling ... that it is
+not so much her fault that she regrets now, as having repented of it?
+Profitendieu raises himself.
+
+“My poor Marguerite,” he says with dignity and severity, “I am afraid
+you are a little stubborn to-night. It is late. We had better go to
+bed.”
+
+He helps her up, leads her to her room, puts his lips to her forehead,
+then returns to his study and flings himself into an arm-chair. It
+is a curious thing that his liver attack has subsided--but he feels
+shattered. He sits with his head in his hands, too sad to cry.... He
+does not hear a knock at the door, but at the noise the door makes in
+opening, he raises his head--his son Charles!
+
+“I came to say good-night to you.”
+
+He comes up. He wants to convey to his father that he has understood
+everything. He would like to manifest his pity, his tenderness,
+his devotion, but--who would think it of an advocate?--he is
+extraordinarily awkward at expressing himself--or perhaps he becomes
+awkward precisely when his feelings are sincere. He kisses his father.
+The way in which he lays his head upon his shoulder, and leans and
+lingers there, convinces Profitendieu that his son has understood. He
+has understood so thoroughly that, raising his head a little, he asks
+in his usual clumsy fashion--but his heart is so anxious that he cannot
+refrain from asking:
+
+“And Caloub?”
+
+The question is absurd, for Caloub’s looks are as strikingly like his
+family’s as Bernard’s are different.
+
+Profitendieu pats Charles on the shoulder:
+
+“No, no; it’s all right. Only Bernard.”
+
+Then Charles begins pompously:
+
+“God has driven the intruder away....”
+
+But Profitendieu stops him. He has no need of such words.
+
+“Hush!”
+
+Father and son have no more to say to each other. Let us leave them.
+It is nearly eleven o’clock. Let us leave Madame Profitendieu in her
+room, seated on a small, straight, uncomfortable chair. She is not
+crying; she is not thinking. She too would like to run away. But she
+will not. When she was with her lover--Bernard’s father (we need not
+concern ourselves with him)--she said to herself: “No, no; try as I
+may, I shall never be anything but an honest woman.” She was afraid
+of liberty, of crime, of ease--so that after ten days, she returned
+repentant to her home. Her parents were right when they said to her:
+“You never know your own mind.” Let us leave her. Cécile is already
+asleep. Caloub is gazing in despair at his candle; it will never
+last long enough for him to finish the story-book, with which he is
+distracting himself from thoughts of Bernard. I should be curious
+to know what Antoine can have told his friend the cook. But it is
+impossible to listen to everything. This is the hour appointed for
+Bernard to go to Olivier. I am not sure where he dined that evening--or
+even whether he dined at all. He has passed the porter’s room without
+hindrance; he gropes his way stealthily up the stairs....
+
+
+
+
+                                  III
+
+                          BERNARD AND OLIVIER
+
+                           “_Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardnes_s
+                                                                 _ever_
+                                             _Of hardiness is mother._”
+
+                                            CYMBELINE, ACT III, SC. VI.
+
+
+OLIVIER had got into bed to receive his mother, who was in the habit
+of coming every evening to kiss her two younger sons good-night before
+they went to sleep. He might have got up and dressed again to receive
+Bernard, but he was still uncertain whether he would come and was
+afraid of doing anything to rouse his younger brother’s suspicions.
+George as a rule went to sleep early and woke up late; perhaps he
+would never notice that anything unusual was going on. When he heard a
+gentle scratching outside, Olivier sprang from his bed, thrust his feet
+hastily into his bedroom slippers, and ran to open the door. He did not
+light a candle; the moon gave light enough; there was no need for any
+other. Olivier hugged Bernard in his arms:
+
+“How I was longing for you! I couldn’t believe you would really come,”
+said Olivier, and in the dimness he saw Bernard shrug his shoulders.
+“Do your parents know you are not sleeping at home to-night?”
+
+Bernard looked straight in front of him into the dark.
+
+“You think I ought to have asked their leave, eh?”
+
+His tone of voice was so coldly ironical that Olivier at once felt the
+absurdity of his question. He had not yet grasped that Bernard had left
+“for good”; he thought that he only meant to sleep out that one night
+and was a little perplexed as to the reason of this escapade. He began
+to question: When did Bernard think of going home?--Never!
+
+Light began to dawn on Olivier. He was very anxious to be equal to
+the occasion and not to be surprised at anything; nevertheless an
+exclamation broke from him:
+
+“What a tremendous decision!”
+
+Bernard was by no means unwilling to astonish his friend a little;
+he was particularly flattered by the admiration which these words
+betrayed, but he shrugged his shoulders once more. Olivier took hold of
+his hand and asked very gravely and anxiously:
+
+“But why are you leaving?”
+
+“That, my dear fellow, is a family matter. I can’t tell you.” And in
+order not to seem too serious he amused himself by trying to jerk off
+with the tip of his shoe the slipper that Olivier was swinging on his
+bare toes--for they were sitting down now on the side of the bed.
+There! Off it goes!
+
+“Then where do you mean to live?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“And how?”
+
+“That remains to be seen.”
+
+“Have you any money?”
+
+“Enough for breakfast to-morrow.”
+
+“And after that?”
+
+“After that I shall look about me. Oh, I’m sure to find something.
+You’ll see. I’ll let you know.”
+
+
+Olivier admires his friend with immense fervour. He knows him to be
+resolute; but he cannot help doubting; when he is at the end of his
+resources, and feeling, as soon he must, the pressure of want, won’t he
+be obliged to go back? Bernard reassures him--he will do anything in
+the world rather than return to his people. And as he repeats several
+times over more and more savagely--“anything in the world!”--Olivier’s
+heart is stabbed with a pang of terror. He wants to speak but dares
+not. At last with downcast head and unsteady voice, he begins:
+
+“Bernard, all the same, you’re not thinking of ...” but he stops. His
+friend raises his eyes and, though he cannot see him very distinctly,
+perceives his confusion.
+
+“Of what?” he asks. “What do you mean? Tell me. Of stealing?”
+
+Olivier shakes his head. No, that’s not it! Suddenly he bursts into
+tears and clasping Bernard convulsively in his arms:
+
+“Promise me that you won’t....”
+
+Bernard kisses him, then pushes him away laughing. He has understood.
+
+“Oh! yes! I promise.... But all the same you must admit it would be the
+easiest way out.” But Olivier feels reassured; he knows that these last
+words are an affectation of cynicism.
+
+“Your exam?”
+
+“Yes; that’s rather a bore. I don’t want to be ploughed. I think I’m
+ready all right. It’s more a question of feeling fit on the day. I must
+manage to get something fixed up very quickly. It’s touch and go; but I
+_shall_ manage. You’ll see.”
+
+They sit for a moment in silence. The second slipper has fallen.
+
+Then Bernard: “You’ll catch cold. Get back into bed.”
+
+“No; _you_ must get into bed.”
+
+“You’re joking. Come along! quick!” and he forces Olivier to get into
+the bed which he has already lain down in and which is all tumbled.
+
+“But you? Where are _you_ going to sleep?”
+
+“Anywhere. On the floor. In a corner. I must get accustomed to roughing
+it.”
+
+“No. Look here! I want to tell you something, but I shan’t be able to
+unless I feel you close to me. Get into my bed.” And when Bernard,
+after undressing himself in a twinkling, has got in beside him:
+
+“You know ... what I told you the other day ... well, it’s come off. I
+went.”
+
+There was no need to say more for Bernard to understand. He pressed up
+against his friend.
+
+“Well! it’s disgusting ... horrible.... Afterwards I wanted to spit--to
+be sick--to tear my skin off--to kill myself.”
+
+“You’re exaggerating.”
+
+“To kill _her_.”
+
+“Who was it? You haven’t been imprudent, have you?”
+
+“No; it’s some creature Dhurmer knows. He introduced me. It was her
+talk that was the most loathsome. She never once stopped jabbering. And
+oh! the deadly stupidity of it! Why can’t people hold their tongues at
+such moments, I wonder? I should have liked to strangle her--to gag
+her.”
+
+“Poor old Olivier! You didn’t think that Dhurmer could get hold of
+anybody but an idiot, did you? Was she pretty, anyway?”
+
+“D’you suppose I looked at her?”
+
+“You’re a donkey! You’re a darling!... Let’s go to sleep.... But ...
+did you bring it off all right?”
+
+“God! That’s the most disgusting thing about it. I was able to, in
+spite of everything ... just as if I’d desired her.”
+
+“Well, it’s magnificent, my dear boy.”
+
+“Oh, shut up! If that’s what they call love--I’m fed up with it.”
+
+“What a baby you are!”
+
+“What would _you_ have been, pray?”
+
+“Oh, you know, I’m not particularly keen; as I’ve told you before, I’m
+biding my time. In cold blood, like that, it doesn’t appeal to me. All
+the same if I----”
+
+“If you...?”
+
+“If she.... Nothing! Let’s go to sleep.”
+
+And abruptly he turns his back, drawing a little away so as not to
+touch Olivier’s body, which he feels uncomfortably warm. But Olivier,
+after a moment’s silence, begins again:
+
+“I say, do you think Barrès will get in?”
+
+“Heavens! does that worry you?”
+
+“I don’t care a damn! I say, just listen to this a minute.” He presses
+on Bernard’s shoulder, so as to make him turn round--“My brother has
+got a mistress.”
+
+“George?”
+
+The youngster, who is pretending to be asleep, but who has been
+listening with all his might in the dark, holds his breath when he
+hears his name.
+
+“You’re crazy. I mean Vincent.” (Vincent is a few years older than
+Olivier and has just finished his medical training.)
+
+“Did he tell you?”
+
+“No. I found out without his suspecting. My parents know nothing about
+it.”
+
+“What would they say if they knew?”
+
+“I don’t know. Mamma would be in despair. Papa would say he must break
+it off or else marry her.”
+
+“Of course. A worthy bourgeois can’t understand how one can be worthy
+in any other fashion than his own. How did you find out?”
+
+“Well, for some time past Vincent has been going out at night after
+my parents have gone to bed. He goes downstairs as quietly as he can,
+but I recognize his step in the street. Last week--Tuesday, I think,
+the night was so hot I couldn’t stop in bed. I went to the window
+to get a breath of fresh air. I heard the door downstairs open and
+shut, so I leant out and, as he was passing under a lamp post, I
+recognized Vincent. It was past midnight. That was the first time--I
+mean the first time I noticed anything. But since then, I can’t help
+listening--oh! without meaning to--and nearly every night I hear him
+go out. He’s got a latchkey and our parents have arranged our old
+room--George’s and mine--as a consulting room for him when he has
+any patients. His room is by itself on the left of the entrance; the
+rest of our rooms are on the right. He can go out and come in without
+anyone knowing. As a rule I don’t hear him come in, but the day before
+yesterday--Monday night--I don’t know what was the matter with me--I
+was thinking of Dhurmer’s scheme for a review.... I couldn’t go to
+sleep. I heard voices on the stairs. I thought it was Vincent.”
+
+“What time was it?” asks Bernard, more to show that he is taking an
+interest than because he wants to know.
+
+“Three in the morning, I think. I got up and put my ear to the door.
+Vincent was talking to a woman. Or rather, it was she who was talking.”
+
+“Then how did you know it was he? All the people who live in the flat
+must pass by your door.”
+
+“And a horrid nuisance it is, too. The later it is, the more row they
+make. They care no more about the people who are asleep than.... It
+was certainly he. I heard the woman calling him by his name. She kept
+saying.... Oh, I can’t bear repeating it. It makes me sick....”
+
+“Go on.”
+
+“She kept saying: ‘Vincent, my love--my lover.... Oh, don’t leave me!’”
+
+“Did she say _you_ to him and not _thou_?”
+
+“Yes; isn’t it odd?”
+
+“Tell us some more.”
+
+“‘You have no right to desert me now. What is to become of me? Where am
+I to go? Say something to me! Oh, speak to me!’... And she called him
+again by his name, and went on repeating: ‘My lover! My lover!’ And her
+voice became sadder and sadder and lower and lower. And then I heard
+a noise (they must have been standing on the stairs), a noise like
+something falling. I think she must have flung herself on her knees.”
+
+“And didn’t he answer anything? Nothing at all?”
+
+“He must have gone up the last steps; I heard the door of the flat
+shut. And after that, she stayed a long time quite near--almost up
+against my door. I heard her sobbing.”
+
+“You should have opened the door.”
+
+“I didn’t dare. Vincent would be furious if he thought I knew anything
+about his affairs. And then I was afraid it might embarrass her to be
+found crying. I don’t know what I could have said to her.”
+
+Bernard had turned towards Olivier:
+
+“In your place I should have opened.”
+
+“Oh, you! You’re never afraid of anything. You do everything that comes
+into your head.”
+
+“Is that a reproach?”
+
+“Oh, no. It’s envy.”
+
+“Have you any idea who the woman is?”
+
+“How on earth should I know? Good-night.”
+
+“I say, are you sure George hasn’t heard us?” whispers Bernard in
+Olivier’s ear. They listen a moment with bated breath.
+
+“No,” Olivier goes on in his ordinary voice. “He’s asleep. And besides,
+he wouldn’t understand. Do you know what he asked Papa the other
+day...?”
+
+At this, George can contain himself no longer. He sits up in his bed
+and breaks into his brother’s sentence.
+
+“You ass!” he cries. “Didn’t you see I was doing it on purpose?... Good
+Lord, yes! I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying. But you needn’t
+excite yourselves. I’ve known all about Vincent for ever so long.
+And now, my young friends, talk a little lower please, because I’m
+sleepy--or else hold your tongues.”
+
+Olivier turns toward the wall. Bernard, who cannot sleep, looks out
+into the room. It seems bigger in the moonlight. As a matter of fact,
+he hardly knows it. Olivier was never there during the daytime; the few
+times that Bernard had been to see him, it was in the flat upstairs.
+But it was after school hours, when they came out of the _lycée_,
+that the two friends usually met. The moonlight has reached the foot of
+the bed in which George has at last gone to sleep; he has heard almost
+everything that his brother has said. He has matter for his dreams.
+Above George’s bed Bernard can just make out a little book-case with
+two shelves full of school-books. On a table near Olivier’s bed, he
+sees a larger sized book; he puts out his hand and takes it to look at
+the title--Tocqueville; but as he is putting it back on the table, he
+drops it and the noise wakes Olivier up.
+
+“Are you reading Tocqueville now?”
+
+“Dulac lent it me.”
+
+“Do you like it?”
+
+“It’s rather boring, but some of it’s very good.”
+
+“I say, what are you doing to-morrow?”
+
+To-morrow is Thursday and there is no school. Bernard thinks he
+may meet his friend somewhere. He does not mean to go back to the
+_lycée_; he thinks he can do without the last lectures and finish
+preparing for his examination by himself.
+
+“To-morrow,” says Olivier, “I’m going to St. Lazare railway station at
+11.30 to meet my Uncle Edouard, who is arriving from Le Havre, on his
+way from England. In the afternoon, I’m engaged to go to the Louvre
+with Dhurmer. The rest of the time I’ve got to work.”
+
+“Your Uncle Edouard?”
+
+“Yes. He’s a half brother of Mamma’s. He’s been away for six months and
+I hardly know him; but I like him very much. He doesn’t know I’m going
+to meet him and I’m rather afraid I mayn’t recognize him. He’s not in
+the least like the rest of the family; he’s somebody quite out of the
+common.”
+
+“What does he do?”
+
+“He writes. I’ve read nearly all his books; but he hasn’t published
+anything for a long time.”
+
+“Novels?”
+
+“Yes; kind of novels.”
+
+“Why have you never told me about them?”
+
+“Because you’d have wanted to read them; and if you hadn’t liked
+them....”
+
+“Well, finish your sentence.”
+
+“Well, I should have hated it. There!”
+
+“What makes you say that he’s out of the common?”
+
+“I don’t exactly know. I told you I hardly know him. It’s more of a
+presentiment. I feel that he’s interested in all sorts of things that
+don’t interest my parents and that there’s nothing that one couldn’t
+talk to him about. One day--it was just before he went away--he had
+been to lunch with us; all the time he was talking to Papa I felt he
+kept looking at me and it began to make me uncomfortable; I was going
+to leave the room--it was the dining-room--where we had stayed on after
+coffee, but then he began to question Papa about me, which made me more
+uncomfortable than ever; and suddenly Papa got up and went to fetch
+some verses I had written and which I had been idiotic enough to show
+him.”
+
+“Verses of yours?”
+
+“Yes; you know--that poem you said you thought was like _Le
+Balcon_. I knew it wasn’t any good--or hardly any--and I was furious
+with Papa for bringing it out. For a minute or two, while Papa was
+fetching the poem, we were alone together, Uncle Edouard and I, and I
+felt myself blushing horribly. I couldn’t think of anything to say to
+him. I looked away--so did he, for that matter; he began by rolling a
+cigarette and lighting it and then to put me at my ease, no doubt, for
+he certainly saw I was blushing, he got up and went and looked out of
+the window. He was whistling. Then he suddenly said, ‘I feel far more
+embarrassed than you do, you know.’ But I think it was just kindness.
+At last Papa came back again; he handed my verses to Uncle Edouard,
+and he began to read them. I was in such a state that I think if he
+had paid me compliments, I should have insulted him. Evidently Papa
+expected him to--pay me compliments--and as my uncle said nothing, he
+asked him what he thought of them. But Uncle Edouard answered him,
+laughing, ‘I can’t speak to him comfortably about them before you.’
+Then Papa laughed too and went out. And when we were alone again, he
+said he thought my verses were very bad, but I liked hearing him say
+so; and what I liked still more was that suddenly he put his finger
+down on two lines--the only two I cared for in the whole thing; he
+looked at me and said, ‘That’s good!’ Wasn’t it nice? And if you only
+knew the tone in which he said it! I could have hugged him. Then he
+said my mistake was to start from an idea, and that I didn’t allow
+myself to be guided sufficiently by the words. I didn’t understand very
+well at first; but I think I see now what he meant--and that he was
+right. I’ll explain it to you another time.”
+
+“I understand now why you want to go and meet him.”
+
+“Oh, all that’s nothing and I don’t know why I’ve told you about it. We
+said a great deal more to one another.”
+
+“At 11.30 did you say? How do you know he’s coming by that train?”
+
+“Because he wrote and told Mamma on a post-card; and then I looked it
+up in the time-table.”
+
+“Will you have lunch with him?”
+
+“Oh, no. I must be back here by twelve. I shall just have time to shake
+hands with him. But that’s enough for me.... Oh, one thing more before
+I go to sleep. When shall I see you again?”
+
+“Not for some days. Not before I’ve got something fixed up.”
+
+“All the same.... Couldn’t I help you somehow...?”
+
+“You? Help me? No. It wouldn’t be fair play. I should feel as if I were
+cheating. Good-night.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV
+
+                  VINCENT AND THE COMTE DE PASSAVANT
+
+   _Mon père était une bête, mais ma mère avait de l’esprit; elle était
+   quiétiste; c’était une petite femme douce qui me disait souvent: Mon
+        fils, vous serez damné. Mais cela ne lui faisait pas de peine._
+
+                                                            FONTENELLE.
+
+
+No, it was not to see his mistress that Vincent Molinier went out every
+evening. Quickly as he walks, let us follow him. He goes along the Rue
+Notre Dame des Champs, at the further end of which he lives, until
+he reaches the Rue Placide, which is its prolongation; then he turns
+down the Rue du Bac, where there are still a few belated passers-by.
+In the Rue de Babylone, he stops in front of a _porte-cochère_
+which swings open to let him in. The Comte de Passavant lives here.
+If Vincent were not in the habit of coming often, he would enter this
+sumptuous mansion with a less confident air. The footman who comes to
+the door knows well enough how much timidity this feigned assurance
+hides. Vincent, with a touch of affectation, instead of handing him his
+hat, tosses it on to an arm-chair.
+
+It is only recently that Vincent has taken to coming here. Robert
+de Passavant, who now calls himself his friend, is the friend of
+a great many people. I am not very sure how he and Vincent became
+acquainted. At the _lycée_, I expect--though Robert de Passavant
+is perceptibly older than Vincent; they had lost sight of each other
+for several years and then, quite lately, had met again one evening
+when, by some unusual chance, Olivier had gone with his brother to the
+theatre; during the _entr’acte_ Passavant had invited them both to
+take an ice with him; he had learnt that Vincent had just finished his
+last medical examinations and was undecided as to whether he should
+take a place as house physician in a hospital; science attracted him
+more than medicine, but the necessity of earning his living ... in
+short, Vincent accepted with pleasure the very remunerative offer
+Robert de Passavant had made him a little later of coming every
+evening, to attend his old father, who had lately undergone a very
+serious operation; it was a matter of bandages, of injections, of
+soundings--in fact, of whatever delicate services you please, which
+necessitate the ministrations of an expert hand.
+
+But, added to this, the Vicomte had secret reasons for wishing a
+nearer acquaintance with Vincent; and Vincent had still others for
+consenting. Robert’s secret reason we shall try to discover later on.
+As for Vincent’s--it was this: he was urgently in need of money. When
+your heart is in the right place and a wholesome education has early
+instilled into you a sense of your responsibilities, you don’t get
+a woman with child, without feeling yourself more or less bound to
+her--especially when the woman has left her husband to follow you.
+
+Up till then, Vincent had lived on the whole virtuously. His adventure
+with Laura appeared to him alternately, according to the moment of
+the day in which he thought of it, as either monstrous or perfectly
+natural. It very often suffices to add together a quantity of little
+facts which, taken separately, are very simple and very natural, to
+arrive at a sum which is monstrous. He said all this to himself over
+and over again as he walked along, but it didn’t get him out of his
+difficulties. No doubt, he had never thought of taking this woman
+permanently under his protection--of marrying her after a divorce,
+or of living with her without marrying; he was obliged to confess to
+himself that he had no very violent passion for her; but he knew she
+was in Paris without means of subsistence; he was the cause of her
+distress; at the very least he owed her that first precarious aid
+which he felt himself less and less able to give her--less to-day
+than yesterday. For last week he still possessed the five thousand
+francs which his mother had patiently and laboriously saved to give
+him a start in his profession; those five thousand francs would have
+sufficed, no doubt, to pay for his mistress’s confinement, for her stay
+in a nursing home, for the child’s first necessaries. To what demon’s
+advice then had he listened? What demon had hinted to him one evening
+that this sum which he had as good as given to Laura, which he had laid
+by for her, pledged to her--that this sum would be insufficient? No,
+it was not Robert de Passavant; Robert had never said anything of the
+kind; but his proposal to take Vincent with him to a gambling club fell
+out precisely the same evening. And Vincent had accepted.
+
+The hell in question was a particularly treacherous one, inasmuch as
+the habitués were all people in society and the whole thing took place
+on a friendly footing. Robert introduced his friend Vincent to one and
+another. Vincent, who was taken unawares, was not able to play high
+that first evening. He had hardly anything on him and refused the notes
+which the Vicomte offered to advance him. But as he began by winning,
+he regretted not being able to stake more and promised to go back the
+next night.
+
+“Everybody knows you now; there’s no need for me to come with you
+again,” said Robert.
+
+These meetings took place at Pierre de Brouville’s, commonly known as
+Pedro. After this first evening Robert de Passavant had put his car at
+his friend’s disposal. Vincent used to look in about eleven o’clock,
+smoke a cigarette with Robert, and after chatting for ten minutes or
+so, go upstairs. His stay there was more or less lengthy according to
+the Count’s patience, temper or requirements; after this he drove in
+the car to Pedro’s in the Rue St. Florentin, whence about an hour later
+the car took him back--not actually to his own door, for he was afraid
+of attracting attention, but to the nearest corner.
+
+The night before last, Laura Douviers, seated on the steps which led to
+the Moliniers’ flat, had waited for Vincent till three o’clock in the
+morning; it was not till then that he had come in. As a matter of fact,
+Vincent had not been at Pedro’s that night. Two days had gone by since
+he had lost every penny of the five thousand francs. He had informed
+Laura of this; he had written that he could do nothing more for her;
+that he advised her to go back to her husband or her father--to confess
+everything. But things had gone so far, that confession seemed
+impossible to Laura and she could not contemplate it with any sort of
+calm. Her lover’s objurgations merely aroused indignation in her--an
+indignation which only subsided to leave her a prey to despair. This
+was the state in which Vincent had found her. She had tried to keep
+him; he had torn himself from her grasp. Doubtless, he had to steel
+himself to do it, for he had a tender heart; but he was more of a
+pleasure-seeker than a lover and he had easily persuaded himself that
+duty itself demanded harshness. He had answered nothing to all her
+entreaties and lamentations, and as Olivier, who had heard them, told
+Bernard afterwards, when Vincent shut the door against her, she had
+sunk down on the steps and remained for a long time sobbing in the dark.
+
+More than forty hours had gone by since that night. The day before,
+Vincent had not gone to Robert de Passavant’s, whose father seemed to
+be recovering; but that evening a telegram had summoned him. Robert
+wished to see him. When Vincent entered the room in which Robert
+usually sat--a room which he used as his study and smoking-room and
+which he had been at some pains to decorate and fit up in his own
+fashion--Robert carelessly held out his hand to him over his shoulder,
+without rising.
+
+Robert is writing. He is sitting at a bureau littered with books.
+Facing him the French window which gives on to the garden, stands wide
+open in the moonlight. He speaks without turning round.
+
+“Do you know what I am writing? But you won’t mention it, will you? You
+promise, eh?--a manifesto for the opening number of Dhurmer’s review.
+I shan’t sign it, of course--especially as I puff myself in it.... And
+then as it’ll certainly come out in the long run that I’m financing it,
+I don’t want it known too soon that I write for it. So mum’s the word!
+But it’s just occurred to me--didn’t you say that young brother of
+yours wrote? What’s his name again?”
+
+“Olivier,” says Vincent.
+
+“Olivier! Yes; I had forgotten. Don’t stay standing there like
+that! Sit down in that arm-chair. You’re not cold? Shall I shut the
+window?... It’s poetry he writes, isn’t it? He ought to bring me
+something to see. Of course, I don’t promise to take it.... But, all
+the same, I should be surprised if it were bad. He looks an intelligent
+boy. And then he’s obviously _au courant_. I should like to
+talk to him. Tell him to come and see me, eh? Mind, I count on it. A
+cigarette?” And he holds out his silver cigarette-case.
+
+“With pleasure.”
+
+“Now then, Vincent, listen to me. I must speak to you very seriously.
+You behaved like a child the other evening ... so did I, for that
+matter. I don’t say it was wrong of me to take you to Pedro’s, but I
+feel responsible, a little, for the money you’ve lost. I don’t know
+if that’s what’s meant by remorse, but, upon my word, it’s beginning
+to disturb my sleep and my digestion. And then, when I think of that
+unhappy woman you told me about.... But that’s another story. We
+won’t speak of that. It’s sacred. What I want to say is this--that I
+wish--yes, I’m absolutely determined to put at your disposal a sum of
+money equivalent to what you’ve lost. It was five thousand francs,
+wasn’t it? And you’re to risk it again. Once more, I repeat, I consider
+myself the cause of your losing this money--I owe it to you--there’s no
+need to thank me. You’ll pay me back if you win. If not--worse luck!
+We shall be quits. Go back to Pedro’s this evening, as if nothing had
+happened. The car will take you there; then it’ll come back here to
+take me to Lady Griffith’s, where I’ll ask you to join me later on. I
+count upon it, eh? The car will fetch you from Pedro’s.”
+
+He opens a drawer and takes out five notes which he hands to Vincent.
+
+“Be off with you, now.”
+
+“But your father?”
+
+“Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you: he died about....” He pulls out his
+watch and exclaims: “By Jove! how late it is! Nearly midnight.... You
+must make haste. Yes, about four hours ago.”
+
+All this is said without any quickening of his voice, on the contrary
+with a kind of nonchalance.
+
+“And aren’t you going to stay to....”
+
+“To watch by the body?” interrupts Robert. “No, that’s my young
+brother’s business. He is up there with his old nurse, who was on
+better terms with the deceased than I was.”
+
+Then as Vincent remains motionless, he goes on:
+
+“Look here, my dear fellow, I don’t want to appear cynical, but I
+have a horror of reach-me-down sentiments. In my early days I cut
+out my filial love according to the pattern I had in my heart; but I
+soon saw that my measurements had been too ample, and I was obliged
+to take it in. The old man never in his life occasioned me anything
+but trouble and vexation and constraint. If he had any tenderness
+left, it was certainly not to me that he showed it. My first impulses
+of affection towards him, in the days before I knew how to behave,
+brought me nothing but snubs--and I learnt my lesson. You must have
+seen for yourself when you were attending him.... Did he ever thank
+you? Did you ever get the slightest look, the smallest smile from him?
+He always thought everything his due. Oh, he was what people call a
+_character_! I think he must have made my mother very unhappy,
+and yet he loved her--that is, if he ever really loved anyone. I think
+he made everyone who came near him suffer--his servants, his dogs, his
+horses, his mistresses; not his friends, for he had none. A general
+sigh of relief will go up at his death. He was, I believe, a man of
+great distinction in ‘his line,’ as people say; but I have never been
+able to discover what it was. He was very intelligent, undoubtedly.
+At heart, I had--I still have--a certain admiration for him--but as
+for making play with a handkerchief--as for wringing tears out ... no,
+thank you, I’m no longer child enough for that. Be off with you now!
+And join me in an hour’s time at Lilian’s. What! you’re not dressed?
+Absurd! What does it matter? But if it’ll make you more comfortable,
+I’ll promise not to change either. Agreed! Light a cigar before you go
+and send the car back quickly--it’ll fetch you again afterwards.”
+
+He watched Vincent go out, shrugged his shoulders, then went into his
+dressing-room to change into his dress suit, which was ready laid out
+for him on a sofa.
+
+
+In a room on the first floor, the old count is lying on his death-bed.
+Someone has placed a crucifix on his breast, but has omitted to fold
+his hands over it. A beard of some days’ growth softens the stubborn
+angle of his chin. Beneath his grey hair, which is brushed up _en
+brosse_, the wrinkles that line his forehead seem less deeply
+graven, as though they were relaxed. His eye is sunk beneath the arch
+of the brow and the shaggy growth of the eyebrow. I know that we shall
+never see him again, and that is the reason that I take a long look at
+him. Beside the head of the bed is an arm-chair, in which is seated the
+old nurse Séraphine. But she has risen. She goes up to a table where an
+old-fashioned lamp is dimly lighting the room; it needs turning up. A
+lamp-shade casts the light on to the book young Gontran is reading....
+
+“You’re tired, Master Gontran. You had better go to bed.”
+
+The glance that Gontran raises from his book to rest upon Séraphine is
+very gentle. His fair hair, a lock of which he pushes back from his
+forehead, waves loosely over his temples. He is fifteen years old, and
+his face, which is still almost girlish, expresses nothing as yet but
+tenderness and love.
+
+“And you?” he says. “It is you who ought to go to bed, you poor old
+Fine. Last night, you were on your feet nearly the whole time.”
+
+“Oh, I’m accustomed to sitting up. And besides I slept during the
+daytime--but you....”
+
+“No, I’m all right. I don’t feel tired; and it does me good to stay
+here thinking and reading. I knew Papa so little; I think I should
+forget him altogether if I didn’t take a good look at him now. I will
+sit beside him till daylight. How long is it, Fine, since you came to
+us?”
+
+“I came the year before you were born, and you’re nearly sixteen.”
+
+“Do you remember Mamma quite well?”
+
+“Do I remember your Mamma? What a question! You might as well ask me if
+I remember my own name. To be sure, I remember your Mamma.”
+
+“I remember her too--a little.... But not very well.... I was only five
+when she died. Used Papa to talk to her much?”
+
+“It depended on his mood. Your Papa was never a one to talk much, and
+he didn’t care to be spoken to first. All the same in those days he
+was a little more talkative than he has been of late.... But there now!
+What’s past is past, and it’s better not to stir it up again. There’s
+One above who’s a better judge of these things than we are.”
+
+“Do you really think that He concerns Himself about such things, dear
+Fine?”
+
+“Why, if He doesn’t, who should then?”
+
+Gontran puts his lips on Séraphine’s red, roughened hand. “You really
+ought to go to bed now. I promise to wake you as soon as it is light,
+and then I’ll take my turn to rest. Please!”
+
+As soon as Séraphine has left him, Gontran falls upon his knees at
+the foot of the bed; he buries his head in the sheets, but he cannot
+succeed in weeping. No emotion stirs his heart; his eyes remain
+despairingly dry. Then he gets up and looks at the impassive face
+on the bed. At this solemn moment, he would like to have some rare,
+sublime experience--hear a message from the world beyond--send his
+thought flying into ethereal regions, inaccessible to mortal senses.
+But no! his thought remains obstinately grovelling on the earth; he
+looks at the dead man’s bloodless hands and wonders for how much longer
+the nails will go on growing. The sight of the unclasped hands grates
+on him. He would like to join them, to make them hold the crucifix.
+What a good idea! He thinks of Séraphine’s astonishment when she sees
+the dead hands folded together; the thought of Séraphine’s astonishment
+amuses him; and then he despises himself for being amused. Nevertheless
+he stoops over the bed. He seizes the arm which is farthest from him.
+The arm is stiff and will not bend. Gontran tries to force it, but the
+whole body moves with it. He seizes the other arm, which seems a little
+less rigid. Gontran almost succeeds in putting the hand in the proper
+place. He takes the crucifix and tries to slip it between the fingers
+and the thumb, but the contact of the cold flesh turns him sick. He
+thinks he is going to faint. He has a mind to call Séraphine back. He
+gives up everything--the crucifix, which drops aslant on the tumbled
+sheet, and the lifeless arm, which falls back again into its first
+position; then, through the depths of the funereal silence, he suddenly
+hears a rough and brutal “God damn!” which fills him with terror, as
+if someone else.... He turns round--but no! he is alone. It was from
+his own lips, from his own heart, that that resounding curse broke
+forth--his, who until to-day has never uttered an oath! Then he sits
+down and plunges again into his reading.
+
+
+
+
+                                   V
+
+              VINCENT MEETS PASSAVANT AT LADY GRIFFITH’S
+
+         _C’était une âme et un corps où n’entrait jamais l’aiguillon._
+
+                                                          SAINTE-BEUVE.
+
+
+LILIAN half sat up and put the tips of her fingers on Robert’s chestnut
+hair. “Take care, my dear. You are hardly thirty yet and you’re
+beginning to get thin on the top. Baldness wouldn’t be at all becoming
+to you. You take life too seriously.”
+
+Robert raised his face and looked at her, smiling. “Not when I am with
+you, I assure you.”
+
+“Did you tell Molinier to come?”
+
+“Yes, as you asked me to.”
+
+“And ... you lent him money?”
+
+“Five thousand francs, as I told you ... and he’ll lose it, like the
+rest.”
+
+“Why should he lose it?”
+
+“He’s bound to. I saw him the first evening. He plays anyhow.”
+
+“He’s had time to learn.... Will you make a bet that to-night he’ll
+win?”
+
+“If you like.”
+
+“Oh, please don’t take it as a penance. I like people to do what they
+do willingly.”
+
+“Don’t be cross. Agreed then. If he wins, he’ll pay the money back to
+you. But if he loses, it’s you who’ll pay me. Is that all right?”
+
+She pressed a bell.
+
+“Bring a bottle of Tokay and three glasses, please.... And if he comes
+back with the five thousand and no more--he shall keep it, eh? If he
+neither loses nor wins....”
+
+“That’s unheard of. It’s odd what an interest you take in him.”
+
+“It’s odd that you don’t think him interesting.”
+
+“You think him interesting because you’re in love with him.”
+
+“Yes, my dear boy, that’s true. One doesn’t mind admitting that
+to _you_. But that’s not the reason he interests me. On the
+contrary--as a rule, when my head’s attracted, the rest of me turns
+cold.”
+
+A servant came in with wine and glasses on a tray.
+
+“First of all let’s seal our bet, and afterwards we’ll have another
+glass in honour of the winner.”
+
+The servant poured out the wine and they drank to each other.
+
+“Personally, I think your Vincent a bore.”
+
+“Oh, ‘my Vincent’!... As if it hadn’t been you who brought him here!
+And then, I advise you not to go repeating everywhere that you think
+him a bore. Your reason for frequenting him would be too obvious.”
+
+Robert turned a little to put his lips on Lilian’s bare foot; she drew
+it away quickly and covered it with her fan.
+
+“Must I blush?” said he.
+
+“It’s not worth while trying as far as I am concerned. You couldn’t
+succeed.”
+
+She emptied her glass, and then:
+
+“D’you know what, my dear friend? You have all the qualities of a man
+of letters--you are vain, hypocritical, fickle, selfish....”
+
+“You are too flattering!”
+
+“Yes; that’s all very charming--but you’ll never be a good novelist.”
+
+“Because?”
+
+“Because you don’t know how to listen.”
+
+“It seems to me I’m listening admirably.”
+
+“Pooh! _He_ isn’t a writer and he listens a great deal better. But
+when we are together, _I_ am the one to listen.”
+
+“He hardly knows how to speak.”
+
+“That’s because you never stop talking yourself.”
+
+“I know everything he’s going to say beforehand.”
+
+“You think so? Do you know the story of his affair with that woman?”
+
+“Oh! Love affairs! The dullest things in the world!”
+
+“And then I like it when he talks about natural history.”
+
+“Natural history is even duller than love affairs. Does he give you
+lectures then?”
+
+“If I could only repeat what he says.... It’s thrilling, my dear
+friend. He tells me all sorts of things about the deep seas. I’ve
+always been particularly curious about creatures that live in the sea.
+You know that in America they make boats with glass let into the sides,
+so that you can go to the bottom of the sea and look all round you.
+They say that the sights are simply marvellous--live coral and ... and
+... what do you call them?... madrepores, and sponges, and sea-weeds,
+and great shoals of fish. Vincent says that there are certain kinds of
+fish which die according as the water becomes more salt or less, and
+that there are others, on the contrary, which can live in any degree of
+salt water; and that they swim about on the edge of the currents, where
+the water becomes less salt, so as to prey on the others when their
+strength fails them. You ought to get him to talk to you about it....
+I assure you it’s most curious. When he talks about things like that,
+he becomes extraordinary. You wouldn’t recognize him.... But you don’t
+know how to get him to talk.... It’s like when he tells me about his
+affair with Laura Douviers--yes, that’s her name.... Do you know how he
+got to know her?”
+
+“Did he tell you?”
+
+“People tell me everything. You know they do, you shocking creature!”
+And she stroked his face with the feathers of her closed fan.
+
+“Did you suspect that he had been to see me every single day since the
+evening you first brought him?”
+
+“Every day? No, really! I didn’t suspect that.”
+
+“On the fourth, he couldn’t resist any longer; he came out with the
+whole thing. But on every day following, he kept adding details.”
+
+“And it didn’t bore you? You’re a wonder!”
+
+“I told you, my dear, that I love him.” And she seized his arm
+emphatically.
+
+“And _he_ ... loves the other woman?”
+
+Lilian laughed.
+
+“He did love her. Oh, I had to pretend at first to be deeply interested
+in her. I even had to weep with him. And all the time I was horribly
+jealous. I’m not any more now. Just listen how it began. They were
+at Pau together in the same home--a sanatorium, where they had been
+sent because they were supposed to be tuberculous. In reality, they
+weren’t, either of them. But they thought they were very ill. They were
+strangers, and the first time they saw each other was on the terrace in
+the garden, where they were lying side by side on their deck chairs;
+and all round them were other patients, who spend the whole day lying
+out of doors in the sun to get cured. As they thought they were doomed
+to die an early death, they persuaded themselves that nothing they
+did would be of any consequence. He kept repeating all the time that
+they neither of them had more than a month to live--and it was the
+springtime. She was there all alone. Her husband is a little French
+professor in England. She left him to go to Pau. She had been married
+six months. He had to pinch and starve to send her there. He used to
+write to her every day. She’s a young woman of very good family--very
+well brought up--very reserved--very shy. But once there--I don’t
+exactly know what he can have said to her, but on the third day she
+confessed that though she lay with her husband and belonged to him, she
+did not know the meaning of the word pleasure.”
+
+“And what did he say then?”
+
+“He took her hand, as it hung down beside her chair, and pressed a long
+kiss upon it.”
+
+“And when he told you that, what did _you_ say?”
+
+“I? Oh, frightful! Only fancy! I went off into a _fou rire_. I
+couldn’t prevent myself, and once I had begun, I couldn’t stop....
+It’s not so much what he said that made me laugh--it was the air of
+interest and consternation which I thought it necessary to take, in
+order to encourage him to go on. I was afraid of seeming too much
+amused. And then, in reality, it was all very beautiful and touching.
+You can’t imagine how moved he was when he told me about it. He had
+never spoken of it to anyone before. Of course his parents know nothing
+about it.”
+
+“_You_ are the person who ought to write novels.”
+
+“_Parbleu, mon cher_, if only I knew what language to write them
+in!... But what with Russian, English and French, I should never be
+able to choose.--Well, the following night he went to his new friend’s
+room and there taught her what her husband had never been able to
+teach--and I expect he made a very good master. Only as they were
+convinced that they had only a short time to live, they naturally took
+no precautions, and, naturally, after a little while, with the help of
+love, they both began to get much better. When she realized she was
+_enceinte_, they were in a terrible state. It was last month. It
+was beginning to get hot. Pau in the summer is intolerable. They came
+back to Paris together. Her husband thinks she is with her parents, who
+have a boarding school near the Luxembourg; but she didn’t dare to go
+to them. Her parents, on the other hand, think she is still in Pau; but
+it must all come out soon. Vincent swore at first not to abandon her;
+he proposed going away with her--anywhere--to America--to the Pacific.
+But they had no money. It was just at that moment that he met you and
+began to play.”
+
+“He didn’t tell me any of all this.”
+
+“Whatever happens, don’t let him know that I’ve told you.” She stopped
+and listened a moment.
+
+“I thought I heard him.... He told me that, during the railway
+journey from Pau to Paris, he thought she was going mad. She had
+only just begun to realize she was going to have a child. She was
+sitting opposite him in the railway carriage; they were alone. She
+hadn’t spoken to him the whole morning; he had had to make all the
+arrangements for the journey by himself--she was absolutely inert--she
+seemed not to know what was going on. He took her hands, but she
+looked straight in front of her with haggard eyes, as if she didn’t see
+him, and her lips kept moving. He bent towards her. She was saying: ‘A
+lover! A lover! I’ve got a lover!’ She kept on repeating it in the same
+tone; and still the same word kept coming from her over and over again,
+as if it were the only one she remembered. I assure you, Robert, that
+when he told me that, I didn’t feel in the least inclined to laugh any
+more. I’ve never in my life heard anything more pathetic. But all the
+same, I felt that as he was speaking he was detaching himself more and
+more from the whole thing. It was as though his feeling were passing
+away in the same breath as his words; it was as though he were grateful
+to my emotion for coming to relay his own.”
+
+“I don’t know how you would say it in Russian or English, but I assure
+you that, in French, you do it exceedingly well.”
+
+“Thanks. I’m aware of it.--It was after that, that he began to talk to
+me about natural history; and I tried to persuade him that it would be
+monstrous to sacrifice his career to his love.”
+
+“In other words, you advised him to sacrifice his love. And is it your
+intention to take the place of that love?”
+
+Lilian remained silent.
+
+“This time, I think it really is he,” went on Robert, rising. “Quick!
+one word before he comes in. My father died this evening.”
+
+“Ah!” she said simply.
+
+“You haven’t a fancy to become Comtesse de Passavant, have you?”
+
+At this Lilian flung herself back with a burst of laughter.
+
+“Oh, oh, my dear friend! The fact is I have a vague recollection that
+I’ve mislaid a husband somewhere or other in England. What! I never
+told you?”
+
+“Not that I remember.”
+
+“You might have guessed it; as a rule a Lady’s accompanied by a Lord.”
+
+The Comte de Passavant, who had never had much faith in the
+authenticity of his friend’s title, smiled. She went on: “Is it to
+cloak your own life, that you’ve taken it into your head to propose
+such a thing to me? No, my dear friend, no. Let’s stay as we are.
+Friends, eh?” And she held out her hand, which he kissed.
+
+“Ah! Ah! I thought as much,” cried Vincent, as he came into the room.
+“The traitor! He has dressed!”
+
+“Yes, I had promised not to change, so as to keep him in countenance,”
+said Robert. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, but I suddenly remembered I
+was in mourning.”
+
+Vincent held his head high. An air of triumph and of joy breathed from
+his whole person. At his arrival, Lilian had sprung to her feet. She
+looked him up and down for a moment, then rushed joyously at Robert
+and began belabouring his back with her fists, jumping, dancing and
+exclaiming as she did so. (Lilian irritates me rather when she puts on
+this affectation of childishness.)
+
+“He has lost his bet! He has lost his bet!”
+
+“What bet?” asked Vincent.
+
+“He had bet that you would lose your money again to-night. Tell us!
+Quickly! You’ve won. How much?”
+
+“I have had the extraordinary courage--and virtue--to leave off at
+fifty thousand and come away.”
+
+Lilian gave a roar of delight.
+
+“Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!” she cried. Then she flung her arms round
+Vincent’s neck. From head to foot, he felt her glowing, lissom body,
+with its strange perfume of sandal-wood, pressed against his own; and
+Lilian kissed him on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips. Vincent
+staggered and freed himself. He took a bundle of bank-notes out of his
+pocket.
+
+“Here! take back what you advanced me,” he said, holding out five of
+them to Robert.
+
+“No,” answered Robert. “It is to Lady Lilian that you owe them now.”
+And he handed her the notes, which she flung on to the divan. She was
+panting. She went out on the terrace to breathe. It was that ambiguous
+hour when night is drawing to an end, and the devil casts up his
+accounts. Outside not a sound was to be heard. Vincent had seated
+himself on the divan. Lilian turned towards him:
+
+“And now, what do you mean to do?” she asked; and for the first time
+she called him “thou.”
+
+He put his head between his hands and said with a kind of sob:
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+Lilian went up to him and put her hand on his forehead; he raised it
+and his eyes were dry and burning.
+
+“In the mean time, we’ll drink each other’s health,” said she, and she
+filled the three glasses with Tokay. After they had drunk:
+
+“Now you must go. It’s late and I’m tired out.” She accompanied them
+into the antechamber and then, as Robert went out first, she slipped
+a little metal object into Vincent’s hand. “Go out with him,” she
+whispered, “and come back in a quarter of an hour.”
+
+In the antechamber a footman was dozing. She shook him by the arm.
+
+“Light these gentlemen downstairs,” she said.
+
+The staircase was dark. It would have been a simple matter, no doubt,
+to make use of electric light, but she made it a point that her
+visitors should always be shown out by a servant.
+
+The footman lighted the candles in a big candelabra, which he held high
+above him and preceded Robert and Vincent downstairs. Robert’s car was
+waiting outside the door, which the footman shut behind them.
+
+“I think I shall walk home. I need a little exercise to steady my
+nerves,” said Vincent, as the other opened the door of the motor and
+signed to him to get in.
+
+“Don’t you really want me to take you home?” And Robert suddenly seized
+Vincent’s left hand, which he was holding shut. “Open your hand! Come!
+Show us what you’ve got there!”
+
+Vincent was simpleton enough to be afraid of Robert’s jealousy. He
+blushed as he loosened his fingers and a little key fell on to the
+pavement. Robert picked it up at once, looked at it and gave it back to
+Vincent with a laugh.
+
+“Ho! Ho!” he said and shrugged his shoulders. Then as he was getting
+into his car, he turned back to Vincent, who was standing there looking
+a little foolish:
+
+“It’s Thursday morning. Tell your brother that I expect him this
+afternoon at four o’clock.” And he shut the door of the carriage
+quickly without giving Vincent time to answer.
+
+The car went off. Vincent walked a few paces along the quay, crossed
+the Seine, and went on till he reached the part of the Tuileries which
+lies outside the railings; going up to the little fountain, he soaked
+his handkerchief in the water and pressed it on to his forehead and his
+temples. Then, slowly, he walked back towards Lilian’s house. There
+let us leave him, while the devil watches him with amusement as he
+noiselessly slips the little key into the keyhole....
+
+It is at this same hour that Laura, his yesterday’s mistress, is at
+last dropping off to sleep in her gloomy little hotel room, after
+having long wept, long bemoaned herself. On the deck of the ship which
+is bringing him back to France, Edouard, in the first light of the
+dawn, is re-reading her letter--the plaintive letter in which she
+appeals for help. The gentle shores of his native land are already in
+sight, though scarcely visible through the morning mist to any but a
+practised eye. Not a cloud is in the heavens, where the glance of God
+will soon be smiling. The horizon is already lifting a rosy eyelid. How
+hot it is going to be in Paris! It is time to return to Bernard. Here
+he is, just awaking in Olivier’s bed.
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI
+
+                            BERNARD AWAKENS
+
+                                                 _We are all bastards;_
+                                  _And that most venerable man which I_
+                             _Did call my father, was I know not where_
+                                                  _When I was stamped._
+
+                                              SHAKESPEARE: _Cymbeline_.
+
+
+BERNARD has had an absurd dream. He doesn’t remember his dream. He
+doesn’t try to remember his dream, but to get out of it. He returns to
+the world of reality to feel Olivier’s body pressing heavily against
+him. Whilst they were asleep (or at any rate while Bernard was asleep)
+his friend had come close up to him--and, for that matter, the bed
+was too narrow to allow of much distance; he had turned over; he is
+sleeping on his side now and Bernard feels Olivier’s warm breath
+tickling his neck. Bernard has nothing on but his short day-shirt;
+one of Olivier’s arms is flung across him, weighing oppressively
+and indiscreetly on his flesh. For a moment Bernard is not sure
+that Olivier is really asleep. He frees himself gently. He gets up
+without waking Olivier, dresses and then lies down again on the bed.
+It is still too early to be going. Four o’clock. The night is only
+just beginning to dwindle. One more hour of rest, one more hour for
+gathering strength to start the coming day valiantly. But there is no
+more sleep for him. Bernard stares at the glimmering window pane, at
+the grey walls of the little room, at the iron bedstead where George is
+tossing in his dreams.
+
+“In a moment,” he says to himself, “I shall be setting out to meet my
+fate. Adventure! What a splendid word! The _advent_ of destiny!
+All the surprising unknown that awaits me! I don’t know if everyone is
+like me, but as soon as I am awake, I like despising the people who are
+asleep. Olivier, my friend, I shall go off without waiting for your
+good-bye. Up! valorous Bernard! The time has come!”
+
+He rubs his face with the corner of a towel dipped in water, brushes
+his hair, puts on his shoes and leaves the room noiselessly. Out at
+last!
+
+Ah! the morning air that has not yet been breathed, how life-giving it
+seems to body and soul! Bernard follows the railings of the Luxembourg
+Gardens, goes down the Rue Bonaparte, reaches the Quays, crosses the
+Seine. He thinks of the new rule of life which he has only lately
+formulated: “If _I_ don’t do it, who will? If I don’t do it at
+once, when shall I?” He thinks: “Great things to do!” He feels that he
+is going towards them. “Great things!” he repeats to himself, as he
+walks along. If only he knew what they were!... In the mean time he
+knows that he is hungry; here he is at the Halles. He has eight sous
+in his pocket--not a sou more! He goes into a public house and takes a
+roll and coffee, standing at the bar. Price six sous. He has two sous
+left; he gallantly leaves one on the counter and holds out the other to
+a ragamuffin who is grubbing in a dustbin. Charity? Swagger? What does
+it matter? He feels as happy as a king. He has nothing left--and the
+whole world is his!
+
+“I expect anything and everything from Providence,” thinks he. “If
+only it sets a handsome helping of roast beef before me at lunch
+time, I shall be willing to strike a bargain”--for last night he had
+gone without his dinner. The sun has risen long ago. Bernard is back
+again on the quays now. He feels all lightness. When he runs he feels
+as though he were flying. His thoughts leap through his brain with
+delicious ease. He thinks:
+
+“The difficulty in life is to take the same thing seriously for long at
+a time. For instance, my mother’s love for the person I used to call
+my father--I believed in it for fifteen years. I still believed in it
+yesterday. _She_ wasn’t able to take her love seriously, either. I
+wonder whether I despise her or esteem her the more for having made her
+son a bastard.... But in reality, I don’t wonder as much as all that.
+The feelings one has for one’s progenitors are among the things that
+it’s better not go into too deeply. As for Mr. Cuckold, it’s perfectly
+simple--for as far back as I can remember, I’ve always hated him; I
+must admit now that I didn’t deserve much credit for it--and that’s the
+only thing I regret. To think that if I hadn’t broken open that drawer
+I might have gone on all my life believing that I harboured unnatural
+feelings in my breast towards a father! What a relief to know!... All
+the same I didn’t exactly break open the drawer; I never even thought
+of opening it.... And there were extenuating circumstances: first of
+all I was horribly bored that day. And that curiosity of mine--that
+‘fatal curiosity’ as Fénelon calls it, it’s certainly the surest thing
+I’ve inherited from my real father, for the Profitendieus haven’t an
+ounce of it in their composition. I have never met anyone less curious
+than the gentleman who is my mother’s husband--unless perhaps it’s
+the children he has produced. I must think about them later on--after
+I have dined.... To lift up a marble slab off the top of a table and
+to see a drawer underneath is really not the same thing as picking a
+lock. I’m not a burglar. It might happen to anyone to lift the marble
+slab off a table. Theseus must have been about my age when he lifted
+the stone. The difficulty in the case of a table is the clock as a
+rule.... I shouldn’t have dreamt of lifting the marble slab off the
+table if I hadn’t wanted to mend the clock.... What doesn’t happen to
+everyone is to find arms underneath--or guilty love-letters. Pooh! The
+important thing was that I should learn the facts. It isn’t everyone
+who can indulge in the luxury of a ghost to reveal them, like Hamlet.
+Hamlet! It’s curious how one’s point of view changes according as one
+is the off-spring of crime or legitimacy. I’ll think about that later
+on--after I have dined.... Was it wrong of me to read those letters!...
+No, I should be feeling remorseful! And if I hadn’t read the letters,
+I should have had to go on living in ignorance and falsehood and
+submission. Oh, for a draught of air! Oh, for the open sea! ‘Bernard!
+Bernard, that green youth of yours ...’ as Bossuet says. Seat your
+youth on that bench, Bernard. What a beautiful morning! There really
+are days when the sun seems to be kissing the earth. If I could get
+rid of myself for a little, there’s not a doubt but I should write
+poetry.”
+
+And as he lay stretched on the bench, he got rid of himself so
+effectually that he fell asleep.
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII
+
+                          LILIAN AND VINCENT
+
+
+THE sun, already high in the heavens, caresses Vincent’s bare foot on
+the wide bed, where he is lying beside Lilian. She sits up and looks at
+him, not knowing that he is awake, and is astonished to see a look of
+anxiety on his face.
+
+It is possible that Lady Griffith loved Vincent; but what she loved in
+him was success. Vincent was tall, handsome, slim, but he did not know
+how to hold himself, how to sit down or get up. He had an expressive
+face, but he did his hair badly. Above all she admired the boldness and
+robustness of his intellect; he was certainly highly educated, but she
+thought him uncultivated. With the instinct of a mistress and a mother,
+she hung over this big boy of hers and made it her task to form him.
+He was her creation--her statue. She taught him to polish his nails,
+to part his hair on one side instead of brushing it back, so that his
+brow, when it was half hidden by a stray lock, looked all the whiter
+and loftier. And then instead of the modest little ready-made bows he
+used to wear, she gave him really becoming neck-ties. Decidedly Lady
+Griffith loved Vincent; but she could not put up with him when he was
+silent or “moody,” as she called it.
+
+She gently passes a finger over Vincent’s forehead, as though to
+efface a wrinkle--those two deep vertical furrows which start from his
+eyebrows, and give his face a look almost of suffering.
+
+“If you are going to bring me regrets, anxieties, remorse,” she
+murmurs, as she leans over him, “it would be better never to come back.”
+
+Vincent shuts his eyes as though to shut out too bright a light. The
+jubilation in Lilian’s face dazzles him.
+
+“You must treat this as if it were a mosque--take your shoes off before
+you come in, so as not to bring in any mud from the outside. Do you
+suppose I don’t know what you are thinking of?” Then, as Vincent tries
+to put his hand on her mouth, she defends herself with the grace of a
+naughty child.
+
+“No! Let me speak to you seriously. I have reflected a great deal about
+what you said the other day. People always think that women aren’t
+capable of reflection, but you know, it depends upon the woman....
+That thing you said the other day about the products of cross breeding
+... and that it isn’t by crossing that one gets satisfactory results
+so much as by selection.... Have I remembered your lesson, eh? Well,
+this morning I think you have bred a monster--a perfectly ridiculous
+creature--you’ll never rear it! A cross between a bacchante and the
+Holy Ghost! Haven’t you now?... You’re disgusted with yourself for
+having chucked Laura. I can tell it from the lines on your forehead. If
+you want to go back to her, say so at once and leave me; I shall have
+been mistaken in you and I shan’t mind in the least. But if you mean
+to stay with me, then get rid of that funereal countenance. You remind
+me of certain English people--the more emancipated their opinions,
+the more they cling to their morality; so that there are no severer
+Puritans than their free-thinkers.... You think I’m heartless? You’re
+wrong. I understand perfectly that you are sorry for Laura. But then,
+what are you doing here?”
+
+Then, as Vincent turned his head away:
+
+“Look here! You must go to the bath-room now and try and wash your
+regrets off in the shower-bath. I shall ring for breakfast, eh? And
+when you come back, I’ll explain something that you don’t seem to
+understand.”
+
+He had got up. She sprang after him.
+
+“Don’t dress just yet. In the cupboard on the right hand side of the
+bath, you’ll find a collection of burnouses and haiks and pyjamas. Take
+anything you like.”
+
+Vincent appeared twenty minutes later dressed in a pistachio coloured
+silk jellabah.
+
+“Oh, wait a minute--wait! Let me arrange you!” cried Lilian in
+delight. She pulled out of an oriental chest two wide purple scarves;
+wound the darker of the two as a sash round Vincent’s waist, and the
+other as a turban round his head.
+
+“My thoughts are always the same colour as my clothes,” she said. (She
+had put on crimson and silver lamé pyjamas.) “I remember once, when I
+was quite a little girl at San Francisco, I was put into black because
+a sister of my mother’s had died--an old aunt whom I had never seen.
+I cried the whole day long. I was terribly, terribly sad; I thought
+that I was very unhappy and that I was grieving deeply for my aunt’s
+death--all because I was in black. Nowadays, if men are more serious
+than women, it’s because their clothes are darker. I’ll wager that your
+thoughts are quite different from what they were a little while ago.
+Sit down there on the bed; and when you’ve drunk a glass of vodka and
+a cup of tea and eaten two or three sandwiches, I’ll tell you a story.
+Say when I’m to begin....”
+
+
+She settled down on the rug beside the bed, crouching between Vincent’s
+legs like an Egyptian statue, with her chin resting on her knees. When
+she had eaten and drunk, she began:
+
+“I was on the _Bourgogne_, you know, on the day of the wreck. I
+was seventeen, so now you know how old I am. I was a very good swimmer,
+and to show you that I’m not hard-hearted, I’ll tell you that if my
+first thought was to save myself, my second was to save someone else.
+I’m not quite sure even whether it wasn’t my first. Or rather, I don’t
+think I thought of anything; but nothing disgusts me so much in such
+moments as the people who only think of themselves--oh, yes--the women
+who scream. There was a first boatload, chiefly of women and children,
+and some of them yelled to such an extent that it was enough to make
+anyone lose his head. The boat was so badly handled that instead of
+dropping down on to the sea straight, it dived nose foremost and
+everyone in it was flung out before it even had time to fill with
+water. The whole scene took place by the light of torches and lanterns
+and search-lights. You can’t imagine how ghastly it was. The waves were
+very big and everything that was not in the light was lost in darkness
+on the other side of the hill of water.
+
+“I have never lived more intensely; but I was as incapable of
+reflection as a Newfoundland dog, I suppose, when he jumps into the
+water. I can’t even understand now what happened; I only know that I
+had noticed a little girl in the boat--a darling thing of about five
+or six; and when I saw the boat overturn, I immediately made up my
+mind that it was her I would save. She was with her mother, but the
+poor woman was a bad swimmer; and as usual in such cases, her skirts
+hampered her. As for me, I expect I undressed mechanically; I was
+called to take my place in the second boatload. I must have got in; and
+then I no doubt jumped straight into the sea out of the boat; all I
+can remember is swimming about for a long time with the child clinging
+to my neck. It was terrified and clutched me so tight that I couldn’t
+breathe. Luckily the people in the boat saw us and either waited for
+us or rowed towards us. But that’s not why I’m telling you this story.
+The recollection which remains most vividly with me and which nothing
+will ever efface from my mind and my heart is this.--There were about
+forty or so of us in the boat, all crowded together, for a number of
+swimmers had been picked up at the last gasp like me. The water was
+almost on a level with the edge of the boat. I was in the stern and I
+was holding the little girl I had just saved tightly pressed against
+me to warm her--and to prevent her from seeing what I couldn’t help
+seeing myself--two sailors, one armed with a hatchet and the other with
+a kitchen chopper. And what do you think they were doing?... They were
+hacking off the fingers and hands of the swimmers who were trying to
+get into our boat. One of these two sailors (the other was a Negro)
+turned to me, as I sat there, my teeth chattering with cold and fright
+and horror, and said, ‘If another single one gets in we shall be bloody
+well done for. The boat’s full.’ And he added that it was a thing that
+had to be done in all shipwrecks, but that naturally one didn’t mention
+it.
+
+“I think I fainted then; at any rate, I can’t remember anything more,
+just as one remains deaf for a long time after a noise that has been
+too tremendous.
+
+“And when I came to myself on board the X., which picked us up, I
+realized that I was no longer the same, that I never could again be
+the same sentimental young girl I had been before; I realized that a
+part of myself had gone down with the _Bourgogne_; that henceforth
+there would be a whole heap of delicate feelings whose fingers and
+hands I should hack away to prevent them from climbing into my heart
+and wrecking it.”
+
+She looked at Vincent out of the corner of her eye and, with a backward
+twist of her body, went on: “It’s a habit one must get into.”
+
+Then, as her hair, which she had pinned up loosely, was coming down and
+falling over her shoulders, she rose, went up to a mirror and began to
+re-arrange it, talking as she did so:
+
+“When I left America a little later, I felt as if I were the golden
+fleece starting off in search of a conqueror. I may sometimes have
+been foolish ... I may sometimes have made mistakes--perhaps I am
+making one now in talking to you like this--but you, on your side,
+don’t imagine that because I have given myself to you, you have won me.
+Make certain of this--I abominate mediocrity and I can love no one who
+isn’t a conqueror. If you want me, it must be to help you to victory;
+if it’s only to be pitied and consoled and made much of ... no, my
+dear boy--I’d better say so at once--_I’m_ not the person you
+need--it’s Laura.”
+
+She said all this without turning round and while she was continuing to
+arrange her rebellious locks, but Vincent caught her eye in the glass.
+
+“May I give you my answer this evening?” he said, getting up and taking
+off his oriental garments to get into his day clothes. “I must go home
+quickly now so as to catch my brother Olivier before he goes out. I’ve
+got something to say to him.”
+
+He said it by way of apology, to give colour to his departure; but
+when he went up to Lilian, she turned round to him smiling, and so
+lovely that he hesitated.
+
+“Unless I leave a line for him to get at lunch time,” he added.
+
+“Do you see a great deal of him?”
+
+“Hardly anything. No, it’s an invitation for this afternoon, which I’ve
+got to pass on to him.”
+
+“From Robert?... _Oh! I see!_[2]...” she said, smiling oddly.
+“That’s a person, too, I must talk to you about.... All right! Go at
+once. But come back at six o’clock, because at seven his car is coming
+to take us out to dinner in the Bois.”
+
+
+Vincent walks home, meditating as he goes; he realizes that from the
+satisfaction of desire there may arise, accompanying joy and as it were
+sheltering behind it, something not unlike despair.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 2: In English in the original.]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII
+
+                           EDOUARD AND LAURA
+
+      _Il faut choisir d’aimer les femmes ou de les connaître; il n’y a
+                                                        pas de milieu._
+
+                                                              CHAMFORT.
+
+
+EDOUARD, as he sits in the Paris express, is reading Passavant’s new
+book, _The Horizontal Bar_, which he has just bought at the Dieppe
+railway station. No doubt he will find the book waiting for him when
+he gets to Paris, but Edouard is impatient. People are talking of
+it everywhere. Not one of his own books has ever had the honour of
+figuring on station book-stalls. He has been told, it is true, that it
+would be an easy matter to arrange, but he doesn’t care to. He repeats
+to himself that he hasn’t the slightest desire to see his books in
+railway stations--but it is the sight of Passavant’s book that makes
+him feel the need of repeating it. Everything that Passavant does, and
+everything that other people do round about him, rubs Edouard up the
+wrong way: the newspaper articles, for instance, in which his book is
+praised up to the skies. It’s as if it were a wager; in every one of
+the three papers that he buys on landing, there is a eulogy of _The
+Horizontal Bar_. In the fourth there is a letter from Passavant,
+complaining of an article which had recently appeared in the same paper
+and which had been a trifle less flattering than the others. Passavant
+writes defending and explaining his book. This letter irritates Edouard
+even more than the articles. Passavant pretends to enlighten public
+opinion--in reality he cleverly directs it. None of Edouard’s books
+has ever given rise to such a crop of articles; but, for that matter,
+Edouard has never made the slightest attempt to attract the favour of
+the critics. If they turn him the cold shoulder, it is a matter of
+indifference to him. But as he reads the articles on his rival’s book,
+he feels the need of assuring himself again that it is a matter of
+indifference.
+
+Not that he detests Passavant. He has met him occasionally and has
+thought him charming. Passavant, moreover, has always been particularly
+amiable to him. But he dislikes Passavant’s books. He thinks Passavant
+not so much an artist as a juggler. Enough of Passavant!
+
+Edouard takes Laura’s letter out of his coat pocket--the letter he was
+reading on the boat; he reads it again:
+
+“Dear friend,
+
+ The last time I saw you--(do you remember?--it was in St. James’s
+ Park, on the 2nd of April, the day before I left for the South?) you
+ made me promise to write to you if ever I was in any difficulty. I am
+ keeping my promise. To whom can I appeal but you? I cannot ask for
+ help from those to whom I should most like to turn; it is just from
+ them that I must hide my trouble. Dear friend, I am in very great
+ trouble. Some day perhaps, I will tell you the story of my life after
+ I parted from Felix. He took me out to Pau and then he had to return
+ to Cambridge for his lectures. What came over me, when I was left out
+ there all by myself--the spring--my convalescence--my solitude?...
+ Dare I confess to you what it is impossible to tell Felix? The time
+ has come when I ought to go back to him--but oh! I am no longer
+ worthy to. The letters which I have been writing to him for some time
+ past have been lying letters, and the ones he writes to me speak of
+ nothing but his joy at hearing that I am better. I wish to heaven I
+ had remained ill! I wish to heaven I had died out there!... My friend,
+ the fact must be faced: I am expecting a child and it is not his.
+ I left Felix more than three months ago; there’s no possibility of
+ blinding _him_ at any rate. I dare not go back to him. I cannot.
+ I will not. He is too good. He would forgive me, no doubt, and I don’t
+ deserve--I don’t want his forgiveness. I daren’t go back to my parents
+ either. They think I am still at Pau. My father--if he knew, if he
+ understood--is capable of cursing me. He would turn me away. And how
+ could I face his virtue, his horror of evil, of lying, of everything
+ that is impure? I am afraid too of grieving my mother and my sister.
+ As for ... but I will not accuse him; when he was in a position
+ to help me, he promised to do so. Unfortunately, however, in order
+ to be better able to help me, he took to gambling. He has lost the
+ money which should have served to keep me until after my confinement.
+ He has lost it all. I had thought at first of going away with him
+ somewhere--anywhere; of living with him at any rate for a short time,
+ for I didn’t mean to hamper him--to be a burden to him; I should have
+ ended by finding some way of earning my living, but I can’t just yet.
+ I can see that he is unhappy at having to abandon me and that it is
+ the only thing that he can do. I don’t blame him--but all the same he
+ is abandoning me. I am here in Paris without any money. I am living on
+ credit in a little hotel, but it can’t go on much longer. I don’t know
+ what is to become of me. To think that ways so sweet should lead only
+ to such depths as these! I am writing to the address in London which
+ you gave me. But when will this letter reach you? And I who longed so
+ to have a child! I do nothing but cry all day long. Advise me. You are
+ the only hope I have left. Help me if you can, and if you can’t....
+ Oh! in other days I should have had more courage, but now it is not I
+ alone who will die. If you don’t come--if you write that you can do
+ nothing for me, I shall have no word or thought of reproach for you.
+ In bidding you good-bye, I shall try and not regret life too much, but
+ I think that you never quite understood that the friendship you gave
+ me is still the best thing in my life--never quite understood that
+ what I called my friendship for you went by another name in my heart.
+
+                                                         LAURA DOUVIERS
+
+ P. S. Before putting this letter in the post I shall make another
+ attempt. This evening I shall go and see him one last time more.
+ If you get this therefore it will mean that really.... Good-bye,
+ good-bye! I don’t know what I am writing.
+
+Edouard had received this letter on the morning of the day he had left
+England. That is to say he had decided to leave as soon as he received
+it. In any case he had not intended to stay much longer. I don’t mean
+to insinuate that he would have been incapable of returning to Paris
+specially to help Laura; I merely say that he is glad to return. He has
+been kept terribly short of pleasure lately in England; and the first
+thing he means to do when he gets to Paris is to go to a house of
+ill-fame; and as he doesn’t wish to take his private papers with him,
+he reaches his portmanteau down from the rack and opens it, so as to
+slip in Laura’s letter.
+
+The place for this letter is not among coats and shirts; he pulls out
+from beneath the clothes a cloth-bound MS. book, half filled with his
+writing; turns to the very beginning of the book, looks up certain
+pages which were written last year and re-reads them; it is between
+these that Laura’s letter will find its proper place.
+
+
+                           EDOUARD’S JOURNAL
+
+_Oct. 18th._--Laura does not seem to suspect her power; but I, who
+can unravel the secrets of my own heart, know well enough that up till
+now I have never written a line that has not been indirectly inspired
+by her. I feel her still a child beside me, and all the skill of my
+discourse is due only to my constant desire to instruct, to convince,
+to captivate her. I see nothing--I hear nothing without asking myself
+what she would think of it. I forsake my own emotion to feel only
+hers. And I think that if she were not there to give definition to
+my personality, it would vanish in the excessive vagueness of its
+contours. It is only round her that I concentrate and define myself.
+By what illusion have I hitherto believed that I was fashioning her
+to my likeness, when, on the contrary, I was bending myself to hers?
+And I never noticed it! Or rather--the influence of love, by a curious
+action of give and take, made us both reciprocally alter our natures.
+Involuntarily--unconsciously--each one of a pair of lovers fashions
+himself to meet the other’s requirements--endeavours by a continual
+effort to resemble that idol of himself which he beholds in the other’s
+heart.... Whoever really loves abandons all sincerity.
+
+This was the way in which she deluded me. Her thought everywhere
+companioned mine. I admired her taste, her curiosity, her culture, and
+did not realize that it was her love for me which made her take so
+passionate an interest in everything that I cared for. For she never
+discovered anything herself. Each one of her admirations--I see it
+now--was merely a couch on which she could lay her thought alongside
+of mine; there was nothing in all this that responded to any profound
+need of her nature. “It was only for you that I adorned and decked
+myself,” she will say. Yes! But I could have wished that it had been
+only for _her_ and that she had yielded in doing so to an intimate
+and personal necessity. But of all these things that she has added to
+herself for my sake, nothing will remain--not even a regret--not even a
+sense of something missing. A day comes when the true self, which time
+has slowly stripped of all its borrowed raiment, reappears, and then,
+if it was of these ornaments that the other was enamoured, he finds
+that he is pressing to his heart nothing but an empty dress--nothing
+but a memory--nothing but grief and despair.
+
+Ah! with what virtues, with what perfections I had adorned her!
+
+
+How vexing this question of sincerity is! _Sincerity!_ When I
+say the word I think only of her. If it is myself that I consider, I
+cease to understand its meaning. I am never anything but what I think
+myself--and this varies so incessantly, that often, if I were not
+there to make them acquainted, my morning’s self would not recognize
+my evening’s. Nothing could be more different from me than myself. It
+is only sometimes when I am alone that the substratum emerges and that
+I attain a certain fundamental continuity; but at such times I feel
+that my life is slowing down, stopping, and that I am on the very verge
+of ceasing to exist. My heart beats only out of sympathy; I live only
+through others--by procuration, so to speak, and by espousals; and I
+never feel myself living so intensely as when I escape from myself to
+become no matter who.
+
+This anti-egoistical force of decentralization is so great in me,
+that it disintegrates my sense of property--and, as a consequence, of
+responsibility. Such a being is not of the kind that one can marry. How
+can I make Laura understand this?
+
+
+_Oct. 26th._--The only existence that anything (including myself)
+has for me, is poetical--I restore this word its full signification.
+It seems to me sometimes that I do not really exist, but that I
+merely imagine I exist. The thing that I have the greatest difficulty
+in believing in, is my own reality. I am constantly getting outside
+myself, and as I watch myself act I cannot understand how a person who
+acts is the same as the person who is watching him act, and who wonders
+in astonishment and doubt how he can be actor and watcher at the same
+moment.
+
+
+Psychological analysis lost all interest for me from the moment that I
+became aware that men feel what they imagine they feel. From that to
+thinking that they imagine they feel what they feel was a very short
+step...! I see it clearly in the case of my love for Laura: between
+loving her and imagining I love her--between imagining I love her less
+and loving her less--what God could tell the difference? In the domain
+of feeling, what is real is indistinguishable from what is imaginary.
+And if it is sufficient to imagine one loves, in order to love, so
+it is sufficient to say to oneself that when one loves one imagines
+one loves, in order to love a little less and even in order to detach
+oneself a little from one’s love, or at any rate to detach some of the
+crystals from one’s love. But if one is able to say such a thing to
+oneself, must one not already love a little less?
+
+It is by such reasoning as this, that X. in my book tries to detach
+himself from Z.--and, still more, tries to detach her from himself.
+
+
+_Oct. 28th._--People are always talking of the sudden
+crystallization of love. Its slow _decrystallization_, which I
+never hear talked of, is a psychological phenomenon which interests
+me far more. I consider that it can be observed, after a longer or
+shorter period, in all love marriages. There will be no reason to fear
+this, indeed, in Laura’s case (and so much the better) if she marries
+Felix Douviers, as reason, and her family, and I myself advise her to
+do. Douviers is a thoroughly estimable professor, with many excellent
+points, and very capable in his own line (I hear that he is greatly
+appreciated by his pupils). In process of time and in the wear of daily
+life, Laura is sure to discover in him all the more virtues for having
+had fewer illusions to begin with; when she praises him, indeed, she
+seems to me really not to give him his due. Douviers is worth more than
+she thinks.
+
+
+What an admirable subject for a novel--the progressive and reciprocal
+decrystallization of a husband and wife after fifteen or twenty years
+of married life. So long as he loves and desires to be loved, the lover
+cannot show himself as he really is, and moreover he does not see the
+beloved--but instead, an idol whom he decks out, a divinity whom he
+creates.
+
+So I have warned Laura to be on her guard against both herself and me.
+I have tried to persuade her that our love could not bring either of us
+any lasting happiness. I hope I have more or less convinced her.
+
+
+Edouard shrugs his shoulders, slips the letter in between the leaves
+of his journal, shuts it up and replaces it in his suit-case. He then
+takes a hundred-franc note out of his pocket-book and puts that too
+in his suit-case. This sum will be more than sufficient to last him
+till he can fetch his suit-case from the cloak-room, where he means to
+deposit it on his arrival. The tiresome thing is that it has got no
+key--or at any rate he has not got its key. He always loses the keys of
+his suit-cases. Pooh! The cloak-room attendants are too busy during the
+daytime and never alone. He will fetch it out at about four o’clock and
+then go to comfort and help Laura; he will try and persuade her to come
+out to dinner with him.
+
+Edouard dozes; insensibly his thoughts take another direction. He
+wonders whether he would have guessed merely by reading Laura’s
+letter, that her hair was black. He says to himself that novelists,
+by a too exact description of their characters, hinder the reader’s
+imagination rather than help it, and that they ought to allow each
+individual to picture their personages to himself according to his own
+fancy. He thinks of the novel which he is planning and which is to
+be like nothing else he has ever written. He is not sure that _The
+Counterfeiters_ is a good title. He was wrong to have announced it
+beforehand. An absurd custom this of publishing the titles of books
+in advance, in order to whet the reader’s appetite! It whets nobody’s
+appetite and it ties one. He is not sure either that the subject is a
+very good one. He is continually thinking of it and has been thinking
+of it for a long time past; but he has not yet written a line of it.
+On the other hand, he puts down his notes and reflections in a little
+note-book. He takes this note-book out of his suit-case and a fountain
+pen out of his pocket. He writes:
+
+ I should like to strip the novel of every element that does not
+ specifically belong to the novel. Just as photography in the past
+ freed painting from its concern for a certain sort of accuracy, so
+ the phonograph will eventually no doubt rid the novel of the kind
+ of dialogue which is drawn from the life and which realists take so
+ much pride in. Outward events, accidents, traumatisms, belong to the
+ cinema. The novel should leave them to it. Even the description of the
+ characters does not seem to me properly to belong to the _genre_.
+ No; this does not seem to me the business of the _pure_ novel
+ (and in art, as in everything else, purity is the only thing I care
+ about). No more than it is the business of the drama. And don’t let it
+ be argued that the dramatist does not describe his characters because
+ the spectator is intended to see them transposed alive on the stage;
+ for how often on the stage an actor irritates and baffles us because
+ he is so unlike the person our own imagination had figured better
+ without him. The novelist does not as a rule rely sufficiently on the
+ reader’s imagination.
+
+What is the station that has just flashed past? Asnières. He puts
+the note-book back in his suit-case. But, decidedly, the thought of
+Passavant vexes him. He takes the note-book out again and adds:
+
+ The work of art, as far as Passavant is concerned, is not so much
+ an end as a means. The artistic convictions which he displays are
+ asserted with so much vehemence merely because they lack depth; no
+ secret exigence of his temperament necessitates them; they are evoked
+ by the passing hour; their _mot d’ordre_ is opportunism.
+
+ _The Horizontal Bar!_ The things that soonest appear out of date
+ are those that at first strike us as most modern. Every concession,
+ every affectation is the promise of a wrinkle. But it is by these
+ means that Passavant pleases the young. He snaps his fingers at the
+ future. It is the generation of to-day that he is speaking to--which
+ is certainly better than speaking to that of yesterday. But as what
+ he writes is addressed only to that younger generation, it is in
+ danger of disappearing with it. He is perfectly aware of this and
+ does not build his hopes on surviving. This is the reason that he
+ defends himself so fiercely, and that, not only when he is attacked,
+ but at the slightest restrictions of the critics. If he felt that his
+ work was lasting he would leave it to defend itself and would not so
+ continually seek to justify it. More than that, misunderstanding,
+ injustice, would rejoice him. So much the more food for to-morrow’s
+ critics to use their teeth upon!
+
+He looks at his watch: 11.35. He ought to have arrived by now. Curious
+to know if by any impossible chance Olivier will be at the station to
+meet him? He hasn’t the slightest expectation of it. How can he even
+suppose that his post-card has come to Olivier’s notice--that post-card
+on which he informed Olivier’s parents of his return, and incidentally,
+carelessly, absent-mindedly to all appearance, mentioned the day and
+hour of his arrival ... as one takes a pleasure in stalking--in setting
+a trap for fate itself.
+
+The train is stopping. Quick! A porter! No! His suit-case is not very
+heavy, nor the cloak-room very far.... Even supposing he were there,
+would they recognize each other in all this crowd? They have seen so
+little of each other. If only he hasn’t grown out of recognition!...
+Ah! Great Heavens! Can that be he?
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX
+
+                          EDOUARD AND OLIVIER
+
+
+WE should have nothing to deplore of all that happened later if only
+Edouard’s and Olivier’s joy at meeting had been more demonstrative;
+but they both had a singular incapacity for gauging their credit in
+other people’s hearts and minds; this now paralysed them; so that each,
+believing his emotion to be unshared, absorbed in his own joy, and half
+ashamed at finding it so great, was completely preoccupied by trying to
+hide its intensity from the other.
+
+It was for this reason that Olivier, far from helping Edouard’s joy by
+telling him with what eagerness he had come to meet him, thought fit to
+speak of some job or other which he had had to do in the neighbourhood
+that very morning, as if to excuse himself for having come. His
+conscience, scrupulous to excess, cunningly set about persuading him
+that he was perhaps in Edouard’s way. The lie was hardly out of his
+mouth when he blushed. Edouard surprised the blush, and as he had at
+first seized Olivier’s arm and passionately pressed it, he thought
+(scrupulous he, too) that it was this that had made him blush.
+
+He had begun by saying:
+
+“I tried to force myself to believe that you wouldn’t come, but in
+reality I was certain that you would.”
+
+Then it came over him that Olivier thought these words presumptuous.
+When he heard him answer in an off-hand way: “I had a job to do in this
+very neighbourhood,” he dropped Olivier’s arm and his spirits fell
+from their heights. He would have liked to ask Olivier whether he had
+understood that the post-card which he had addressed to his parents,
+had been really intended for him; as he was on the point of putting
+the question, his heart failed him. Olivier, who was afraid of boring
+Edouard or of being misunderstood if he spoke of himself, kept silent.
+He looked at Edouard and was astonished at the trembling of his lip;
+then he dropped his eyes at once. Edouard was both longing for the look
+and afraid that Olivier would think him too old. He kept rolling a bit
+of paper nervously between his fingers. It was the ticket he had just
+been given at the cloak-room, but he did not think of that.
+
+“If it was his cloak-room ticket,” thought Olivier, as he watched him
+crumple it up and throw it absent-mindedly away, “he wouldn’t throw
+it away like that.” And he glanced round for a second to see the wind
+carry it off along the pavement far behind them. If he had looked
+longer he might have seen a young man pick it up. It was Bernard, who
+had been following them ever since they had left the station.... In the
+mean while Olivier was in despair at finding nothing to say to Edouard,
+and the silence between them became intolerable.
+
+“When we get opposite Condorcet,” he kept repeating to himself, “I
+shall say, ‘I must go home now; good-bye.’”
+
+Then, when they got opposite the Lycée, he gave himself till as far as
+the corner of the Rue de Provence. But Edouard, on whom the silence
+was weighing quite as heavily, could not endure that they should part
+in this way. He drew his companion into a café. Perhaps the port
+wine which he ordered would help them to get the better of their
+embarrassment.
+
+They drank to each other.
+
+“Good luck to you!” said Edouard, raising his glass. “When is the
+examination?”
+
+“In ten days.”
+
+“Do you feel ready?”
+
+Olivier shrugged his shoulders. “One never knows. If one doesn’t happen
+to be in good form on the day....”
+
+He didn’t dare answer “yes,” for fear of seeming conceited. He
+was embarrassed, too, because he wanted and yet was afraid to say
+“thou” to Edouard. He contented himself by giving his sentences an
+impersonal turn, so as to avoid at any rate saying “you”; and by so
+doing he deprived Edouard of the opportunity of begging him to say
+“thou”--which Edouard longed for him to do and which he remembered well
+enough he _had_ done a few days before his leaving for England.
+
+“Have you been working?”
+
+“Pretty well, but not as well as I might have.”
+
+“People who work well always think they might work better,” said
+Edouard rather pompously.
+
+He said it in spite of himself and then thought his sentence ridiculous.
+
+“Do you still write poetry?”
+
+“Sometimes.... I badly want a little advice.” He raised his eyes to
+Edouard. “_Your_ advice,” he wanted to say--“_thy_ advice.”
+And his look, in default of his voice, said it so plainly that Edouard
+thought he was saying it out of deference--out of amiability. But why
+should he have answered--and so brusquely too...?
+
+“Oh, one must go to oneself for advice, or to companions of one’s own
+age. One’s elders are no use.”
+
+Olivier thought: “I didn’t ask him. Why is he protesting?”
+
+Each of them was vexed with himself for not being able to utter a word
+that didn’t sound curt and stiff; and each of them, feeling the other’s
+embarrassment and irritation, thought himself the cause and object of
+them. Such interviews lead to no good unless something comes to the
+rescue. Nothing came.
+
+Olivier had begun the morning badly. When, on waking up, he had found
+that Bernard was no longer beside him, that he had left him without
+saying good-bye, his heart had been filled with unhappiness; though
+he had forgotten it for an instant in the joy of seeing Edouard, it
+now surged up in him anew like a black wave and submerged every other
+thought in his mind. He would have liked to talk about Bernard, to tell
+Edouard everything and anything, to make him interested in his friend.
+
+But Edouard’s slightest smile would have wounded him; and as the
+passionate and tumultuous feelings which were shaking him could not
+have been expressed without the risk of seeming exaggerated, he kept
+silence. He felt his features harden; he would have liked to fling
+himself into Edouard’s arms and cry. Edouard misunderstood this silence
+of Olivier’s and the look of sternness on his face; he loved him far
+too much to be able to behave with any ease. He hardly dared look at
+Olivier, whom he longed to take in his arms and fondle like a child,
+and when he met his eyes and saw their dull and lifeless expression:
+
+“Of course!” he said to himself. “I bore him--I bore him to death.
+Poor child! He’s just waiting for a word from me to escape.” And
+irresistibly Edouard said the word--out of sheer pity: “You’d better be
+off now. Your people are expecting you for lunch, I’m sure.”
+
+Olivier, who was thinking the same things, misunderstood in the same
+way. He got up in a desperate hurry and held out his hand. At least he
+wanted to say to Edouard: “Shall I see you--thee--again soon? Shall we
+see each other again soon?”... Edouard was waiting for these words.
+Nothing came but a commonplace “Good-bye!”
+
+
+
+
+                                   X
+
+                         THE CLOAK-ROOM TICKET
+
+
+THE sun woke Bernard. He rose from his bench with a violent headache.
+His gallant courage of the morning had left him. He felt abominably
+lonely and his heart was swelling with something brackish and bitter
+which he would not call unhappiness, but which brought the tears to his
+eyes. What should he do? Where should he go?... If his steps turned
+towards St. Lazare Station at the time that he knew Olivier was due
+there, it was without any definite purpose and merely with the wish to
+see his friend again. He reproached himself for having left so abruptly
+that morning; perhaps Olivier had been hurt?... Was he not the creature
+in the world he liked best?... When he saw him arm in arm with Edouard
+a peculiar feeling made him follow the pair and at the same time not
+show himself; painfully conscious of being _de trop_, he would yet
+have liked to slip in between them. He thought Edouard looked charming;
+only a little taller than Olivier and with a scarcely less youthful
+figure. It was he whom he made up his mind to address; he would wait
+until Olivier left him. But address him? Upon what pretext?
+
+It was at this moment that he caught sight of the little bit of
+crumpled paper as it escaped from Edouard’s hand. He picked it up,
+saw that it was a cloak-room ticket ... and, by Jove, here was the
+wished-for pretext!
+
+He saw the two friends go into a café, hesitated a moment in
+perplexity, and then continued his monologue:
+
+“Now a normal fathead would have nothing better to do than to return
+this paper at once,” he said to himself.
+
+    “‘_How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable_
+    _Seem to me all the uses of this world!_’
+
+as I have heard Hamlet remark. Bernard, Bernard, what thought is this
+that is tickling you? It was only yesterday that you were rifling a
+drawer. On what path are you entering? Consider, my boy, consider....
+Consider that the cloak-room attendant who took Edouard’s luggage will
+be gone to his lunch at 12 o’clock, and that there will be another one
+on duty. And didn’t you promise your friend to stick at nothing?”
+
+He reflected, however, that too much haste might spoil everything.
+The attendant might be surprised into thinking this haste suspicious;
+he might consult the entry book and think it unnatural that a piece
+of luggage deposited in the cloak-room a few minutes before twelve,
+should be taken out immediately after. And besides, suppose some
+passer-by, some busy-body, had seen him pick up the bit of paper....
+Bernard forced himself to walk to the Place de la Concorde without
+hurrying--in the time it would have taken another person to lunch.
+It is quite usual, isn’t it, to put one’s luggage in the cloak-room
+whilst one is lunching and to take it out immediately after.... His
+headache had gone. As he was passing by a restaurant terrace, he boldly
+took a toothpick from one of the little bundles that were set out on
+the tables, and stood nibbling it at the cloak-room counter, in order
+to give himself the air of having lunched. He was lucky to have in
+his favour his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his distinction, the
+frankness of his eyes and smile, and that indefinable something in
+the whole appearance which denotes those who have been brought up in
+comfort and want for nothing. (But all this gets rather draggled by
+sleeping on benches.)...
+
+He had a horrible turn when the attendant told him there were ten
+centimes to pay. He had not a single, sou left. What should he do? The
+suit-case was there, on the counter. The slightest sign of hesitation
+would give the alarm--so would his want of money. But the demon is
+watching over him; he slips between Bernard’s anxious fingers, as they
+go searching from pocket to pocket with a pretence of feigned despair,
+a fifty-centime bit, which had lain forgotten since goodness knows
+when in his waistcoat pocket. Bernard hands it to the attendant. He
+has not shown a sign of his agitation. He takes up the suit-case, and
+in the simplest, honestest fashion pockets the forty centimes change.
+Heavens! How hot he is! Where shall he go now? His legs are beginning
+to fail him and the suit-case feels heavy. What shall he do with it?...
+He suddenly remembers that he has no key. No! No! Certainly not! He
+will not break open the lock; what the devil, he isn’t a thief!... But
+if he only knew what was in it. His arm is aching and he is perspiring
+with the heat. He stops for a moment and puts his burden down on the
+pavement. Of course he has every intention of returning the wretched
+thing to its owner; but he would like to question it first. He presses
+the lock at a venture.... Oh miracle! The two shells open and disclose
+a pearl--a pocket-book, which in its turn discloses a bundle of
+bank-notes. Bernard seizes the pearl and shuts up the oyster.
+
+And now that he has the wherewithal--quick! a hotel. He knows of one
+close by in the Rue d’Amsterdam. He is dying of hunger. But before
+sitting down to table, he must put his suit-case in safety. A waiter
+carries it upstairs before him; three flights; a passage; a door which
+he locks upon his treasure. He goes down again.
+
+Sitting at table in front of a beefsteak, Bernard did not dare examine
+the pocket-book. (One never knows who may be watching you.) But his
+left hand amorously caressed it, lying snug in his inside pocket.
+
+“How to make Edouard understand that I’m not a thief--that’s the
+trouble. What kind of fellow is Edouard? Perhaps the suit-case may shed
+a little light upon that. Attractive--so much is certain. But there are
+heaps of attractive fellows who have no taste for practical joking. If
+he thinks his suit-case has been stolen, no doubt he’ll be glad to see
+it again. If he’s the least decent he’ll be grateful to me for bringing
+it back to him. I shall easily rouse his interest. Let’s eat the sweet
+quickly and then go upstairs and examine the situation. Now for the
+bill and a soul-stirring tip for the waiter.”
+
+A minute or two later he was back again in his room.
+
+“Now, suit-case, a word with you!... A morning suit, not more than
+a trifle too big for me, I expect. The material becoming and in good
+taste. Linen; toilet things. I’m not very sure that I shall give any
+of all this back. But what proves that I’m not a thief is that these
+papers interest me a great deal more than anything else. We’ll begin by
+reading this.”
+
+This was the note-book into which Edouard had slipped Laura’s
+melancholy letter. We have already seen the first pages; this is what
+followed.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XI
+
+                  EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: GEORGE MOLINIER
+
+
+_Nov. 1st._--A fortnight ago ...
+
+--it was a mistake not to have noted it down at once. It was not so
+much that I hadn’t time as that my heart was still full of Laura--or,
+to be more accurate, I did not wish to distract my thoughts from
+her; moreover, I do not care to note anything here that is casual or
+fortuitous, and at that time I did not think that what I am going
+to relate could lead to anything, or be, as people say, of any
+consequence; at any rate, I would not admit it to myself and it was,
+in a way, to prove the unimportance of this incident that I refrained
+from mentioning it in my journal. But I feel more and more--it would be
+vain to deny it--that it is Olivier’s figure that has now become the
+magnet of my thoughts, that their current sets towards him and that
+without taking him into account I shall be able neither to explain nor
+to understand myself properly.
+
+I was coming back that morning from Perrin’s, the publisher’s, where
+I had been seeing about the press copies of the fresh edition of my
+old book. As the weather was fine, I was dawdling back along the quays
+until it should be time for lunch.
+
+A little before getting to Vanier’s, I stopped in front of a
+second-hand bookseller’s. It was not so much the books that interested
+me as a small schoolboy, about thirteen years old, who was rummaging
+the outside shelves under the placid eye of a shop assistant, who sat
+watching on a rush-bottomed chair in the door-way. I pretended to be
+examining the bookstall, but I too kept a watch on the youngster out
+of the corner of my eye. He was dressed in a threadbare overcoat, the
+sleeves of which were too short and showed his other sleeves below
+them. Its side pocket was gaping, though it was obviously empty; a
+corner of the stuff had given way. I reflected that this coat must
+have already seen service with several elder brothers and that his
+brothers and he must have been in the habit of stuffing a great many,
+too many, things into their pockets. I reflected too that his mother
+must be either very neglectful or very busy not to have mended it.
+But just then the youngster turned round a little and I saw that the
+pocket on the other side was coarsely darned with stout black thread.
+And I seemed to hear the maternal exhortations: “Don’t put two books
+at a time into your pocket; you’ll ruin your overcoat. Your pocket’s
+all torn again. Next time, I warn you, I shan’t darn it. Just look what
+a sight you are!...” Things which my own poor mother used to say to
+me, too, and to which I paid no more attention than he. The overcoat
+was unbuttoned and my eye was attracted by a kind of decoration, a
+bit of ribbon, or rather a yellow rosette which he was wearing in the
+buttonhole of his inside coat. I put all this down for the sake of
+discipline and for the very reason that it bores me to put it down.
+
+At a certain moment the man on the chair was called into the shop; he
+did not stay more than a second and came back to his chair at once, but
+that second was enough to allow the boy to slip the book he was holding
+into his pocket; then he immediately began scanning the shelves again
+as if nothing had happened. At the same time he was uneasy; he raised
+his head, caught me looking at him and understood that I had seen him.
+At any rate, he said to himself that I might have seen him; he was
+probably not quite certain; but in his uncertainty he lost all his
+assurance, blushed and started a little performance in which he tried
+to appear quite at his ease, but which, on the contrary, showed extreme
+embarrassment. I did not take my eyes off him. He took the purloined
+book out of his pocket, thrust it back again, walked away a few steps,
+pulled out of his inside pocket a wretched little pocket-book, in which
+he pretended to look for some imaginary money; made a face, a kind of
+theatrical grimace, aimed at me, and signifying, “Drat! Not enough!”
+and with a little shade of surprise in it as well, “Odd! I thought I
+had enough!” The whole thing slightly exaggerated, slightly overdone,
+as when an actor is afraid of not being understood. Finally, under the
+pressure of my look, I might almost say, he went back to the shelf,
+pulled the book, this time decidedly, out of his pocket and put it
+back in its place. It was done so naturally that the assistant noticed
+nothing. Then the boy raised his head again, hoping that at last he
+would be rid of me. But not at all; my look was still upon him, like
+the eye that watched Cain--only my eye was a smiling one. I determined
+to speak to him and waited until he should have left the bookstall
+before going up to him; but he didn’t budge and still stood planted in
+front of the books, and I understood that he wouldn’t budge as long as
+I kept gazing at him. So, as at Puss in the Corner, when one tries to
+entice the pretence quarry to change places, I moved a little away as
+if I had seen enough and he started off at once in his own direction;
+but he had no sooner got into the open than I caught him up.
+
+“What was that book?” I asked him out of the blue, at the same time
+putting as much amenity as I could into my voice and expression.
+
+He looked me full in the face and I felt all his suspicions drop from
+him. He was not exactly handsome, perhaps, but what charming eyes he
+had! I saw every kind of feeling wavering in their depths like water
+weeds at the bottom of a stream.
+
+“It’s a guide-book for Algeria. But it’s too dear. I’m not rich enough.”
+
+“How much?”
+
+“Two francs fifty.”
+
+“All the same, if you hadn’t seen me, you’d have made off with the book
+in your pocket.”
+
+The little fellow made a movement of indignation. He expostulated in a
+tone of extreme vulgarity:
+
+“Well, I never! What d’you take me for? A thief?” But he said it with
+such conviction that I almost began to doubt my own eyes. I felt that
+I should lose my hold over him if I went on. I took three coins out of
+my pocket:
+
+“All right! Go and buy it. I’ll wait for you.”
+
+Two minutes later he came back turning over the pages of the coveted
+work. I took it out of his hands. It was an old guide-book of the year
+1871.
+
+“What’s the good of that?” I said as I handed it back to him. “It’s too
+old. It’s of no use.”
+
+He protested that it was--that, besides, recent guide-books were much
+too dear, and that for all he should do with it the maps of this one
+were good enough. I don’t attempt to quote his words, which would lose
+their savour without the extraordinarily vulgar accent with which he
+said them and which was all the more amusing because his sentences were
+not turned without a certain elegance.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+This episode must be very much shortened. Precision in the reader’s
+imagination should be obtained not by accumulating details but by two
+or three touches put in exactly the right places. I expect for that
+matter that it would be a better plan to make the boy tell the story
+himself; his point of view is of more signification than mine. He is
+flattered and at the same time made uncomfortable by the attention I
+pay him. But the weight of my look makes him deviate a little from his
+own real direction. A personality which is over tender and still too
+young to be conscious of itself, takes shelter behind an attitude.
+Nothing is more difficult to observe than creatures in the period of
+formation. One ought to look at them only sideways--in profile.
+
+The youngster suddenly declared that what he liked best was geography!
+I suspected that an instinct for vagabonding was concealed behind this
+liking.
+
+“You’d like to go to those parts?” I asked.
+
+“Wouldn’t I?” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.
+
+The idea crossed my mind that he was unhappy at home. I asked him if he
+lived with his parents. “Yes.” Didn’t he get on with them? He protested
+rather lukewarmly that he did. He seemed afraid that he had given
+himself away by what he had just said. He added:
+
+“Why do you ask that?”
+
+“Oh, for nothing,” I answered, and then, touching the yellow ribbon in
+his buttonhole, “What’s that?”
+
+“It’s a ribbon. Can’t you see?”
+
+My questions evidently annoyed him. He turned towards me abruptly and
+almost vindictively, and in a jeering, insolent voice of which I should
+never have thought him capable and which absolutely turned me sick:
+
+“I say ... do you often go about picking up schoolboys?” Then as I was
+stammering out some kind of a confused answer, he opened the satchel he
+was carrying under his arm to slip his purchase into it. It held his
+lesson books and one or two copy-books, all covered with blue paper. I
+took one out; it was a history note-book. Its small owner had written
+his name on it in large letters. My heart gave a jump as I recognized
+that it was my nephew’s:
+
+
+                           GEORGE MOLINIER.
+
+(Bernard’s heart gave a jump too as he read these lines and the whole
+story began to interest him prodigiously.)
+
+
+It will be difficult to get it accepted that the character who stands
+for me in _The Counterfeiters_ can have kept on good terms with
+his sister and yet not have known her children. I have always had the
+greatest difficulty in tampering with real facts. Even to alter the
+colour of a person’s hair seems to me a piece of cheating which must
+lessen the verisimilitude of the truth. Everything hangs together and
+I always feel such a subtle interdependence between all the facts
+life offers me, that it seems to me impossible to change a single
+one without modifying the whole. And yet I can hardly explain that
+this boy’s mother is only my half-sister by a first marriage of my
+father’s; that I never saw her during the whole time my parents were
+alive; that we were brought into contact by business relating to
+the property they left.... All this is indispensable, however, and I
+don’t see what else I can invent in order to avoid being indiscreet.
+I knew that my half-sister had three sons; I had met the eldest--a
+medical student--but I had caught only a sight even of him, as he has
+been obliged to interrupt his studies on account of a threatening of
+tuberculosis and has gone to some place in the South for treatment.
+The two others were never there when I went to see Pauline; the one
+who was now before me was certainly the youngest. I showed no trace
+of astonishment, but, taking an abrupt leave of young George after
+learning that he was going home to lunch, I jumped into a taxi in order
+to get to Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs before him. I expected that at this
+hour of the morning Pauline would keep me to lunch--which was exactly
+what happened; I had brought away a copy of my book from Perrin’s, and
+made up my mind to present it to her as an excuse for my unexpected
+visit.
+
+It was the first time I had taken a meal at Pauline’s. I was wrong to
+fight shy of my brother-in-law. I can hardly believe that he is a very
+remarkable jurist, but when we are together he has the sense to keep
+off his shop as much as I off mine, so that we get on very well.
+
+Naturally when I got there that morning I did not breathe a word of my
+recent meeting:
+
+“It will give me an opportunity, I hope, of making my nephews’
+acquaintance,” I said, when Pauline asked me to stay to lunch. “For,
+you know, there are two of them I have never met.”
+
+“Olivier will be a little late,” she said; “he has a lesson; we will
+begin lunch without him. But I’ve just heard George come in, I’ll call
+him.” And going to the door of the adjoining room, “George,” she said,
+“come and say ‘how-do-you-do’ to your uncle.”
+
+The boy came up and held out his hand. I kissed him ... children’s
+power of dissembling fills me with amazement--he showed no surprise;
+one would have supposed he did not recognize me. He simply blushed
+deeply; but his mother must have thought it was from shyness. I
+suspected he was embarrassed at this meeting with the morning’s
+‘_tec_,’ for he left us almost immediately and went back to the
+next room--the dining-room, which I understood is used by the boys as a
+schoolroom between meals. He reappeared, however, shortly after, when
+his father came into the room, and took advantage of the moment when
+we were going into the dining-room, to come up to me and seize hold of
+my hand without his parents’ seeing. At first I thought it was a sign
+of good fellowship which amused me, but no! He opened my hand as I was
+clasping his, slipped into it a little note which he had obviously just
+written, then closed my fingers over it and gave them a tight squeeze.
+Needless to say I played up to him; I hid the little note in my pocket
+and it was not till after lunch that I was able to take it out. This is
+what I read:
+
+“_If you tell my parents the story of the book, I shall_” (he had
+crossed out “_detest you_”) “_say that you solicited me_.”
+
+And at the bottom of the page:
+
+“_I come out of school every morning at 10 o’clock._”
+
+
+Interrupted yesterday by a visit from X. His conversation upset me
+considerably.
+
+Have been reflecting a great deal on what X. said. He knows nothing
+about my life, but I gave him a long account of the plan of my
+_Counterfeiters_. His advice is always salutary, because his point
+of view is different from mine. He is afraid that my work may be too
+factitious, that I am in danger of letting go the real subject for the
+shadow of the subject in my brain. What makes me uneasy is to feel that
+life (my life) at this juncture is parting company from my work, and my
+work moving away from my life. But I couldn’t say that to him. Up till
+now--as is right--my tastes, my feelings, my personal experiences have
+all gone to feed my writings; in my best contrived phrases I still felt
+the beating of my heart. But henceforth the link is broken between what
+I think and what I feel. And I wonder whether this impediment which
+prevents my heart from speaking is not the real cause that is driving
+my work into abstraction and artificiality. As I was reflecting on
+this, the meaning of the fable of Apollo and Daphne suddenly flashed
+upon me: happy, thought I, the man who can clasp in one and the same
+embrace the laurel and the object of his love.
+
+I related my meeting with George at such length that I was obliged to
+stop at the moment when Olivier came on the scene. I began this tale
+only to speak of him and I have managed to speak only of George. But
+now that the moment has come to speak of Olivier I understand that it
+was desire to defer that moment which was the cause of all my slowness.
+As soon as I saw him that first day, as soon as he sat down to the
+family meal, at my first look--or rather at _his_ first look--I
+felt that look of his take possession of me wholly, and that my life
+was no longer mine to dispose of.
+
+Pauline presses me to go and see her oftener. She begs me urgently to
+interest myself in her boys. She gives me to understand that their
+father knows very little about them. The more I talk to her, the more
+charming I think her. I cannot understand how I can have been so long
+without seeing more of her. The children have been brought up as
+Catholics; but she remembers her early Protestant training, and though
+she left our father’s home at the time my mother entered it, I discover
+many points of resemblance between her and me. She sends her boys to
+school with Laura’s parents, with whom I myself boarded for so long.
+This school (half a school and half a boarding house) was founded by
+old Monsieur Azai’s (a friend of my father’s) who is still the head of
+it. Though he started life as a pastor, he prides himself on keeping
+his school free from any denominational tendency--in my time there were
+even Turks there.
+
+Pauline says she has good news from the sanatorium where Vincent is
+staying; he has almost completely recovered. She tells me that she
+writes to him about me and that she wishes I knew him better; for I
+have barely seen him. She builds great hopes on her eldest son; the
+family is stinting itself in order to enable him to set up for himself
+shortly--that is, to have rooms of his own where he can receive his
+patients. In the mean time she has managed to set aside a part of
+their small apartment for him, by putting Olivier and George on the
+floor below in a room that happened to be vacant. The great question is
+whether the state of Vincent’s health will oblige him to give up being
+house-physician.
+
+To tell the truth I take very little interest in Vincent, and if I talk
+to his mother about him, it is really to please her and so that we can
+then go on to talk about Olivier at greater length. As for George, he
+fights shy of me, hardly answers when I speak to him, and gives me a
+look of indescribable suspicion when we happen to pass each other. He
+seems unable to forgive me for not having gone to meet him outside the
+_lycée_--or to forgive himself for his advances to me.
+
+I don’t see much of Olivier either. When I visit his mother, I don’t
+dare go into the room where I know he is at work; if I meet him by
+chance, I am so awkward and shy that I find nothing to say to him, and
+that makes me so unhappy that I prefer to call on his mother at the
+times when I know he will be out.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XII
+
+                  EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LAURA’S WEDDING
+
+
+_Nov. 2nd._--Long conversation with Douviers. We met at Laura’s
+parents’, and he left at the same time as I and walked across the
+Luxembourg Gardens with me. He is preparing a thesis on Wordsworth,
+but from the few words he let fall, I feel certain that he misses
+the most characteristic points of Wordsworth’s poetry; he had better
+have chosen Tennyson. There is something or other inadequate about
+Douviers--something abstract and simple-minded and credulous. He always
+takes everything--people and things--for what they set out to be.
+Perhaps because he himself never sets out to be anything but what he is.
+
+“I know,” he said to me, “that you are Laura’s best friend. No doubt I
+ought to be a little jealous of you. But I can’t be. On the contrary
+everything she has told me about you has made me understand her better
+herself and wish to become your friend. I asked her the other day if
+you didn’t bear me too much of a grudge for marrying her. She answered
+on the contrary, that you had advised her to.” (I really think he said
+it just as flatly as that.) “I should like to thank you for it, and I
+hope you won’t think it ridiculous, for I really do so most sincerely,”
+he added, forcing a smile but with a trembling voice and tears in his
+eyes.
+
+I didn’t know what to answer him, for I felt far less moved than I
+should have been, and incapable of reciprocating his effusion. He must
+have thought me a little stony; but he irritated me. Nevertheless I
+pressed his hand as warmly as I could when he held it out to me. These
+scenes, when one of the parties offers more of his heart than the other
+wants, are always painful. No doubt he thought he should capture my
+sympathy. If he had been a little more perspicacious he would have felt
+he was being cheated; but I saw that he was both overcome by gratitude
+for his own nobility and persuaded that he had raised a response to it
+in me. As for me I said nothing, and as my silence perhaps made him
+feel uncomfortable: “I count,” he added, “on her being transplanted
+to Cambridge, to prevent her from making comparisons which might be
+disadvantageous to me.”
+
+What did he mean by that? I did my best not to understand. Perhaps he
+wanted me to protest. But that would only have sunk us deeper into
+the bog. He is one of those shy people who cannot endure silences and
+who think they must fill them by being exaggeratedly forthcoming--the
+people who say to you afterwards, “I have always been open with you.”
+The deuce they have! But the important thing is not so much to be
+open oneself as to allow the other person to be so. He ought to have
+realized that his openness was the very thing that prevented mine.
+
+But if I cannot be a friend of his, at any rate I think he will make
+Laura an excellent husband; for in reality what I am reproaching him
+with are his qualities. We went on to talk of Cambridge, where I have
+promised to pay them a visit.
+
+What absurd need had Laura to talk to him about me?
+
+
+What an admirable thing in women is their need for devotion! The man
+they love is as a rule a kind of clothes-peg on which to hang their
+love. How easily and sincerely Laura has effected the transposition! I
+understand that she should marry Douviers; I was one of the first to
+advise it. But I had the right to hope for a little grief.
+
+
+Some reviews of my book to hand. The qualities which people are the
+most willing to grant me are just the very ones I most detest. Was I
+right to republish this old stuff? It responds to nothing that I care
+for at present. But it is only at present that I see it does not. I
+don’t so much think that I have actually changed, as that I am only
+just beginning to be aware of myself. Up till now I did not know who I
+was. Is it possible that I am always in need of another being to act
+as a plate-developer? This book of mine had crystallized according to
+Laura; and that is why I will not allow it to be my present portrait.
+
+
+An insight, composed of sympathy, which would enable us to be in
+advance of the seasons--is this denied us? What are the problems which
+will exercise the minds of to-morrow? It is for them that I desire
+to write. To provide food for curiosities still unformed, to satisfy
+requirements not yet defined, so that the child of to-day may be
+astonished to-morrow to find me in his path.
+
+
+How glad I am to feel in Olivier so much curiosity, so much impatient
+want of satisfaction with the past....
+
+I sometimes think that poetry is the only thing that interests him. And
+I feel as I re-read our poets through his eyes, how few there are who
+have let themselves be guided by a feeling for art rather than by their
+hearts or minds. The odd thing is that when Oscar Molinier showed me
+some of Olivier’s verses, I advised the boy to let himself be guided by
+the words rather than force them into submission. And now it seems to
+me that it is I who am learning it from him.
+
+How depressingly, tiresomely and ridiculously sensible everything that
+I have hitherto written seems to be to-day!
+
+
+_Nov. 5th._--The wedding ceremony is over. It took place in the
+little chapel in Rue Madame, to which I have not been for a long time
+past. The whole of the Vedel-Azaïs families were present.--Laura’s
+grandfather, father and mother, her two sisters, her young brother,
+besides quantities of uncles, aunts and cousins. The Douviers family
+was represented by three aunts in deep mourning (they would have
+certainly been nuns if they had been Catholics). They all three live
+together, and Douviers, since his parents’ death, has lived with them.
+Azaïs’s pupils sat in the gallery. The rest of the chapel was filled
+with the friends of the family. From my place near the door I saw my
+sister with Olivier. George, I suppose, was in the gallery with his
+schoolfellows. Old La Pérouse was at the harmonium. His face has aged,
+but finer, nobler than ever--though his eye had lost that admirable
+fire and spirit I found so infectious in the days when he used to
+give me piano lessons. Our eyes met and there was so much sadness in
+the smile he gave me that I determined not to let him leave without
+speaking to him. Some persons moved and left an empty place beside
+Pauline. Olivier at once beckoned to me, and pushed his mother aside
+so that I might sit next him; then he took my hand and held it for a
+long time in his. It is the first time he has been so friendly with me.
+He kept his eyes shut during the whole of the minister’s interminable
+address, so that I was able to take a long look at him; he is like the
+sleeping shepherd in a bas-relief in the Naples Museum, of which I have
+a photograph on my writing desk. I should have thought he was asleep
+himself, if it hadn’t been for the quivering of his fingers. His hand
+fluttered in mine like a captured bird.
+
+The old pastor thought it his duty to retrace the whole of the Azaïs
+family history, beginning with the grandfather, with whom he had
+been at school in Strasburg before the war, and who had also been a
+fellow-student of his later on at the faculty of theology. I thought he
+would never get to the end of a complicated sentence in which he tried
+to explain that in becoming the head of a school and devoting himself
+to the education of young children, his friend had, so to speak, never
+left the ministry. Then the next generation had its turn. He went on
+to speak with equal edification of the Douviers family, though he
+didn’t seem to know much about them. The excellence of his sentiments
+palliated the deficiency of his oratory and I heard several members
+of the congregation blowing their noses. I should have liked to know
+what Olivier was thinking; I reflected that as he had been brought up
+a Catholic, the Protestant service must be new to him and that this
+was probably his first visit to the chapel. The singular faculty of
+_depersonalization_ which I possess and which enables me to feel
+other people’s emotions as if they were my own, compelled me, as it
+were, to enter into Olivier’s feelings--those that I imagined him
+to be experiencing; and though he kept his eyes shut, or perhaps for
+that very reason, I felt as if, like him, I were seeing for the first
+time the bare walls, the abstract and chilly light which fell upon the
+congregation, the relentless outline of the pulpit on the background
+of the white wall, the straightness of the lines, the rigidity of the
+columns which support the gallery, the whole spirit of this angular
+and colourless architecture and its repellent want of grace, its
+uncompromising inflexibility, its parsimony. It can only be because
+I have been accustomed to it since childhood, that I have not felt
+all this sooner.... I suddenly found myself thinking of my religious
+awakening and my first fervours; of Laura and the Sunday school where
+we used to meet and of which we were both monitors, of our zeal and
+our inability, in the ardour which consumed all that was impure in us,
+to distinguish the part which belonged to the other and the part that
+was God’s. And then I fell to regretting that Olivier had never known
+this early starvation of the senses which drives the soul so perilously
+far beyond appearances--that his memories were not like mine; but to
+feel him so distant from the whole thing, helped me to escape from it
+myself. I passionately pressed the hand which he had left in mine,
+but which just then he withdrew abruptly. He opened his eyes to look
+at me, and then, with a boyish smile of roguish playfulness, which
+mitigated the extraordinary gravity of his brow, he leant towards me
+and whispered--while just at that moment the minister was reminding all
+Christians of their duties, and lavishing advice, precepts and pious
+exhortations upon the newly married couple:
+
+“I don’t care a damn about any of it. I’m a Catholic.”
+
+Everything about him is attractive to me--and mysterious.
+
+
+At the sacristy door, I came across old La Pérouse. He said, a little
+sadly but without any trace of reproach: “You’ve almost forgotten me, I
+think.”
+
+I mentioned some kind of occupation or other as an excuse for having
+been so long without going to see him and promised to go the day
+after to-morrow. I tried to persuade him to come back with me to the
+reception, which the Azaïses were giving after the ceremony and to
+which I was invited; but he said he was in too sombre a mood and was
+afraid of meeting too many people to whom he ought to speak, and would
+not be able to.
+
+Pauline went away with George and left me with Olivier.
+
+“I trust him to your care,” she said, laughing; but Olivier seemed
+irritated and turned away his face.
+
+He drew me out into the street. “I didn’t know you knew the Azaïses so
+well.”
+
+He was very much surprised when I told him that I had boarded with them
+for two years.
+
+“How could you do that rather than live independently--anywhere else?”
+
+“It was convenient,” I answered vaguely, for I couldn’t say that at
+that time Laura was filling my thoughts and that I would have put up
+with the worst disagreeables for the pleasure of bearing them in her
+company.
+
+“And weren’t you suffocated in such a hole?” Then, as I didn’t answer:
+“For that matter, I can’t think how I bear it myself--nor why in the
+world I am there.... But I’m only a half-boarder. Even that’s too much.”
+
+I explained to him the friendship that had existed between his
+grandfather and the master of the “hole,” and that his mother’s choice
+was no doubt guided by that.
+
+“Oh well,” he went on, “I have no points of comparison; I dare say all
+these cramming places are the same, and, most likely, from what people
+say, the others are worse. I shouldn’t have gone there at all if I
+hadn’t had to make up the time I lost when I was ill. And now, for a
+long time past, I have only gone there for the sake of Armand.”
+
+Then I learnt that this young brother of Laura’s was his schoolfellow.
+I told Olivier that I hardly knew him.
+
+“And yet he’s the most intelligent and the most interesting of the
+family.”
+
+“That’s to say the one who interests you most.”
+
+“No, no, I assure you, he’s very unusual. If you like we’ll go and see
+him in his room. I hope he won’t be afraid to speak before you.”
+
+We had reached the pension.
+
+The Vedel-Azaïses had substituted for the traditional wedding breakfast
+a less costly tea. Pastor Vedel’s reception room and study had been
+thrown open to the guests. Only a few intimate friends were allowed
+into the pastoress’s minute private sitting-room; but in order to
+prevent it from being overrun, the door between it and the reception
+room had been locked--which made Armand answer, when people asked him
+how they could get to his mother: “Through the chimney!”
+
+The place was crowded and the heat suffocating. Except for a few
+“members of the teaching body,” colleagues of Douviers’, the society
+was exclusively Protestant. The odour of Puritanism is peculiar to
+itself. In a meeting of Catholics or Jews, when they let themselves go
+in each other’s company, the emanation is as strong, and perhaps even
+more stifling; but among Catholics you find a self-appreciation, and
+among Jews a self-depreciation, of which Protestants seem to me very
+rarely capable. If Jews’ noses are too long, Protestants’ are bunged
+up; no doubt of it. And I myself, all the time I was plunged in their
+atmosphere, didn’t perceive its peculiar quality--something ineffably
+alpine and paradisaical and foolish.
+
+At one end of the room was a table set out as a buffet; Rachel, Laura’s
+elder sister, and Sarah, her younger, were serving the tea with a few
+of their young lady friends to help them....
+
+As soon as Laura saw me, she drew me into her father’s study, where
+a considerable number of people had already gathered. We took refuge
+in the embrasure of a window, and were able to talk without being
+overheard. In the days gone by, we had written our two names on the
+window frame.
+
+“Come and see. They are still there,” she said. “I don’t think anybody
+has ever noticed them. How old were you then?”
+
+Underneath our names we had written the date. I calculated:
+
+“Twenty-eight.”
+
+“And I was sixteen. Ten years ago.”
+
+The moment was not very suitable for awakening these memories; I tried
+to turn the conversation, while she with a kind of uneasy insistence
+continually brought me back to it; then suddenly, as though she were
+afraid of growing emotional, she asked me if I remembered Strouvilhou?
+
+Strouvilhou in those days was an independent boarder who was a great
+nuisance to her parents. He was supposed to be attending lectures, but
+when he was asked which ones, or what examinations he was studying for,
+he used to answer negligently:
+
+“I vary.”
+
+At first people pretended to take his insolences for jokes, in an
+attempt to make them appear less cutting, and he would himself
+accompany them by a loud laugh; but his laugh soon became more
+sarcastic, and his witticisms more aggressive, and I could never
+understand why or how the pastor could put up with such an individual
+as boarder, unless it were for financial reasons, or because he
+had a feeling that was half affection, half pity, for Strouvilhou,
+and perhaps a vague hope that he might end by persuading--I mean
+converting--him. I couldn’t understand either why Strouvilhou stayed
+on at the pension, when he might so easily have gone elsewhere; for he
+didn’t appear to have any sentimental reason, like me; perhaps it was
+because of the evident pleasure he took in his passages with the poor
+pastor, who defended himself badly and always got the worst of it.
+
+“Do you remember one day when he asked Papa if he kept his coat on
+underneath his gown, when he preached?”
+
+“Yes, indeed. He asked him so insinuatingly that your poor father was
+completely taken in. It was at table. I can remember it all as if....”
+
+“And Papa ingenuously answered that his gown was rather thin and that
+he was afraid of catching cold without his coat.”
+
+“And then Strouvilhou’s air of deep distress! And how he had to be
+pressed before he ended by saying, that of course it was of ‘very
+little importance,’ but that when your father gesticulated in
+preaching, the sleeves of his coat showed underneath his gown and that
+it had rather an unfortunate effect on some of the congregation.”
+
+“And after that, poor Papa preached a whole sermon with his arms glued
+to his sides, so that none of his oratorical effects came off.”
+
+“And the Sunday after that he came home with a bad cold, because he had
+taken his coat off. Oh! and the discussion about the barren fig-tree
+in the Gospel and about trees that don’t bear fruit.... _I’m_ not
+a fruit-tree. What I bear is shade. _Monsieur le Pasteur_, I cast
+you into the shade.’”
+
+“He said that too at table.”
+
+“Of course. He never appeared except at meals.”
+
+“And he said it in such a spiteful way too. It was that that made
+grandfather turn him out. Do you remember how he suddenly rose to his
+feet, though he usually sat all the time with his nose in his plate,
+and pointed to the door with his outstretched arm, and shouted: ‘Leave
+the room!’”
+
+“He looked enormous--terrifying; he was enraged. I really believe
+Strouvilhou was frightened.”
+
+“He flung his napkin on to the table and disappeared. He went off
+without paying us; we never saw him again.”
+
+“I wonder what has become of him.”
+
+“Poor grandfather!” Laura went on rather sadly. “How I admired him that
+day! He’s very fond of you, you know. You ought to go up and pay him a
+little visit in his study. I am sure you would give him a great deal of
+pleasure.”
+
+I write down the whole of this at once, as I know by experience how
+difficult it is to recall the tone of a dialogue after any interval.
+But from that moment I began to listen to Laura less attentively. I had
+just noticed--some way off, it is true--Olivier, whom I had lost sight
+of when Laura drew me into her father’s study. His eyes were shining
+and his face extraordinarily animated. I heard afterwards that Sarah
+had been amusing herself by making him drink six glasses of champagne,
+in succession. Armand was with him, and they were both following Sarah
+and an English girl of the same age as Sarah, who has been boarding
+with the family for over a year--pursuing them from group to group.
+At last Sarah and her friend left the room, and through the open door
+I saw the two boys rush upstairs after them. In my turn, I was on the
+point of leaving the room in response to Laura’s request, when she made
+a movement towards me:
+
+“Wait, Edouard, there’s one thing more ...” and her voice suddenly
+became very grave. “It’ll probably be a long time before we see each
+other again. I should like you to say ... I should like to know whether
+I may still count on you ... as a friend.”
+
+Never did I feel more inclined to embrace her than at that moment--but
+I contented myself with kissing her hand tenderly and impetuously, and
+with murmuring: “Come what come may.” And then, to hide the tears which
+I felt rising to my eyes, I hurried off to find Olivier.
+
+He was sitting on the stairs with Armand, watching for me to come out.
+He was certainly a little tipsy. He got up and pulled me by the arm:
+
+“Come along,” he said. “We’re going to have a cigarette in Sarah’s
+room. She’s expecting you.”
+
+“In a moment. I must first go up and see Monsieur Azaïs. But I shall
+never be able to find the room.”
+
+“Oh, yes. You know it very well. It’s Laura’s old room,” cried Armand.
+“As it was one of the best rooms in the house, it was given to the
+parlour-boarder, but as she doesn’t pay much, she shares it with Sarah.
+They put in two beds for form’s sake--not that there was much need....”
+
+“Don’t listen to him,” said Olivier, laughing and giving him a shove,
+“he’s drunk.”
+
+“And what about you?” answered Armand. “Well then, you’ll come, won’t
+you? We shall expect you.”
+
+I promised to rejoin them.
+
+
+Now that he has cut his hair _en brosse_, old Azaïs doesn’t
+look like Walt Whitman any more. He has handed over the first and
+second floors of the house to his son-in-law. From the windows of his
+study (mahogany, rep and horse-hair furniture) he can look over the
+play-ground and keep an eye on the pupils’ goings and comings.
+
+“You see how spoilt I am,” he said, pointing to a huge bouquet of
+chrysanthemums which was standing on the table, and which a mother of
+one of the pupils--an old friend of the family’s--had just left for
+him. The atmosphere of the room was so austere that it seemed as if any
+flower must wither in it at once. “I have left the party for a moment.
+I’m getting old and all this noisy talk tires me. But these flowers
+will keep me company. They have their own way of talking and tell the
+glory of God better than men” (or some such stuff).
+
+The worthy man has no conception how much he bores his pupils with
+remarks of this kind; he is so sincere in making them, that one hasn’t
+the heart to be ironical. Simple souls like his are certainly the ones
+I find it most difficult to understand. If one is a little less simple
+oneself, one is forced into a kind of pretence; not very honest, but
+what is one to do? It is impossible either to argue or to say what one
+thinks; one can only acquiesce. If one’s opinions are the least bit
+different from his, Azaïs forces one to be hypocritical. When I first
+used to frequent the family, the way in which his grandchildren lied to
+him made me indignant. I soon found myself obliged to follow suit.
+
+Pastor Prosper Vedel is too busy; Madame Vedel, who is rather foolish,
+lives plunged in a religio-poetico day-dream, in which she loses all
+sense of reality; the young people’s moral bringing-up, as well as
+their education, has been taken in hand by their grandfather. Once a
+month at the time when I lived with them, I used to assist at a stormy
+scene of explanations, which would end up by effusive and pathetic
+appeals of this kind:
+
+“Henceforth we will be perfectly frank and open with one another.” (He
+likes using several words to say the same thing--an odd habit, left him
+from the time of his pastorship.) “There shall be no more concealments,
+we won’t keep anything back in the future, will we? Everything is to be
+above board. We shall be able to look each other straight in the face.
+That’s a bargain, isn’t it?”
+
+After which they sank deeper than ever into their bog--he of
+blindness--and the children of deceit.
+
+These remarks were chiefly addressed to a brother of Laura’s, a year
+younger than she; the sap of youth was working in him and he was making
+his first essays of love. (He went out to the colonies and I have
+lost sight of him.) One evening when the old man had been talking in
+this way, I went to speak to him in his study; I tried to make him
+understand that the sincerity which he demanded from his grandson was
+made impossible by his own severity. Azaïs almost lost his temper:
+
+“He has only to do nothing of which he need be ashamed,” he exclaimed
+in a tone of voice which allowed of no reply.
+
+All the same he is an excellent man--a paragon of virtue, and what
+people call a heart of gold; but his judgments are childish. His great
+esteem for me comes from the fact that, as far as he knows, I have no
+mistress. He did not conceal from me that he had hoped to see me marry
+Laura; he is afraid Douviers may not be the right husband for her,
+and he repeated several times: “I am surprised at her choice”; then
+he added, “Still he seems to me an excellent fellow.... What do you
+think?...”
+
+To which I answered, “Certainly.”
+
+The deeper the soul plunges into religious devotion, the more it loses
+all sense of reality, all need, all desire, all love for reality. I
+have observed the same thing in Vedel upon the few occasions that I
+have spoken to him. The dazzling light of their faith blinds them to
+the surrounding world and to their own selves. As for me, who care for
+nothing so much as to see the world and myself clearly, I am amazed at
+the coils of falsehood in which devout persons take delight.
+
+I tried to get Azaïs to speak of Olivier, but he takes more interest in
+George.
+
+“Don’t let him see that you know what I am going to tell you,” he
+began; “for that matter, it’s entirely to his credit. Just fancy! your
+nephew with a few of his schoolfellows has started a kind of little
+society--a little mutual emulation league; the ones who are allowed
+into it must show themselves worthy and furnish proofs of their
+virtue--a kind of children’s Legion of Honour. Isn’t it charming? They
+all wear a little ribbon in their button hole--not very noticeable,
+certainly, but all the same I noticed it. I sent for the boy to my
+study and when I asked him the meaning of this badge, he began by being
+very much embarrassed. The dear little chap thought I was going to
+reprove him. Then with a great deal of confusion and many blushes, he
+told me about the starting of this little club. It’s the kind of thing,
+you see, one must be very careful not to smile at; one might hurt all
+sorts of delicate feelings.... I asked him why he and his friends
+didn’t do it openly, in the light of day? I told him what a wonderful
+power of propaganda, or proselytism, they would have, what fine things
+they might do!... But at that age, one likes mysteries.... To encourage
+his confidence, I told him that in my time--that’s to say, when I was
+his age--I had been a member of a society of the same kind, and that we
+went by the grand name of Knights of Duty; the President of the society
+gave us each a note-book, in which we set down with absolute frankness
+our failures and our shortcomings. He smiled and I could see that the
+story of the note-books had given him an idea; I didn’t insist, but I
+shouldn’t be surprised if he introduced the system of note-books among
+his companions. You see, these children must be taken in the right way;
+and in the first place, they must see that one understands them. I
+promised him not to breathe a word of all this to his parents; though,
+at the same time, I advised him to tell his mother all about it, as it
+would make her so happy. But it seems that the boys had given their
+word of honour to say nothing about it. It would have been a mistake to
+insist. But before he left me we joined together in a prayer for God to
+bless their society.”
+
+Poor, dear old Azaïs! I am convinced the little rascal was pulling his
+leg and that there wasn’t a word of truth in the whole thing. But what
+else could he have said?... I must try and find out what it’s all about.
+
+
+I did not at first recognize Laura’s room. It has been repapered; its
+whole atmosphere is changed. And Sarah too seemed to me unrecognizable.
+Yet I thought I knew her. She has always been exceedingly confidential
+with me. All her life I have been a person to whom one could say
+anything. But I had let a great many months go by without seeing the
+Vedels. Her neck and arms were bare. She seemed taller, bolder. She
+was sitting on one of the two beds beside Olivier and right up against
+him; he was lying down at full length and seemed to be asleep. He was
+certainly drunk; and as certainly I suffered at seeing him so, but I
+thought him more beautiful than ever. In fact they were all four of
+them more or less drunk. The English girl was bursting with laughter
+at Armand’s ridiculous remarks--a shrill laughter which hurt my ears.
+Armand was saying anything that came into his head; he was excited and
+flattered by the girl’s laughter and trying to be as stupid and vulgar
+as she was; he pretended to light his cigarette at the fire of his
+sister’s and Olivier’s flaming cheeks, and to burn his fingers, when
+he had the effrontery to seize their heads and pull them together by
+force. Olivier and Sarah lent themselves to his tomfoolery, and it was
+extremely painful to me. But I am anticipating....
+
+Olivier was still pretending to be asleep when Armand abruptly asked me
+what I thought of Douviers. I had sat down in a low arm-chair, and was
+feeling amused, excited and, at the same time, embarrassed to see their
+tipsiness and their want of restraint; and for that matter, flattered
+too, that they had invited me to join them, when it seemed so evident
+that it was not my place to be there.
+
+“The young ladies here present ...” he continued, as I found nothing to
+answer and contented myself with smiling blandly, so as to appear up to
+the mark. Just then, the English girl tried to prevent him from going
+on and ran after him to put her hand over his mouth. He wriggled away
+from her and called out: “The young ladies are indignant at the idea
+of Laura’s going to bed with him.”
+
+The English girl let go of him and exclaimed in pretended fury:
+
+“Oh, you mustn’t believe what he says. He’s a liar!”
+
+“I have tried to make them understand,” went on Armand, more calmly,
+“that with only twenty thousand francs for a dot, one could hardly look
+for anything better, and that, as a true Christian, she ought first of
+all to take into account his spiritual qualities, as our father the
+pastor would say. Yes, my children. And then, what would happen to the
+population, if nobody was allowed to marry who wasn’t an Adonis ... or
+an Olivier, shall we say? to refer to a more recent period?”
+
+“What an idiot!” murmured Sarah. “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know
+what he is saying.”
+
+“I’m saying the truth.”
+
+I had never heard Armand speak in this way before. I thought him--I
+still think him--a delicate, sensitive nature; his vulgarity seemed to
+me entirely put on--due in part to his being drunk, and still more to
+his desire to amuse the English girl. She was pretty enough, but must
+have been exceedingly silly to take any pleasure in such fooling; what
+kind of interest could Olivier find in all this?... I determined not to
+hide my disgust, as soon as we should be alone.
+
+“But you,” went on Armand, turning suddenly towards me, “you, who don’t
+care about money and who have enough to indulge in fine sentiments,
+will you consent to tell us why you didn’t marry Laura?--when it
+appears you were in love with her, and when, to common knowledge, she
+was pining away for you?”
+
+Olivier, who up to that moment had been pretending to be asleep, opened
+his eyes; they met mine and if I did not blush, it must certainly have
+been that not one of the others was in a fit state to observe me.
+
+“Armand, you’re unbearable,” said Sarah, as though to put me at my
+ease, for I found nothing to answer. She had hitherto been sitting on
+the bed, but at that point she lay down at full length beside Olivier,
+so that their two heads were touching. Upon which, Armand leapt up,
+seized a large screen which was standing folded against the wall, and
+with the antics of a clown spread it out so as to hide the couple;
+then, still clowning, he leant towards me and said without lowering his
+voice:
+
+“Perhaps you didn’t know that my sister was a whore?”
+
+It was too much. I got up and pushed the screen roughly aside. Olivier
+and Sarah immediately sat up. Her hair had come down. Olivier rose,
+went to the washhand stand and bathed his face.
+
+“Come here,” said Sarah, taking me by the arm, “I want to show you
+something.”
+
+She opened the door of the room and drew me out on to the landing.
+
+“I thought it might be interesting to a novelist. It’s a note-book I
+found accidentally--Papa’s private diary. I can’t think how he came to
+leave it lying about. Anybody might have read it. I took it to prevent
+Armand from seeing it. Don’t tell him about it. It’s not very long. You
+can read it in ten minutes and give it back to me before you go.”
+
+“But, Sarah,” said I, looking at her fixedly, “it’s most frightfully
+indiscreet.”
+
+She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, if that’s what you think, you’ll be
+disappointed. There’s only one place in which it gets interesting--and
+even that--Look here; I’ll show it you.”
+
+She had taken out of her bodice a very small memorandum book, about
+four years old. She turned over its pages for a moment, and then gave
+it to me, pointing to a passage as she did so.
+
+“Read it quickly.”
+
+Under the date and in quotation marks, I first of all saw the Scripture
+text: “He who is faithful in small things will be faithful also in
+great.” Then followed: “Why do I always put off till to-morrow my
+resolution to stop smoking? If only not to grieve Mélanie” (the
+pastor’s wife). “Oh, Lord! give me strength to shake off the yoke of
+this shameful slavery.” (I quote it, I think exactly.) Then came notes
+of struggles, beseeching, prayers, efforts--which were evidently all
+in vain, as they were repeated day after day. Then I turned another
+page and there was no more mention of the subject.
+
+“Rather touching, isn’t it?” asked Sarah with the faintest touch of
+irony, when I had done reading.
+
+“It’s much odder than you think,” I couldn’t help saying, though I
+reproached myself for it. “Just think, I asked your father only ten
+days ago if he had ever tried to give up smoking. I thought I was
+smoking a good deal too much myself and.... Anyway, do you know what
+he answered? First of all he said that the evil effects of tobacco
+were very much exaggerated, and that as far as he was concerned he had
+never felt any; and as I insisted: ‘Yes,’ said he, at last. ‘I have
+made up my mind once or twice to give it up for a time.’ ‘And did you
+succeed?’ ‘Naturally,’ he answered, as if it followed as a matter of
+course--‘since I made up my mind to.’--It’s extraordinary! Perhaps,
+after all, he didn’t remember,” I added, not wishing to let Sarah see
+the depths of hypocrisy I suspected.
+
+“Or perhaps,” rejoined Sarah, “it proves that ‘smoking’ stood for
+something else.”
+
+Was it really Sarah who spoke in this way? I was struck dumb. I looked
+at her, hardly daring to understand.... At that moment Olivier came out
+of the room. He had combed his hair, arranged his collar and seemed
+calmer.
+
+“Suppose we go,” he said, paying no attention to Sarah, “it’s late.”
+
+“I am afraid you may mistake me,” he said, as soon as we were in the
+street. “You might think that I’m in love with Sarah. But I’m not....
+Oh! I don’t detest her ... only I don’t love her.”
+
+I had taken his arm and pressed it without speaking.
+
+“You mustn’t judge Armand either from what he said to-day,” he went on.
+“It’s a kind of part he acts ... in spite of himself. In reality he’s
+not in the least like that.... I can’t explain. He has a kind of desire
+to spoil everything he most cares for. He hasn’t been like that long.
+I think he’s very unhappy and that he jokes in order to hide it. He’s
+very proud. His parents don’t understand him at all. They wanted to
+make a pastor of him.”
+
+ Memo.--Motto for a chapter of _The Counterfeiters_:
+
+               “_La famille ... cette cellule sociale._”
+
+                       PAUL BOURGET (_passim_).
+
+ Title of the chapter: THE CELLULAR SYSTEM.
+
+True, there exists no prison (intellectual, that is) from which a
+vigorous mind cannot escape; and nothing that incites to rebellion is
+definitively dangerous--although rebellion may in certain cases distort
+a character--driving it in upon itself, turning it to contradiction and
+stubbornness, and impiously prompting it to deceit; moreover the child
+who resists the influence of his family, wears out the first freshness
+of his energy in the attempt to free himself. But also the education
+which thwarts a child strengthens him by the very fact of hampering.
+The most lamentable victims of all are the victims of adulation. What
+force of character is needed to detest the things that flatter us!
+How many parents I have seen (the mother in especial) who delight
+in encouraging their children’s silliest repugnances, their most
+unjust prejudices, their failures to understand, their unreasonable
+antipathies.... At table: “You’d better leave that; can’t you see, it’s
+a bit of fat? Don’t eat that skin. That’s not cooked enough....” Out of
+doors, at night: “Oh, a bat!... Cover your head quickly; it’ll get into
+your hair.” Etc., etc.... According to them, beetles bite, grasshoppers
+sting, earthworms give spots ... and such-like absurdities in every
+domain, intellectual, moral, etc.
+
+In the suburban train the day before yesterday, as I was coming back
+from Auteuil, I heard a young mother whispering to a little girl of
+ten, whom she was petting:
+
+“You and me, darling, me and you--the others may go hang!”
+
+(Oh, yes! I knew they were working people, but the people too have a
+right to our indignation. The husband was sitting in the corner of the
+carriage reading the paper--quiet, resigned, not even a cuckold, I dare
+say.)
+
+Is it possible to conceive a more insidious poison?
+
+It is to bastards that the future belongs. How full of meaning is the
+expression “a natural child”! The bastard alone has the right to be
+natural.
+
+
+Family egoism ... hardly less hideous than personal egoism.
+
+
+_Nov. 6th._--I have never been able to invent anything. But I
+set myself in front of reality like a painter, who should say to his
+model: “Take up such and such an attitude; put on such and such an
+expression.” I can make the models which society furnishes me act as I
+please, if I am acquainted with their springs; or at any rate I can put
+such and such problems before them to solve in their own way, so that
+I learn my lesson from their reactions. It is my novelist’s instinct
+that is constantly pricking me on to intervene--to influence the course
+of their destiny. If I had more imagination, I should be able to spin
+invention intrigues; as it is, I provoke them, observe the actors, and
+then work at their dictation.
+
+_Nov. 7th._--Nothing that I wrote yesterday is true. Only this
+remains--that reality interests me inasmuch as it is plastic, and that
+I care more--infinitely more--for what may be than for what has been.
+I lean with a fearful attraction over the depths of each creature’s
+possibilities and weep for all that lies atrophied under the heavy lid
+of custom and morality.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Here Bernard was obliged to pause. His eyes were blurred. He was
+gasping as if the eagerness with which he read had made him forget
+to breathe. He opened the window and filled his lungs before taking
+another plunge. His friendship for Olivier was no doubt very great;
+he had no better friend and there was no one in the world he loved so
+much, now that he could no longer love his parents; and indeed he clung
+to this affection in a manner that was almost excessive; but Olivier
+and he did not understand friendship quite in the same way. Bernard,
+as he progressed in his reading, felt with more and more astonishment
+and admiration, though with a little pain too, what diversity this
+friend he thought he knew so well, was capable of showing. Olivier
+had never told him anything of what the journal recounted. He hardly
+knew of the existence of Armand and Sarah. How different Olivier was
+with them to what he was with him!... In that room of Sarah’s, on that
+bed, would Bernard have recognized his friend? There mingled with the
+immense curiosity which drove him on to read so precipitately, a queer
+feeling of discomfort--disgust or pique. He had felt a little of this
+pique a moment before, when he had seen Olivier on Edouard’s arm--pique
+at being out of it. This kind of pique may lead very far and may make
+one commit all sorts of follies--like every kind of pique for that
+matter.
+
+Well, we must go on. All this that I have been saying is only to put a
+little air between the pages of this journal. Now that Bernard has got
+his breath back again, we will return to it. He dives once more into
+its pages.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XIII
+
+             EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: FIRST VISIT TO LA PÉROUSE
+
+                               _On tire peu de service des vieillards._
+
+                                                          VAUVENARGUES.
+
+
+_Nov. 8th._--Old Monsieur and Madame de la Pérouse have changed
+houses again. Their new apartment, which I had never seen so far, is
+an _entresol_ in the part of the Faubourg St. Honoré which makes
+a little recess before it cuts across the Boulevard Haussmann. I rang
+the bell. La Pérouse opened the door. He was in his shirt sleeves and
+was wearing a sort of yellowish whitish night-cap on his head, which
+I finally made out to be an old stocking (Madame de La Pérouse’s no
+doubt) tied in a knot, so that the foot dangled on his cheek like a
+tassel. He was holding a bent poker in his hand. I had evidently caught
+him at some domestic job, and as he seemed rather confused:
+
+“Would you like me to come back later?” I asked.
+
+“No, no.... Come in here.” And he pushed me into a long, narrow room
+with two windows looking on to the street, just on a level with the
+street lamp. “I was expecting a pupil at this very moment” (it was six
+o’clock); “but she has telegraphed to say she can’t come. I am so glad
+to see you.”
+
+He laid his poker down on a small table, and, as though apologizing for
+his appearance:
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse’s maid-servant has let the stove go out. She only
+comes in the morning; I’ve been obliged to empty it.”
+
+“Shall I help you light it?”
+
+“No, no; it’s dirty work.... Will you excuse me while I go and put my
+coat on?”
+
+He trotted out of the room and came back almost immediately dressed in
+an alpaca coat, with its buttons torn off, its elbows in holes, and its
+general appearance so threadbare, that one wouldn’t have dared give it
+to a beggar. We sat down.
+
+“You think I’m changed, don’t you?”
+
+I wanted to protest, but could hardly find anything to say, I was so
+painfully affected by the harassed expression of his face, which had
+once been so beautiful. He went on:
+
+“Yes, I’ve grown very old lately. I’m beginning to lose my memory. When
+I want to go over one of Bach’s fugues, I am obliged to refer to the
+book....”
+
+“There are many young people who would be glad to have a memory like
+yours.”
+
+He replied with a shrug: “Oh, it’s not only my memory that’s failing.
+For instance, I think I still walk pretty quickly; but all the same
+everybody in the street passes me.”
+
+“Oh,” said I, “people walk much quicker nowadays.”
+
+“Yes, don’t they?... It’s the same with my lessons--my pupils think
+that my teaching keeps them back; they want to go quicker than I do.
+I’m losing them.... Everyone’s in a hurry nowadays.”
+
+He added in a whisper so low that I could hardly hear him: “I’ve
+scarcely any left.”
+
+I felt that he was in such great distress that I didn’t dare question
+him.
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse won’t understand. She says I don’t set about it
+in the right way--that I don’t do anything to keep them and still less
+to get new ones.”
+
+“The pupil you were expecting just now....” I asked awkwardly.
+
+“Oh, she! I’m preparing her for the Conservatoire. She comes here to
+practise every day.”
+
+“Which means she doesn’t pay you.”
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse is always reproaching me with it. She can’t
+understand that those are the only lessons that interest me; yes, the
+only lessons I really care about ... giving. I have taken to reflecting
+a great deal lately. Here! there’s something I should like to ask you.
+Why is it there is so little about old people in books?... I suppose
+it’s because old people aren’t able to write themselves and young
+ones don’t take any interest in them. No one’s interested in an old
+man.... And yet there are a great many curious things that might be
+said about them. For instance: there are certain acts in my past life
+which I’m only just beginning to understand. Yes, I’m just beginning
+to understand that they haven’t at all the meaning I attached to them
+in the old days when I did them.... I’ve only just begun to understand
+that I have been a dupe during the whole of my life. Madame de La
+Pérouse has fooled me; my son has fooled me; everybody has fooled me;
+God has fooled me....”
+
+The evening was closing in. I could hardly make out my old master’s
+features; but suddenly the light of the street lamp flashed out and
+showed me his cheeks glittering with tears. I looked anxiously at first
+at an odd mark on his temple, like a dint, like a hole; but as he moved
+a little, the spot changed places and I saw that it was only a shadow
+cast by a knob of the balustrade. I put my hand on his scraggy arm; he
+shivered.
+
+“You’ll catch cold,” I said. “Really, shan’t we light the fire?... Come
+along.”
+
+“No, no; one must harden oneself.”
+
+“What? Stoicism?”
+
+“Yes, a little. It’s because my throat was delicate that I never would
+wear a scarf. I have always struggled with myself.”
+
+“That’s all very well as long as one is victorious; but if one’s body
+gives way....”
+
+“That would be the real victory.”
+
+He let go my hand and went on: “I was afraid you would go away without
+coming to see me.”
+
+“Go where?” I asked.
+
+“I don’t know. You travel so much. There’s something I wanted to say to
+you.... I expect to be going away myself soon.”
+
+“What! are you thinking of travelling?” I asked clumsily, pretending
+not to understand him, notwithstanding the mysterious solemnity of his
+voice. He shook his head.
+
+“You know very well what I mean.... Yes, yes. I know it will soon be
+time. I am beginning to earn less than my keep; and I can’t endure it.
+There’s a certain point beyond which I have promised myself not to go.”
+
+He spoke in an emotional tone which alarmed me.
+
+“Do you think it is wrong? I have never been able to understand why it
+was forbidden by religion. I have reflected a great deal latterly. When
+I was young, I led a very austere life; I used to congratulate myself
+on my force of character every time I refused a solicitation in the
+street. I didn’t understand, that when I thought I was freeing myself,
+in reality I was becoming more and more the slave of my own pride.
+Every one of these triumphs over myself was another turn of the key in
+the door of my prison. That’s what I meant just now by saying that God
+had fooled me. He made me take my pride for virtue. He was laughing at
+me. It amuses him. I think he plays with us as a cat does with a mouse.
+He sends us temptations which he knows we shan’t be able to resist; but
+when we do resist he revenges himself still worse. Why does he hate us
+so? And why.... But I’m boring you with these old man’s questions.”
+
+He took his head in his hands like a moping child and remained
+silent so long that I began to wonder whether he had not forgotten
+my presence. I sat motionless in front of him, afraid of disturbing
+his meditations. Notwithstanding the noise of the street which was
+so close, the calm of the little room seemed to me extraordinary,
+and notwithstanding the glimmer of the street lamp, which shed its
+fantastic light upon us from down below, like footlights at the
+theatre, the shadow on each side of the window seemed to broaden, and
+the darkness round us to thicken, as in icy weather the water of a
+quiet pool thickens into immobility--till my heart itself thickened
+into ice too. At last, shaking myself free from the clutch that held
+me, I breathed loudly and, preparatory to taking my leave, I asked out
+of politeness and in order to break the spell:
+
+“How is Madame de La Pérouse?”
+
+The old man seemed to wake up out of a dream. He repeated:
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse...?” interrogatively, as if the words were
+syllables which had lost all meaning for him; then he suddenly leant
+towards me:
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse is in a terrible state ... most painful to me.”
+
+“What kind of state?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, no kind,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, as if there were
+nothing to explain. “She is completely out of her mind. She doesn’t
+know what to be up to next.”
+
+I had long suspected that the old couple were in profound disagreement,
+but without any hope of knowing anything more definite.
+
+“My poor friend,” I said pityingly, “and since when?”
+
+He reflected a moment, as if he had not understood my question.
+
+“Oh, for a long time ... ever since I’ve known her.” Then, correcting
+himself almost immediately: “No; in reality it was over my son’s
+bringing up that things went wrong.”
+
+I made a gesture of surprise, for I had always thought that the La
+Pérouses had no children. He raised his head, which he had been holding
+in his hands, and went on more calmly:
+
+“I never mentioned my son to you, eh?... Well, I’ll tell you
+everything. You must know all about it now. There’s no one else I can
+tell.... Yes, it was over my son’s bringing up. As you see, it’s a long
+time ago. The first years of our married life had been delightful. I
+was very pure when I married Madame de La Pérouse. I loved her with
+innocence ... yes, that’s the best word for it, and I refused to allow
+that she had any faults. But we hadn’t the same ideas about bringing
+up children. Every time that I wanted to reprove my son, Madame de
+La Pérouse took his side against me; according to her, he was to be
+allowed to do anything he liked. They were in league together against
+me. She taught him to lie.... When he was barely twenty he took a
+mistress. She was a pupil of mine--a Russian girl, with a great talent
+for music, to whom I was very much attached. Madame de La Pérouse knew
+all about it; but of course, as usual, everything was kept from me. And
+of course I didn’t notice she was going to have a baby. Not a thing--I
+tell you; I never suspected a thing. One fine day, I am informed that
+my pupil is unwell, that she won’t be able to come for some time. When
+I speak about going to see her, I am told that she has changed her
+address--that she is travelling.... It was not till long after that I
+learnt that she had gone to Poland for her confinement. My son joined
+her there.... They lived together for several years, but he died before
+marrying her.”
+
+“And ... she? did you ever see her again?”
+
+He seemed to be butting with his head against some obstacle:
+
+“I couldn’t forgive her for deceiving me. Madame de La Pérouse still
+corresponds with her. When I learnt she was in great poverty, I sent
+her some money for the child’s sake. But Madame de La Pérouse knows
+nothing about that. No more does she ... she doesn’t know the money
+came from me.”
+
+“And your grandson?”
+
+A strange smile flitted over his face; he got up.
+
+“Wait a moment. I’ll show you his photograph.” And again he trotted
+quickly out of the room, poking his head out in front of him. When he
+came back, his fingers trembled as he looked for the picture in a large
+letter-case. He held it towards me and, bending forward, whispered in a
+low voice:
+
+“I took it from Madame de La Pérouse without her noticing. She thinks
+she has lost it.”
+
+“How old is he?” I asked.
+
+“Thirteen. He looks older, doesn’t he? He is very delicate.”
+
+His eyes filled with tears once more; he held out his hand for the
+photograph, as if he were anxious to get it back again as quickly as
+possible. I leant forward to look at it in the dim light of the street
+lamp; I thought the child was like him; I recognized old La Pérouse’s
+high, prominent forehead and dreamy eyes. I thought I should please him
+by saying so; he protested:
+
+“No, no; it’s my brother he’s like--a brother I lost....”
+
+The child was oddly dressed in a Russian embroidered blouse.
+
+“Where does he live?”
+
+“How can I tell?” cried La Pérouse, in a kind of despair. “They keep
+everything from me, I tell you.”
+
+He had taken the photograph, and after having looked at it a moment, he
+put it back in the letter-case, which he slipped into his pocket.
+
+“When his mother comes to Paris, she only sees Madame de La Pérouse; if
+I question her, she always answers: ‘You had better ask her yourself.’
+She says that, but at heart she would hate me to see her. She has
+always been jealous. She has always tried to take away everything I
+care for.... Little Boris is being educated in Poland--at Warsaw,
+I believe. But he often travels with his mother.” Then, in great
+excitement: “Oh, would you have thought it possible to love someone
+one has never seen?... Well, this child is what I care for most in the
+world.... And he doesn’t know!”
+
+His words were broken by great sobs. He rose from his chair and threw
+himself--fell almost--into my arms. I would have done anything to give
+him some comfort--but what could I do? I got up, for I felt his poor
+shrunken form slipping to the ground and I thought he was going to fall
+on his knees. I held him up, embraced him, rocked him like a child. He
+mastered himself. Madame de La Pérouse was calling in the next room.
+
+“She’s coming.... You don’t want to see her, do you?... Besides, she’s
+stone deaf. Go quickly.” And as he saw me out on to the landing:
+
+“Don’t be too long without coming again.” (There was entreaty in his
+voice.) “Good-bye; good-bye.”
+
+
+_Nov. 9th._--There is a kind of tragedy, it seems to me, which has
+hitherto almost entirely eluded literature. The novel has dealt with
+the contrariness of fate, good or evil fortune, social relationships,
+the conflicts of passions and of characters--but not with the very
+essence of man’s being.
+
+And yet, the whole effect of Christianity was to transfer the drama
+on to the moral plane. But properly speaking there are no Christian
+novels. There are novels whose purpose is edification; but that has
+nothing to do with what I mean. Moral tragedy--the tragedy, for
+instance, which gives such terrific meaning to the Gospel text: “If the
+salt have lost his flavour wherewith shall it be salted?”--that is the
+tragedy with which I am concerned.
+
+
+_Nov. 10th._--Olivier’s examination is coming on shortly. Pauline
+wants him to try for the _École Normale_ afterwards. His career is
+all mapped out.... If only he had no parents, no connections! I would
+have made him my secretary. But the thought of me never occurs to him;
+he has not even noticed my interest in him, and I should embarrass him
+if I showed it. It is because I don’t want to embarrass him that I
+affect a kind of indifference in his presence, a kind of detachment.
+It is only when he does not see me that I dare look my full at him.
+Sometimes I follow him in the street without his knowing it. Yesterday
+I was walking behind him in this way, when he turned suddenly round
+before I had time to hide.
+
+“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” I asked him.
+
+“Oh, nowhere particular. I always seem most in a hurry when I have
+nothing to do.”
+
+We took a few steps together, but without finding anything to say to
+each other. He was certainly put out at having been met.
+
+
+_Nov. 12th._--He has parents, an elder brother, school friends....
+I keep repeating this to myself all day long--and that there is no room
+for me. I should no doubt be able to make up anything that might be
+lacking to him, but nothing is. He needs nothing; and if his sweetness
+delights me, there is nothing in it that allows me for a moment to
+deceive myself.... Oh, foolish words, which I write in spite of myself
+and which discover the duplicity of my heart.... I am leaving for
+London to-morrow. I have suddenly made up my mind to go away. It is
+time.
+
+To go away because one is too anxious to stay!... A certain love of the
+arduous--a horror of indulgence (towards oneself, I mean) is perhaps
+the part of my Puritan up-bringing which I find it hardest to free
+myself from.
+
+Yesterday, at Smith’s, bought a copy-book (English already) in which
+to continue my diary. I will write nothing more in this one. A new
+copy-book!...
+
+Ah! if it were myself I could leave behind!
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIV
+
+                           BERNARD AND LAURA
+
+    _Il arrive quelquefois des accidents dans la vie, d’où il faut être
+                                        un peu fou pour se bien tirer._
+
+                                                      LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
+
+
+IT WAS with Laura’s letter, which Edouard had inserted into his
+journal, that Bernard’s reading came to an end. The truth flashed upon
+him; it was impossible to doubt that the woman whose words rang so
+beseechingly in this letter was the same despairing creature of whom
+Olivier had told him the night before--Vincent Molinier’s discarded
+mistress. And it became suddenly evident to Bernard that, thanks to
+this two-fold confidence, Olivier’s, and Edouard’s in his journal, he
+was as yet the only one to know the two sides of the intrigue. It was
+an advantage he could not keep long; he must play his cards quickly
+and skilfully. He made up his mind at once. Without forgetting, for
+that matter, any of the other things he had read, Bernard now fixed his
+attention upon Laura.
+
+“This morning I was still uncertain as to what I ought to do; now I
+have no longer any doubt,” he said to himself, as he darted out of the
+room. “The imperative, as they say, is categorical. I must save Laura.
+It was not perhaps my duty to take the suit-case, but having taken it,
+I have certainly found in the suit-case a lively sense of my duty.
+The important thing is to come upon Laura before Edouard can get to
+her; to introduce myself and offer my services in such a way that she
+cannot take me for a swindler. The rest will be easy. At this moment
+I have enough in my pocket-book to come to the rescue of misfortune
+as magnificently as the most generous and the most compassionate of
+Edouards. The only thing which bothers me is how to do it. For Laura
+is a Vedel, and though she is about to become a mother in defiance of
+the code, she is no doubt a sensitive creature. I imagine her the kind
+of woman who stands on her dignity and flings her contempt in your
+face, as she tears up the bank-notes you offer her--with benevolence,
+but in too flimsy an envelope. How shall I present the notes? How
+shall I present _myself_? That’s the rub! As soon as one leaves
+the high road of legality, in what a tangle one finds oneself! I
+really am rather young to mix myself up in an intrigue as stiff as
+this. But, hang it all, youth’s my strong point. Let’s invent a candid
+confession--a touching and interesting story. The trouble is that it’s
+got to do for Edouard as well; the same one--and without giving myself
+away. Oh! I shall think of something. Let’s trust to the inspiration of
+the moment....”
+
+He had reached the address given by Laura, in the Rue de Beaune. The
+hotel was exceedingly modest, but clean and respectable looking.
+Following the porter’s directions, he went up three floors. Outside
+the door of No. 16 he stopped, tried to prepare his entry, to find
+some words; he could think of nothing; then he made a dash for it and
+knocked. A gentle, sister-like voice, with, he thought, a touch of fear
+in it, answered:
+
+“Come in!”
+
+
+Laura was very simply dressed, all in black; she looked as if she
+were in mourning. During the few days she had been in Paris, she had
+been vaguely waiting for something or somebody to get her out of her
+straits. She had taken the wrong road, not a doubt of it; she felt
+completely lost. She had the unfortunate habit of counting on the event
+rather than on herself. She was not without virtue, but now that she
+had been abandoned she felt that all her strength had left her. At
+Bernard’s entrance, she raised one hand to her face, like someone who
+keeps back a cry or shades his eyes from too bright a light. She was
+standing, and took a step backwards; then, finding herself close to
+the window, with her other hand she caught hold of the curtain.
+
+Bernard stopped, waiting for her to question him; but she too waited
+for him to speak. He looked at her; with a beating heart, he tried in
+vain to smile.
+
+“Excuse me, Madame,” he said at last, “for disturbing you in this
+manner. Edouard X., whom I believe you know, arrived in Paris this
+morning. I have something urgent to say to him; I thought you might
+be able to give me his address and ... forgive me for coming so
+unceremoniously to ask for it.”
+
+Had Bernard not been so young, Laura would doubtless have been
+frightened. But he was still a child, with eyes so frank, so clear a
+brow, so timid a bearing, a voice so ill-assured, that fear yielded to
+curiosity, to interest, to that irresistible sympathy which a simple
+and beautiful being always arouses. Bernard’s voice gathered a little
+courage as he spoke.
+
+“But I don’t know his address,” said Laura. “If he is in Paris, he will
+come to see me without delay, I hope. Tell me who you are. I will tell
+him.”
+
+“Now’s the moment to risk everything,” thought Bernard. Something wild
+flashed across his eyes. He looked Laura steadily in the face.
+
+“Who I am?... Olivier Molinier’s friend....” He hesitated, still
+uncertain; but seeing her turn pale at this name, he ventured further:
+“Olivier, Vincent’s brother--the brother of your lover, who has so
+vilely abandoned you....”
+
+He had to stop. Laura was tottering. Her two hands, flung backwards,
+were anxiously searching for some support. But what upset Bernard
+more than anything was the moan she gave--a kind of wail which was
+scarcely human, more like that of some hunted, wounded animal (and the
+sportsman, suddenly filled with shame, feels himself an executioner);
+so odd a cry it was, so different from anything that Bernard expected,
+that he shuddered. He understood all of a sudden that this was a matter
+of real life, of veritable pain, and everything he had felt up till
+that moment seemed to him mere show and pretence. An emotion surged
+up in him so unfamiliar that he was unable to master it. It rose to
+his throat.... What! is he sobbing? Is it possible?... He, Bernard!...
+He rushes forward to hold her up, and kneels before her, and murmurs
+through his sobs:
+
+“Oh, forgive me ... forgive; I have hurt you.... I knew that you were
+in difficulties, and ... I wanted to help you.”
+
+But Laura, gasping for breath, felt that she was fainting. She cast
+round with her eyes for somewhere to sit down. Bernard, whose gaze
+was fixed upon her, understood her look. He sprang towards a small
+arm-chair at the foot of the bed, with a rapid movement pushed it
+towards her, and she dropped heavily into it.
+
+At this moment there occurred a grotesque incident which I hesitate to
+relate, but it was decisive of Laura’s and Bernard’s relationship, by
+unexpectedly relieving them of their embarrassment. I shall therefore
+not attempt to embellish the scene by any artifices.
+
+For the price which Laura paid for her room (I mean, which the
+hotel-keeper asked her) one could not have expected the furniture to
+be elegant, but one might have hoped it would be solid. Now the small
+arm-chair, which Bernard pushed towards Laura, was somewhat unsteady on
+its feet; that is to say, it had a great propensity to fold back one
+of its legs, as a bird does under its wing--which is natural enough
+in a bird, but unusual and regrettable in an arm-chair; this one,
+moreover, hid its infirmity as best it could beneath a thick fringe.
+Laura was well acquainted with her arm-chair, and knew that it must be
+handled with extreme precaution; but in her agitation she forgot this
+and only remembered it when she felt the chair giving way beneath her.
+She suddenly gave a little cry--quite different from the long moan she
+had uttered just before, slipped to one side, and a moment later found
+herself sitting on the floor, between the arms of Bernard, who had
+hurried to the rescue. Bashful, but amused, he had been obliged to put
+one knee on the ground. Laura’s face therefore happened to be quite
+close to his; he watched her blush. She made an effort to get up; he
+helped her.
+
+“You’ve not hurt yourself?”
+
+“No; thanks to you. This arm-chair is ridiculous; it has been mended
+once already.... I think if the leg is put quite straight, it will
+hold.”
+
+“I’ll arrange it,” said Bernard. “There!... Will you try it?” Then,
+thinking better of it: “No; allow me. It would be safer for me to try
+it first. Look! It’s all right now. I can move my legs” (which he did,
+laughing). Then, as he rose: “Sit down now, and if you’ll allow me
+to stay a moment or two longer, I’ll take this chair. I’ll sit near
+you, so that I shall be able to prevent you from falling. Don’t be
+frightened.... I wish I could do more for you.”
+
+There was so much ardour in his voice, so much reserve in his manners,
+and in his movements so much grace, that Laura could not forbear a
+smile.
+
+“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
+
+“Bernard.”
+
+“Yes. But your family name?”
+
+“I have no family.”
+
+“Well, your parents’ name.”
+
+“I have no parents. That is, I am what the child you are expecting will
+be--a bastard.”
+
+The smile vanished from Laura’s face; she was outraged by this
+insistent determination to force an entrance into her intimacy and to
+violate the secret of her life.
+
+“But how do you know?... Who told you?... You have no right to know....”
+
+Bernard was launched now; he spoke loudly and boldly:
+
+“I know both what my friend Olivier knows and what your friend Edouard
+knows. Only each of them as yet knows only half your secret. I am
+probably the only person besides yourself to know the whole of it....
+So you see,” he added more gently, “it’s essential that I should be
+your friend.”
+
+“Oh, how can people be so indiscreet?” murmured Laura sadly. “But
+... if you haven’t seen Edouard, he can’t have spoken to you. Has he
+written to you?... Is it he who has sent you?”...
+
+Bernard had given himself away; he had spoken too quickly and had not
+been able to resist bragging a little. He shook his head. Laura’s face
+grew still darker. At that moment a knock was heard at the door.
+
+Whether they will or no, a link is created between two creatures who
+experience a common emotion. Bernard felt himself trapped; Laura was
+vexed at being surprised in company. They looked at each other like two
+accomplices. Another knock was heard. Both together said:
+
+“Come in.”
+
+
+For some minutes Edouard had been listening outside the door,
+astonished at hearing voices in Laura’s room. Bernard’s last sentences
+had explained everything. He could not doubt their meaning; he could
+not doubt that the speaker was the stealer of his suit-case. His mind
+was immediately made up. For Edouard is one of those beings whose
+faculties, which seem benumbed in the ordinary routine of daily life,
+spring into activity at the call of the unexpected. He opened the
+door therefore, but remained on the threshold, smiling and looking
+alternately at Laura and Bernard, who had both risen.
+
+“Allow me, my dear Laura,” said he, with a gesture as though to put
+off any effusions till later. “I must first say a word or two to this
+gentleman, if he will be so good as to step into the passage for a
+moment.”
+
+His smile became more ironical when Bernard joined him.
+
+“I thought I should find you here.”
+
+Bernard understood that the game was up. There was nothing for him to
+do but to put a bold face on it, which he did with the feeling that he
+was playing his last card:
+
+“I hoped I should meet you.”
+
+“In the first place--if you haven’t done so already (for I’ll do you
+the credit of believing that that is what you came for), you will go
+downstairs to the bureau and settle Madame Douviers’ bill with the
+money you found in my suit-case and which you must have on you. Don’t
+come up again for ten minutes.”
+
+All this was said gravely but with nothing comminatory in the tone. In
+the mean time Bernard had recovered his self-possession.
+
+“I did in fact come for that. You are not wrong. And I am beginning to
+think that _I_ was not wrong either.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?”
+
+“That you really are the person I hoped you would be.”
+
+Edouard was trying in vain to look severe. He was immensely
+entertained. He made a kind of slight mocking bow:
+
+“Much obliged. It remains to be seen whether I shall be able to return
+the compliment. I suppose, since you are here, that you have read my
+papers?”
+
+Bernard, who had endured without flinching the brunt of Edouard’s gaze,
+smiled in his turn with boldness, amusement, impertinence; and bowing
+low, “Don’t doubt it,” he said. “I am here to serve you.”
+
+Then, quick as an elf, he darted downstairs.
+
+
+When Edouard went back into the room, Laura was sobbing. He went up
+to her. She put her forehead down on his shoulder. Any manifestation
+of emotion embarrassed him almost unbearably. He found himself gently
+patting her on the back as one does a choking child:
+
+“My poor Laura,” said he; “come, come, be sensible.”
+
+“Oh, let me cry a little; it does me good.”
+
+“All the same we’ve got to consider what you are to do.”
+
+“What is there I _can_ do? Where can I go? To whom can I speak?”
+
+“Your parents....”
+
+“You know what they are. It would plunge them in despair. And they did
+everything they could to make me happy.”
+
+“Douviers?...”
+
+“I shall never dare face him again. He is so good. You mustn’t think I
+don’t love him.... If you only knew.... If you only knew.... Oh, say
+you don’t despise me too much.”
+
+“On the contrary, my dear; on the contrary. How can you imagine such a
+thing?” And he began patting her on the back again.
+
+“Yes; I don’t feel ashamed any more, when I am with you.”
+
+“How long have you been here?”
+
+“I can’t remember. I have only been living in the hopes that you would
+come. There were times when I thought I couldn’t bear it. I feel now as
+if I couldn’t stay here another day.”
+
+Her sobs redoubled and she almost screamed out, though in a choking
+voice:
+
+“Take me away! Take me away!”
+
+Edouard felt more and more uncomfortable.
+
+“Now Laura.... You must be calm. That ... that ... I don’t even know
+his name....”
+
+“Bernard,” murmured Laura.
+
+“Bernard will be back in a moment. Come now; pull yourself together.
+He mustn’t see you in this state. Courage! We’ll think of something, I
+promise you. Come, come! Dry your eyes. Crying does no good. Look at
+yourself in the glass. Your face is all swollen. You must bathe it.
+When I see you crying I can’t think of anything.... There! Here he is!
+I can hear him.”
+
+He went to the door and opened it to let in Bernard, while Laura, with
+her back turned at the dressing-table, set about restoring a semblance
+of calm to her features.
+
+“And now, sir, may I ask when I shall be allowed to get possession of
+my belongings again?”
+
+He looked Bernard full in the face as he spoke, with the same ironical
+smile on his lips as before.
+
+“As soon as you please, sir; but at the same time, I feel obliged to
+confess that I shall certainly feel the loss of your belongings a good
+deal more than you do. I am sure you would understand if you only knew
+my story. But I’ll just say this, that since this morning I am without
+a roof, without a family and with nothing better to do than throw
+myself into the river, if I hadn’t met you. I followed you this morning
+for a long time while you were talking to my friend Olivier. He has
+spoken to me about you such a lot! I should have liked to go up to you.
+I was casting about for some excuse to do so, by hook or by crook....
+When you threw your luggage ticket away, I blessed my stars. Oh, don’t
+take me for a thief. If I lifted your suit-case, it was more than
+anything so as to get into touch with you.”
+
+Bernard brought all this out almost in a single breath. An
+extraordinary animation fired his words and features--as though they
+were aflame with kindness. Edouard, to judge by his smile, thought him
+charming.
+
+“And now...?” asked he.
+
+Bernard understood that he was gaining ground.
+
+“And now, weren’t you in need of a secretary? I can’t believe I should
+fill the post badly--it would be with such joy.”
+
+This time Edouard laughed outright. Laura watched them both with
+amusement.
+
+“Ho! Ho!... We must think about that. Come and see me to-morrow at the
+same time, and here--if Madame Douviers will allow it--for I have a
+great many things to settle with her too. You’re staying at a hotel,
+I suppose? Oh, I don’t want to know where. It doesn’t matter in the
+least. Till to-morrow.”
+
+He held out his hand.
+
+“Sir, before I leave you,” said Bernard, “will you allow me to remind
+you that there is a poor old music-master, called La Pérouse, I think,
+who is living in the Faubourg St. Honoré, and who would be made very
+happy by a visit from you?”
+
+“Upon my word, that’s not a bad beginning. You have a very fair notion
+of your future duties.”
+
+“Then.... Really? You consent?”
+
+“We’ll see about it to-morrow. Good-bye.”
+
+
+Edouard, after having stayed a few moments longer with Laura, went to
+the Moliniers’. He hoped to see Olivier again; he wanted to speak to
+him about Bernard. He saw only Pauline, though he stayed on and on in
+desperation.
+
+Olivier, that very afternoon, yielding to the pressing invitation
+passed on to him by his brother, had gone to visit the author of _The
+Horizontal Bar_, the Comte de Passavant.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XV
+
+                 OLIVIER VISITS THE COMTE DE PASSAVANT
+
+
+“I WAS afraid your brother hadn’t delivered my message,” said Robert on
+seeing Olivier come into the room.
+
+“Am I late?” he asked, coming forward timidly and almost on tip-toe. He
+had kept his hat in his hand and Robert took it from him.
+
+“Put that down. Make yourself comfortable. Here, in this arm-chair, I
+think you’ll be all right. Not late at all, to judge by the clock. But
+my wish to see you went faster than the time. Do you smoke?”
+
+“No, thank you,” said Olivier, waving aside the cigarette case, which
+the Comte de Passavant held out to him. He refused out of shyness,
+though he was really longing to try one of the slender, amber-scented
+cigarettes (Russian, no doubt,) which lay ranged in the proffered case.
+
+“Yes, I’m glad you were able to come. I was afraid you might be too
+much taken up with your examination. When is it?”
+
+“The written is in ten days. But I’m not working much. I think I’m
+ready and I’m more afraid of being fagged when I go up.”
+
+“Still, I suppose you’d refuse to undertake any other occupation just
+now?”
+
+“No ... if it isn’t too absorbing, that is.”
+
+“I’ll tell you why I asked you to come. First, for the pleasure
+of seeing you again. The other night in the foyer, during the
+_entr’acte_, we were just getting into a talk. I was exceedingly
+interested by what you said. I expect you don’t remember?”
+
+“Oh yes, I do,” said Olivier, who was under the impression he had said
+nothing but stupidities.
+
+“But to-day I have something special to say to you.... I think you know
+an individual of the Hebrew persuasion, called Dhurmer? Isn’t he one of
+your schoolfellows?”
+
+“I have just this moment left him.”
+
+“Ah! You see a good deal of each other?”
+
+“Yes. We met at the Louvre to-day to talk about a review of which he is
+to be the editor.”
+
+Robert burst into a loud, affected laugh.
+
+“Ha! Ha! Ha! the editor!... He’s in a deuce of a hurry.... Did he
+really say that to you?”
+
+“He has been talking to me about it for ever so long.”
+
+“Yes. I have been thinking of it for some time past. The other day I
+asked him casually whether he’d agree to read over the manuscripts with
+me; that’s what he at once called becoming editor--not even sub-editor;
+I didn’t contradict him and he immediately.... Just like him, isn’t it?
+What a fellow! He wants taking down a peg or two.... Don’t you really
+smoke?”
+
+“After all, I think I will,” said Olivier, this time accepting. “Thank
+you.”
+
+“Well, allow me to say, Olivier ... you don’t mind my calling you
+Olivier, do you? I really can’t say Monsieur; you’re too young, and I’m
+too intimate with your brother Vincent to call you Molinier. Well then,
+Olivier, allow me to say that I have infinitely more confidence in your
+taste than in Mr. Solomon Dhurmer’s. Now would you consent to taking
+the literary direction? Under me a little, of course--at first, at any
+rate. But I prefer not to have my name on the cover. I’ll tell you why
+later.... Perhaps you’d take a glass of port wine, eh? I’ve got some
+that’s quite good.”
+
+He stretched out his hand to a kind of little side-board that stood
+near and took up a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he filled.
+
+“Well! What do you think?”
+
+“Yes, indeed; first-rate.”
+
+“I wasn’t talking of the port,” protested Robert, laughing; “but of
+what I was saying just now.”
+
+Olivier had pretended not to understand. He was afraid of accepting too
+quickly and of showing his joy too obviously. He blushed a little and
+stammered with confusion:
+
+“My examination wouldn’t....”
+
+“You have just told me that you weren’t giving much time to it,”
+interrupted Robert. “And besides, the review won’t come out yet awhile.
+I am wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to put off launching it
+till after the holidays. But in any case I had to sound you. We must
+get several numbers ready before October and we ought to see each other
+a great deal this summer so as to talk things over. What are you going
+to do these holidays?”
+
+“I don’t know exactly. My people will probably be going to Normandy.
+They always do in the summer.”
+
+“And you will have to go with them?... Couldn’t you let yourself be
+unhitched for a bit?...”
+
+“My mother would never consent.”
+
+“I’m dining to-night with your brother. May I speak to him about it?”
+
+“Oh, Vincent won’t be with us.” Then, realizing that this sentence was
+no answer to the question, he added: “Besides, it wouldn’t do any good.”
+
+“Well, but if we find a good reason to give Mamma?”
+
+Olivier did not answer. He loved his mother tenderly and the mocking
+tone in which Robert alluded to her displeased him. Robert understood
+that he had gone too far.
+
+“So you appreciate my port,” he said by way of diversion. “Have another
+glass?”
+
+“No, no, thank you; but it’s excellent.”
+
+“Yes, I was struck by the ripeness and sureness of your judgment the
+other night. Do you mean to go in for criticism?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Poetry?... I know you write poetry.”
+
+Olivier blushed again.
+
+“Yes, your brother has betrayed you. And no doubt you know other
+young men who would be ready to contribute. This review must become
+a rallying ground for the younger generation. That’s its _raison
+d’être_. I should like you to help me draw up a kind of prospectus,
+a manifesto, which would just give a sketch of the new tendencies
+without defining them too precisely. We’ll talk it over later on. We
+must make a choice of two or three telling epithets; they mustn’t be
+neologisms; no old words that are thoroughly hackneyed; we’ll fill
+them with a brand new meaning and make the public swallow them. After
+Flaubert there was ‘cadenced and rhythmic’; after Leconte de Lisle,
+‘hieratic and definitive’.... Oh! what would you say to ‘vital,’ eh?...
+‘Unconscious and vital’.... No?... ‘Elementary, unconscious and vital’?”
+
+“I think we might find something better still,” Olivier took courage to
+say, smiling, though without seeming to approve much.
+
+“Come, another glass of port....”
+
+“Not quite full, please.”
+
+“You see, the great weakness of the symbolist school is that it brought
+nothing but an æsthetic with it; all the other great schools brought
+with them, besides their new styles, a new ethic, new tables, a new
+way of looking at things, of understanding love, of behaving oneself
+in life. As for the symbolist, it’s perfectly simple; he didn’t behave
+himself at all in life; he didn’t attempt to understand it; he denied
+its existence; he turned his back on it. Absurd, don’t you think? They
+were a set of people without greed--without appetites even. Not like us
+... eh?”
+
+Olivier had finished his second glass of port and his second cigarette.
+Reclining in his comfortable arm-chair, with his eyes half shut,
+he said nothing, but signified his assent by slightly nodding his
+head from time to time. At this moment a ring was heard, and almost
+immediately afterwards a servant entered with a card which he presented
+to Robert. Robert took the card, glanced at it and put it on his
+writing desk beside him.
+
+“Very well. Ask him to wait a moment.” The servant went out. “Look
+here, my dear boy, I like you very much and I think we shall get on
+very well together. But somebody has just come whom I absolutely must
+see and he wants to speak to me alone.”
+
+Olivier had risen.
+
+“I’ll show you out by the garden, if you’ll allow me.... Ah! whilst I
+think of it. Would you care to have my new book? I’ve got a copy here,
+on hand-made paper....”
+
+“I haven’t waited for that to read it,” said Olivier, who didn’t much
+care for Passavant’s book, and tried his best to be amiable without
+being fulsome.
+
+Did Passavant detect in his tone a certain tincture of disdain? He went
+on quickly: “Oh, you needn’t say anything about it. If you were to
+tell me you liked it, I should be obliged to doubt either your taste
+or your sincerity. No; no one knows better than I do what’s lacking
+in the book. I wrote it much too quickly. To tell the truth, the
+whole time I was writing it I was thinking of my next one. Ah! that
+one is a different matter. I care about that one. Yes, I care about
+it exceedingly. You’ll see; you’ll see.... I’m so very sorry, but you
+really must leave me now.... Unless.... No, no; we don’t know each
+other well enough yet, and your people are certainly expecting you back
+for dinner. Well, good-bye; au revoir. I’ll write your name in the
+book; allow me.”
+
+He had risen; he went up to his writing desk. While he was stooping to
+write, Olivier stepped forward and glanced out of the corner of his eye
+at the card which the servant had just brought in:
+
+                          VICTOR STROUVILHOU
+
+The name meant nothing to him.
+
+Passavant handed Olivier the copy of _The Horizontal Bar_, and as
+Olivier was preparing to read the inscription:
+
+“Look at it later,” said Passavant, slipping the book under his arm.
+
+It was not till he was in the street that Olivier read the manuscript
+motto with which the Comte de Passavant had adorned the first page and
+which he had culled out of the book itself:
+
+ _“Prithee, Orlando, a few steps further. I am not perfectly sure
+ that I dare altogether take your meaning.”_
+
+Underneath which he had added:
+
+                          To OLIVIER MOLINIER
+                      from his presumptive friend
+                       COMTE ROBERT DE PASSAVANT
+
+An ambiguous motto, which made Olivier wonder, but which after all he
+was perfectly free to interpret as he pleased.
+
+Olivier got home just after Edouard had left, weary of waiting.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XVI
+
+                          VINCENT AND LILIAN
+
+
+VINCENT’S education, which had been materialistic in tendency,
+prevented him from believing in the supernatural--which gave the
+demon an immense advantage. The demon never made a frontal attack
+upon Vincent; he approached him crookedly and furtively. One of his
+cleverest manœuvres consists in presenting us our defeats as if they
+were victories. What inclined Vincent to consider his behaviour to
+Laura as a victory of his will over his affections, was that, being
+naturally kind-hearted, he had been obliged to force himself, to steel
+himself to be hard to her.
+
+Upon a closer examination of the evolution of Vincent’s character in
+this intrigue, I discover various stages, which I will point out for
+the reader’s edification:
+
+1st.--The period of good motives. Probity. Conscientious need of
+repairing a wrong action. In actual fact: the moral obligation of
+devoting to Laura the money which his parents had laboriously saved to
+meet the initial expenses of his career. Is this not self-sacrifice? Is
+this motive not respectable, generous, charitable?
+
+2nd.--The period of uneasiness. Scruples. Is not the fear that this sum
+may be insufficient, the first step towards yielding, when the demon
+dangles before Vincent’s eyes the possibility of increasing it?
+
+3rd.--Constancy and fortitude. Need after the loss of this sum to feel
+himself “above adversity.” It is this “fortitude” which enables him to
+confess his loss at cards to Laura; and which enables him by the same
+occasion to break with her.
+
+4th.--Renunciation of good motives, regarded as a cheat, in the light
+of the new ethic which Vincent finds himself obliged to invent in
+order to legitimize his conduct; for he continues to be a moral being,
+and the devil will only get the better of him by furnishing him with
+reasons for self-approval. Theory of immanence, of totality in the
+moment; of gratuitous, immediate and motiveless joy.
+
+5th.--Intoxication of the winner. Contempt of the reserve in hand.
+Supremacy.
+
+After which the demon has won the game.
+
+After which the being who believes himself freest is nothing but a tool
+at his service. The demon will never rest now till Vincent has sold his
+brother to that creature of perdition--Passavant.
+
+And yet Vincent is not bad. All this, do what he will, leaves him
+unsatisfied, uncomfortable. Let us add a few words more:
+
+The name “_exoticism_” is, I believe, given to those of Maia’s
+iridescent folds which make the soul feel itself a stranger, which
+deprive it of points of contact. There are some whose virtue would
+resist, but that the devil, before attacking it, transplants them. No
+doubt, if Vincent and Laura had not been under other skies, far from
+their parents, from their past memories, from all that maintained them
+in consistency with themselves, she would not have yielded to him, nor
+he attempted to seduce her. No doubt it seemed to them out there that
+their act did not enter into the reckoning.... A great deal more might
+be said; but the above is enough as it is to explain Vincent to us
+better.
+
+With Lilian too he felt himself in a foreign land.
+
+“Don’t laugh at me, Lilian,” he said to her that same evening. “I know
+that you won’t understand, and yet I have to speak to you as if you
+would, for I’m unable now to get you out of my mind.”
+
+Lilian was lying on the low divan, and he, half reclining at her feet,
+let his head rest, lover-like, on his mistress’s knees, while she,
+lover-like, caressed it.
+
+“The thing that was on my mind this morning was ... yes, I think it
+was fear. Can you keep serious for a moment? Can you try to understand
+me so far as to forget for a moment--not what you believe, for you
+believe in nothing--but just that very fact that you believe in
+nothing? I didn’t believe in anything either; I believed that I didn’t
+believe in anything--not in anything but ourselves, in you, in me, in
+what I am when I am with you, in what, thanks to you, I am going to
+become....”
+
+“Robert will be here at seven,” interrupted Lilian. “I don’t want to
+hurry you; but if you don’t get on a little quicker, he’ll interrupt
+you just at the very moment you are beginning to get interesting. I
+don’t suppose you’ll want to go on when he’s here. It’s odd that you
+should think it necessary to take so many precautions to-day. You
+remind me of a blind man, who has first to feel every spot with his
+stick, before he puts his foot on it. And yet you can see I’m keeping
+quite serious. Why haven’t you more confidence?”
+
+“Ever since I’ve known you, my confidence has become extraordinary,”
+went on Vincent. “I’m capable of great things, I feel it; and you see
+that everything I do turns out successful. But that’s exactly what
+terrifies me. No; be quiet.... All day long I’ve kept thinking of what
+you told me this morning about the wreck of the _Bourgogne_, and
+of the people who wanted to get into the boat having their hands cut
+off. It seems to me that something wants to get into my boat--I’m using
+your image, so that you may understand me--something that I want to
+prevent getting in....”
+
+“And you want me to help you drown it.... You old coward!”
+
+He went on without looking at her:
+
+“Something I keep off, but whose voice I hear ... a voice you have
+never heard, that I listened to in my childhood....”
+
+“And what does your voice say? You don’t dare tell me. I’m not
+surprised. I bet there’s a dash of the catechism in it, isn’t there?”
+
+“Oh, Lilian, try to understand; the only way for me to get rid of these
+thoughts is to tell them to you. If you laugh at them, I shall keep
+them to myself and they’ll poison me.”
+
+“Tell away then,” said she with an air of resignation. Then, as he
+kept silent and hid his face like a child in Lilian’s skirts: “Well,
+what are you waiting for?”
+
+She seized him by the hair and forced him to raise his head:
+
+“Upon my word, he’s really taking it seriously! Just look at him! He’s
+quite pale. Now, listen to me, my dear boy; if you mean to behave like
+a child, it’s not my affair at all. One must have the strength of one’s
+convictions. And, besides, you know I don’t like people who cheat. When
+you try on the sly to pull things into your boat which oughtn’t to be
+there, you’re cheating. I’m willing to play the game with you, but it
+must be above board; and I warn you my object is to make you succeed. I
+think you’re capable of becoming somebody important--really important;
+I feel great intelligence in you, and great strength. I want to help
+you. There are quite enough women who spoil the careers of the men they
+fall in love with; I want to do the contrary. You’ve already told me
+you wanted to give up doctoring in order to work at science and that
+you were sorry you hadn’t enough money.... Now you have just won fifty
+thousand francs, which isn’t bad to begin with. But you must promise me
+not to play any more. I’ll put as much money as is necessary at your
+disposition, on condition that if people say you are being kept, you’ll
+be strong-minded enough to shrug your shoulders.”
+
+Vincent had risen. He went up to the window. Lilian went on:
+
+“To begin with, I think one might as well finish up with Laura and send
+her the five thousand francs you promised her. Now that you’ve got the
+money, why don’t you keep your word? I don’t like it at all. I detest
+caddishness. You don’t know how to cut hands off decently. When that’s
+done, we’ll go and spend the summer where it’ll be most profitable
+for your work.... You mentioned Roskoff; personally, I should prefer
+Monaco, because I know the Prince, and he might take us for a cruise
+and perhaps give you a job in his laboratory.”
+
+Vincent kept silent. He felt disinclined to say to Lilian (he only told
+her later) that before coming to see her, he had gone to the hotel,
+where Laura had waited for him in such despair. Anxious to be at last
+quit of his debt, he had slipped the notes, on which she no longer
+counted, into an envelope. He had entrusted the envelope to a waiter,
+and then waited in the hall until he should hear it had been delivered
+to her personally. A few moments later the waiter had come downstairs
+bringing with him the envelope, across which Laura had written:
+
+“_Too late._”
+
+Lilian rang and asked for her cloak. When the maid had left the room:
+
+“Oh, I wanted to say to you, before Robert arrives, that if he proposes
+an investment for your fifty thousand francs--be careful. He is very
+rich, but he is always in want of money. There! look and see. I think
+I hear his horn. He’s half an hour before the time; but so much the
+better.... For all we were saying!...”
+
+
+“I’m early,” said Robert as he came into the room, “because I thought
+it would be amusing to go and dine at Versailles. Do you agree?”
+
+“No,” said Lady Griffith; “the fountains bore me. I had rather go to
+Rambouillet; there’s time. We shan’t have such a good dinner, but we
+shall be able to talk more easily. I want Vincent to tell you his fish
+stories. He knows some marvellous ones. I don’t know if what he says is
+true, but it’s more amusing than the best novel in the world.”
+
+“That’s not perhaps what a novelist will think,” said Vincent.
+
+Robert de Passavant held an evening paper in his hand:
+
+“D’you know that Brugnard has just been made assistant-secretary at the
+Ministry of Justice? Now’s the moment to get your father decorated,”
+said he, turning to Vincent. Vincent shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“My dear Vincent,” went on Passavant, “allow me to say that you’ll very
+much offend him by not asking this little favour--which he’ll be so
+delighted to refuse.”
+
+“Suppose you were to start by asking it for yourself,” Vincent replied.
+
+Robert made an affected little grimace:
+
+“No; for my part, my vanity consists in never blushing--not even in my
+buttonhole.” Then, turning to Lilian:
+
+“Do you know it’s rare nowadays to find a man who has reached forty
+without either the syph or the legion of honour?”
+
+Lilian smiled and shrugged her shoulders:
+
+“For the sake of a _bon-mot_ he actually consents to make himself
+out older than he is! I say, is it a quotation from your next book?
+It’ll be tasty.... Go on downstairs. I’ll get my cloak and follow you.”
+
+
+“I thought you had given up seeing him,” said Vincent to Robert on the
+staircase.
+
+“Who? Brugnard?”
+
+“You said he was so stupid....”
+
+“My dear friend,” replied Passavant, pausing on a step and holding up
+Molinier, for he saw Lady Griffith coming and wanted her to hear: “you
+must know there’s not a single one of my friends whom I’ve known a
+certain time, that hasn’t given me unmistakable proofs of imbecility.
+I assure you that Brugnard resisted the test longer than a great many
+others.”
+
+“Than I, perhaps?” asked Vincent.
+
+“Which doesn’t prevent me from being your best friend ... as you see.”
+
+“And that’s what’s called wit in Paris,” said Lilian, who had joined
+them. “Take care, Robert; there’s nothing fades quicker.”
+
+“Don’t be alarmed, dear lady; words only fade when they’re printed.”
+
+They took their places in the car and drove off. As their conversation
+continued to be very witty, it is useless to record it here. They sat
+down to table on the terrace of a hotel overlooking a garden where the
+shades of night were gathering. Under cover of the evening, their talk
+grew slower and graver; urged on by Lilian and Robert, Vincent found
+himself at last the only speaker.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XVII
+
+                      THE EVENING AT RAMBOUILLET
+
+
+“I SHOULD take more interest in animals if I were less interested in
+men,” Robert had said. And Vincent had replied:
+
+“Perhaps you think them too different. Every single one of the great
+discoveries in zoology has left its mark upon the study of man.
+The whole subject is interlinked and interdependent, and I believe
+that a novelist who also prides himself upon being a psychologist
+can never turn aside his eyes from the spectacle of nature and
+remain ignorant of her laws without paying for it. In the Goncourts’
+Journal, which you gave me to read, I fell upon an account of a visit
+they paid to the Zoological houses in the Jardin des Plantes, in
+which your charming authors deplore Nature’s--or the Lord’s--lack
+of imagination. This paltry blasphemy merely serves to show up the
+stupidity and incomprehension of their small minds. On the contrary,
+what astonishing diversity! It seems as if Nature had essayed one after
+the other every possible manner of living and moving, as if she had
+taken advantage of every permission granted by matter and its laws.
+What a lesson can be read in the progressive abandonment of certain
+palæontological experiments which proved irrational and inelegant;
+the economy which has enabled some forms to survive explains why the
+others were abandoned. Botany is instructive, too. When I examine a
+plant, I observe that at the place where each leaf springs from the
+stem, a bud lies sheltered, which is capable in its turn of shooting
+into life the following year. When I remark that out of all these
+buds, two at most are destined to come to anything, and that by the
+very fact of their growth they condemn all the others to atrophy, I
+cannot help thinking that the case is the same with men. The buds which
+develop naturally are always the terminal buds--that is to say, those
+that are farthest away from the parent trunk. It is only by pruning
+or layering that the sap is driven back and so forced to give life
+to those germs which are nearest the trunk and which would otherwise
+have lain dormant. And in this manner, the most recalcitrant plants,
+which, if left to themselves, would no doubt have produced nothing but
+leaves, are induced to bear fruit. Oh! an orchard or a garden is an
+excellent school! and a horticulturist would often make the best of
+pedagogues! There is more to be learnt, if one can use one’s eyes, in
+a poultry-yard, or a kennel, or an aquarium, or a rabbit warren, or a
+stable, than in all your books, or even, believe me, in the society of
+men, where everything is more or less sophisticated.”
+
+Then Vincent spoke of selection. He explained how in order to obtain
+the finest seedlings, the ordinary plan is to choose the most robust
+specimens; and then he told them of the fantastic experiment of one
+audacious horticulturist, who, out of a horror of routine--it really
+seemed almost like a challenge--took it into his head, on the contrary,
+to select the most weakly--with the result that he obtained blooms of
+incomparable beauty.
+
+Robert, who had at first listened with only half an ear, like a person
+who merely expects to be bored, now made no attempt to interrupt. His
+attention delighted Lilian, who took it as a compliment to her lover.
+
+“You ought to tell us,” said she, “of what you were saying the other
+day about fish and their power of accommodation to the different
+amounts of salt in the sea.... That was it, wasn’t it?”
+
+“Except for certain regions,” went on Vincent, “the sea’s degree of
+saltness is pretty constant; and marine fauna as a rule tolerates only
+very slight variations of density. But the regions I was telling you
+about are nevertheless not uninhabited; the regions I mean are those
+which are subject to intense evaporation and in which, therefore, the
+proportion of water to salt is greatly reduced--or, on the contrary,
+those where the constant inflow of fresh water dilutes the salt and,
+so to speak, un-salts the sea--those that are near the mouths of great
+rivers, or such enormous currents as the Gulf Stream. In such regions
+the animals called _stenohaline_ grow enfeebled to the point
+of perishing; and as they become incapable of defending themselves,
+they inevitably fall a prey to the animals called _euryhaline_,
+so that the _euryhalines_ live by choice on the confines of the
+great currents, where the density of the water varies and where the
+_stenohalines_ meet their death. You understand, don’t you, that
+the _stenos_ are those which can exist only in water whose degree
+of saltness is unvarying; whilst the _eurys_....”
+
+“Are the pickles,” interrupted Robert,[3] who always referred
+everything back to himself, and only took an interest in that part of a
+theory which he could turn to account.
+
+“Most of them are ferocious,” added Vincent gravely.
+
+“I told you it was better than any novel!” cried Lilian, ecstatically.
+
+Vincent seemed transfigured--indifferent to the impression he was
+making. He was extraordinarily grave and went on in a lower tone as if
+he were talking to himself:
+
+“The most astonishing discovery of recent times--at any rate the one
+that has taught me most--is the discovery of the photogenic apparatus
+of deep-sea creatures.”
+
+“Oh, tell us about it!” cried Lilian, letting her cigarette go out and
+her ice melt on her plate.
+
+“You know, no doubt, that the light of day does not reach very far
+down into the sea. Its depths are dark ... huge gulfs, which for a
+long time were thought to be uninhabited; then people began dragging
+them, and quantities of strange animals were brought up from these
+infernal regions--animals that were blind, it was thought. What use
+would the sense of sight be in the dark? Evidently they had no eyes;
+they wouldn’t, they couldn’t have eyes. Nevertheless, on examination
+it was found to people’s amazement that some of them _had_ eyes;
+that they almost all had eyes, and sometimes antennæ of extraordinary
+sensibility into the bargain. Still people doubted and wondered: why
+eyes with no means of seeing? Eyes that are sensitive--but sensitive
+to what?... And at last it was discovered that each of these animals
+which people at first insisted were creatures of darkness, gives
+forth and projects before and around it its _own_ light. Each
+of them shines, illuminates, irradiates. When they were brought up
+from the depths at night and turned out on to the ship’s deck, the
+darkness blazed. Moving, many-coloured fires, glowing, vibrating,
+changing--revolving beacon-lamps--sparkling of stars and jewels--a
+spectacle, say those who saw it, of unparalleled splendour.”
+
+Vincent stopped. No one spoke for a long time.
+
+“Let’s go home,” said Lilian suddenly; “I’m cold.”
+
+
+Lady Lilian took her seat beside the chauffeur, so as to be sheltered
+by the glass screen. The two men at the back of the open carriage
+carried on their own conversation. Robert had hardly spoken during the
+whole of the dinner; he had listened to Vincent talking; now it was his
+turn.
+
+“Fish like us, my dear boy, perish in calm waters,” said he to begin
+with, giving his friend a thump on the shoulder. He allowed himself
+a few familiarities with Vincent, but would not have suffered him to
+reciprocate them; for that matter, Vincent was not disposed to. “Do
+you know, I think you’re simply splendid! What a lecturer you’d make!
+Upon my word, you ought to quit doctoring. I really can’t see you
+prescribing laxatives and having no company but the sick. A chair of
+comparative biology, or something of that sort is what you want.”
+
+“Yes,” said Vincent, “I have sometimes thought so.”
+
+“Lilian ought to be able to manage it. She could get her friend the
+Prince of Monaco to interest himself in your researches. It’s his line,
+I believe. I must speak to her about it.”
+
+“She has suggested it already.”
+
+“Oh, so I see there’s no possibility of doing you a service,” said he,
+pretending to be vexed. “Just as I wanted to ask you one for myself,
+too.”
+
+“It’s your turn to be in my debt. You think I’ve got a very short
+memory.”
+
+“What? You’re still thinking of that five thousand francs? But you’ve
+paid it back, my dear fellow. You owe me nothing at all now--except a
+little friendship, perhaps.” He added these words in a voice that was
+almost tender, and with one hand on Vincent’s arm. “I want to appeal to
+it now.”
+
+“I am listening,” said Vincent.
+
+But at that, Passavant immediately protested, as if the impatience were
+Vincent’s, and not his own:
+
+“Goodness me! What a hurry you’re in! Between this and Paris there’s
+time enough surely.”
+
+Passavant was particularly skilful in the art of fathering his own
+words--and anything else he preferred to disown--on other people. He
+made a feint of dropping his subject, like an angler who, for fear of
+startling his trout, makes a long cast with his bait and then draws it
+in again by imperceptible degrees.
+
+“A propos, thank you for sending me your brother. I was afraid you had
+forgotten.”
+
+Vincent made a gesture and Robert went on:
+
+“Have you seen him since?... Not had time, eh?... Then it’s odd you
+shouldn’t have asked me yet how the interview went off. At bottom, you
+don’t in the least care. You don’t take the faintest interest in your
+brother. What Olivier thinks and feels, what he is, what he wants to
+be, never concerns you in the least....”
+
+“Reproaching me?” asked Vincent.
+
+“Upon my soul, yes. I can’t understand--I can’t swallow your
+indifference. When you were ill at Pau, it might pass; you could only
+think of yourself; selfishness was part of the cure. But now.... What!
+you have growing up beside you a young nature quivering with life,
+a budding intelligence, full of promise, only waiting for a word of
+advice, of encouragement....”
+
+He forgot as he spoke that he too had a brother.
+
+Vincent, however, was no fool; the very exaggeration of this attack
+showed him that it was not sincere and that his companion’s
+indignation was merely brought forward to pave the way for something
+else. He waited in silence. But Robert stopped short suddenly; he had
+just surprised in the glimmer of Vincent’s cigarette a curious curl of
+his lip, which he took for irony; now there was nothing in the world he
+was more afraid of than being laughed at. And yet, was it really that
+which made him change his tone? I wonder whether the sudden intuition
+of a kind of connivance between Vincent and himself.... He assumed an
+air of perfect naturalness and started again in the tone of “there’s no
+need of any pretence with you”:
+
+“Well, I had a most delightful conversation with young Olivier. I like
+the boy exceedingly.”
+
+Passavant tried to catch Vincent’s expression (the night was not very
+dark); but he was looking fixedly in front of him.
+
+“And now, my dear Molinier, the service I wished to ask you....”
+
+But, here again, he felt the need of marking time, something like an
+actor who drops his part for a moment with the assurance that he has
+his audience well in hand, and wishes to prove that he has, both to
+himself and to them. He bent forward therefore to Lilian, and speaking
+in a loud voice as if to accentuate the confidential character of what
+he had been saying, and of what he was going to say:
+
+“Are you sure, dear lady, that you aren’t catching cold? We have a rug
+here that’s doing nothing....”
+
+Then, without waiting for an answer, he sank back into the corner of
+the carriage beside Vincent, and lowering his voice once more:
+
+“This is what it is. I want to take your brother away with me this
+summer. Yes; I tell you so frankly; what’s the use of beating about the
+bush between us two?... I haven’t the honour of being acquainted with
+your parents and of course they wouldn’t allow Olivier to come away
+with me unless you were to intervene on my behalf. No doubt you’ll find
+a way of disposing them in my favour. You know what they’re like, I
+suppose, and you’ll be able to get round them. You’ll do this for me,
+won’t you?”
+
+He waited a moment, and then, as Vincent kept silent, went on:
+
+“Look here, Vincent.... I’m leaving Paris soon.... I don’t know for
+where as yet. I absolutely must have a secretary.... You know I’m
+founding a review. I have spoken about it to Olivier. He seems to me
+to have all the necessary qualities.... But I don’t want to look at it
+merely from my own selfish point of view: I also think that this will
+be an opportunity for him to show all his qualities. I have offered
+him the place of editor.... Editor of a review at his age!... You must
+admit that it’s unusual.”
+
+“So very unusual, that I’m afraid my parents may be rather alarmed by
+it,” said Vincent at last, turning his eyes on him and looking at him
+fixedly.
+
+“Yes; you’re no doubt right. Perhaps it would be better not to mention
+that. You might just put forward the interest and advantage it would
+be for him to go travelling with me, eh? Your parents must understand
+that at his age one wants to see the world a bit. At any rate, you’ll
+arrange it with them, won’t you?”
+
+He took a breath, lighted another cigarette, and went on without
+changing his tone:
+
+“And since you’re going to be so nice, I’ll try and do something for
+you. I think I can put you on to a thing which promises to turn out
+quite exceptionally.... A friend of mine in the highest banking circles
+is keeping it open for a few privileged persons. But please don’t
+mention it; not a word to Lilian. In any case I can only dispose of
+a very limited number of shares; I can’t offer them both to her and
+you... Your last night’s fifty thousand francs?...”
+
+“I have already disposed of them,” answered Vincent rather shortly, for
+he remembered Lilian’s warning.
+
+“All right, all right....” rejoined Robert quickly, as though he were
+a little piqued; “I’m not insisting.” Then with the air of saying: “I
+can’t be offended with you,” he added: “If you change your mind, send
+me word at once ... because after five o’clock to-morrow evening, it’ll
+be too late.”
+
+Vincent’s admiration for the Comte de Passavant had become much greater
+since he had ceased to take him seriously.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 3: Robert here makes a pun impossible to translate.
+_Dessalé_ (literally _unsalted_) is a slang expression
+meaning something like _unscrupulous_.
+
+--Translator’s note.]
+
+
+
+
+                                 XVIII
+
+             EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: SECOND VISIT TO LA PÉROUSE
+
+
+_Two o’clock._ Lost my suit-case. Serves me right. There was
+nothing in it I cared about but my journal. But I cared about that too
+much. In reality, very much amused by the adventure. All the same,
+I should like to have my papers back again. Who will read them?...
+Perhaps now that I have lost them, I exaggerate their importance. The
+book I have lost came to an end with my journey to England. When I
+was over there, I used another one, which I shall give up writing in,
+now that I am back in France. I shall take good care not to lose this
+one, in which I am writing now. It is my pocket-mirror. I cannot feel
+that anything that happens to me has any real existence until I see it
+reflected here. But since my return I seem to be walking in a dream.
+What a miserable uphill affair my conversation with Olivier was! And
+I had been looking forward to it with such joy.... I hope it has left
+him as ill-satisfied as it has me--as ill-satisfied with himself as
+with me. I was no more able to talk than to get him to talk. Oh, how
+difficult the slightest word is, when it involves the whole assent of
+the whole being! When the heart comes into play, it numbs and paralyses
+the brain.
+
+
+_Seven o’clock._ Found my suit-case; or at any rate the person who
+took it. The fact that he is Olivier’s most intimate friend makes a
+link between us which it rests only with me to tighten. The danger is
+that anything unexpected amuses me so intensely that I lose sight of my
+goal.
+
+Seen Laura. My desire to oblige people becomes more acute if there is
+a difficulty to be encountered, if a struggle has to be waged with
+convention, banality and custom.
+
+Visit to old La Pérouse. It was Madame de La Pérouse who opened the
+door to me. I have not seen her for more than two years; she recognized
+me, however, at once. (I don’t suppose they have many visitors.) She
+herself for that matter is very little changed; but (is it because
+I have a prejudice against her?) I thought her features harder, her
+expression sourer, her smile falser than ever.
+
+“I am afraid Monsieur de La Pérouse is in no state to receive you,”
+said she at once, with the obvious desire of getting me to herself;
+then, taking advantage of her deafness in order to answer before I had
+questioned her:
+
+“No, no; you’re not disturbing me in the least. Do come in.”
+
+She showed me into the room where La Pérouse gives his music lessons,
+the two windows of which look on to the courtyard. And as soon as she
+had got me safely inside:
+
+“I am particularly glad to have a word with you alone. Monsieur de La
+Pérouse--I know what an old and faithful friend of his you are--is in a
+state which causes me great anxiety. Couldn’t you persuade him to take
+more care of himself? He listens to you; as for me, I might as well
+talk to the winds.”
+
+And thereupon she entered upon an endless series of recriminations: the
+old gentleman refuses to take care of himself, simply in order to annoy
+her; he does everything he oughtn’t to do and nothing that he ought; he
+goes out in all weathers and will never consent to put on a muffler; he
+refuses to eat at meals--“Monsieur isn’t hungry”--and nothing she can
+contrive tempts his appetite; but at night, he gets up and turns the
+kitchen upside down, cooking himself some mess or other.
+
+I have no doubt the old lady didn’t invent anything; I could make
+out from her tale that it was her interpretation alone which gave an
+offensive meaning to the most innocent little facts and that reality
+had cast a monstrous shadow on the walls of her narrow brain. But does
+not her old husband on his side misinterpret all his wife’s attentions?
+She thinks herself a martyr, while he takes her for a torturer. As for
+judging them, understanding them, I give it up; or rather, as always
+happens, the better I understand them, the more tempered my judgment
+of them becomes. But this remains--that here are two beings tied to
+each other for life and causing each other abominable suffering. I
+have often noticed with married couples how intolerably irritating the
+slightest protuberance of character in the one may be to the other,
+because in the course of life in common it continually rubs up against
+the same place. And if the rub is reciprocal, married life is nothing
+but a hell.
+
+Beneath her smoothly parted black wig, which makes the features of
+her chalky face look harder still, with her long black mittens, from
+which protrude little claw-like fingers, Madame de La Pérouse has the
+appearance of a harpy.
+
+“He accuses me of spying on him,” she continued. “He has always needed
+a great deal of sleep; but at night he makes a show of going to bed,
+and then when he thinks I am fast asleep, he gets up again; he muddles
+about among his old papers, and sometimes stays up till morning reading
+his late brother’s letters and crying over them. And he wants me to
+bear it all without a word!”
+
+Then she went on to complain that he wanted to make her go into a home;
+which would be all the more painful to her, she added, as he was quite
+incapable of living alone and doing without her care. This was said in
+a tearful tone, which was only too obviously hypocritical.
+
+Whilst she was continuing her grievances, the drawing-room door opened
+gently behind her and La Pérouse came in, without her hearing him.
+At his wife’s last words he smiled at me ironically, and touched his
+head with his hand to signify she was mad. Then, with an impatience--a
+brutality even--of which I should not have thought him capable, and
+which seemed to justify the old woman’s accusations (but it was due too
+to his having to raise his voice to a shout in order to make himself
+heard):
+
+“Come, Madam,” he cried, “you ought to understand that you are tiring
+this gentleman with your talk. He didn’t come to see you. Leave the
+room.”
+
+The old lady protested that the arm-chair she was sitting in was her
+own and that she was not going to quit it.
+
+“In that case,” went on La Pérouse with a grim chuckle, “_we_ will
+leave _you_.” Then, turning to me, he repeated in gentler tones,
+“come, let us leave her.”
+
+I made a sketchy and embarrassed bow, and followed him into the next
+room--the same one in which I had paid him my last visit.
+
+“I am glad you heard her,” he said; “that’s what it’s like the whole
+day long.”
+
+He shut the window.
+
+“There’s such a noise in the street, one can’t hear oneself speak. I
+spend my time shutting the windows and Madame de La Pérouse spends
+hers opening them again. She declares she’s stifling. She always
+exaggerates. She refuses to realize that it’s hotter out of doors than
+in. And yet I’ve got a little thermometer; but when I show it to her,
+she says that figures prove nothing. She wants to be right even when
+she knows she’s wrong. Her main object in life is to annoy me.”
+
+He himself, while he was speaking, seemed to me a little off his
+balance; he went on with growing excitement:
+
+“Everything she does amiss in life she sets down as a grievance against
+me. All her judgments are warped. I’ll just explain to you how it is:
+You know our impressions of outside images come to us reversed and that
+there’s an apparatus in our brains which sets them right again. Well,
+Madame de La Pérouse has no such apparatus for setting them right. In
+her brain they _remain_ upside down. You can see for yourself how
+painful it is.”
+
+It was certainly a great relief to him to explain himself and I took
+care not to interrupt him. He went on:
+
+“Madame de La Pérouse has always eaten much too much. Well, now she
+makes out that it’s I who eat too much. If she sees me presently with
+a bit of chocolate (it’s my chief nourishment) she’ll be certain to
+mutter, ‘Munching again!...’ She spies on me. She accuses me of getting
+up in the night to eat on the sly, because she once surprised me making
+myself a cup of chocolate in the kitchen.... What am I to do? When
+I see her opposite me at table, falling ravenously upon her food, as
+she does, it takes away my appetite entirely. Then she declares I’m
+pretending to be fastidious just to torment her.”
+
+He paused, and then in a sort of lyrical outburst:
+
+“Her reproaches amaze me!... For instance, when she is suffering
+from her sciatica, I condole with her. Then she stops me, shrugs her
+shoulders and says: ‘Don’t pretend you have a heart.’ Everything I do
+or say is in order to give her pain.”
+
+We had seated ourselves, but all the time he was speaking, he kept
+getting up and sitting down again, in a state of morbid restlessness.
+
+“Would you believe that in each of these rooms there are some pieces of
+furniture which belong to her and others to me? You saw her just now
+with her arm-chair. She says to the charwoman, when she’s doing the
+room, “No, that’s Monsieur’s chair; don’t touch that.” And the other
+day, when by mistake I put a bound music-book on a little table which
+belongs to her, Madam knocked it on to the ground. Its corners were
+broken.... Oh, it can’t last much longer.... But, listen....”
+
+He seized me by the arm, and lowering his voice:
+
+“I have taken steps. She is continually threatening me if I ‘go on!’ to
+take refuge in a home. I have set aside a certain sum of money which
+ought to be enough to pay for her at Sainte-Périne’s; I hear it’s an
+excellent place. The few lessons I still give, bring me in hardly
+anything. In a little time I shall be at the end of my resources; I
+should be forced to break into this sum--and I’m determined not to. So
+I have made a resolution.... It will be in a little over three months.
+Yes; I have fixed the date. If you only knew what a relief it is to
+think that every hour it draws nearer.”
+
+He had bent towards me; he bent closer still:
+
+“And I have put aside a Government bond. Oh, it’s not much. But I
+couldn’t do more. Madame de La Pérouse doesn’t know about it. It’s
+in my bureau in an envelope directed to you, with the necessary
+instructions. I know nothing about business, but a solicitor whom
+I consulted, told me that the interest could be paid directly to my
+grandson, until he is of age, and that then he would have the security.
+I thought it wouldn’t be too great a tax on your friendship to ask you
+to see that this is done. I have so little confidence in solicitors!...
+And even, if you wished to make me quite easy, you would take charge of
+the envelope at once.... You will, won’t you?... I’ll go and fetch it.”
+
+He trotted out in his usual fashion and came back with a large envelope
+in his hand.
+
+“You’ll excuse me for having sealed it; for form’s sake,” said he.
+“Take it.”
+
+I glanced at it and saw under my name the words “To be opened after my
+death” written in printed letters.
+
+“Put it in your pocket quick, so that I may know it’s safe. Thank
+you.... Oh, I was so longing for you to come!...”
+
+I have often experienced that, in moments as solemn as this, all
+human emotion is transformed into an almost mystic ecstasy, into a
+kind of enthusiasm, in which my whole being is magnified, or rather
+liberated from all selfishness, as though dispossessed of itself and
+depersonalized. Those who have never experienced this will certainly
+not understand me. But I felt that La Pérouse understood. Any
+protestation on my part would have been superfluous, would have seemed
+unbecoming, I thought, and I contented myself with pressing the hand
+which he gave me. His eyes were shining with a strange brightness. In
+his free hand, in which he had at first been holding the envelope, was
+another piece of paper.
+
+“I have written his address down here. For I know now where he is. At
+Saas-Fée. Do you know it? It’s in Switzerland. I looked for it on the
+map, but I couldn’t find it.”
+
+“Yes,” I said. “It’s a little village near the Matterhorn.”
+
+“Is it very far?”
+
+“Not so far but that I might perhaps go there.”
+
+“Really? Would you really?... Oh, how good you are!” said he. “As for
+me, I’m too old. And besides, I can’t because of his mother.... All
+the same, I think....” He hesitated for a word, then went on: “that I
+should depart more easily, if only I had been able to see him.”
+
+“My poor friend.... Everything that is humanly possible to do to bring
+him to you, I will do. You shall see little Boris, I promise you.”
+
+“Thank you!... Thank you!”
+
+He pressed me convulsively in his arms.
+
+“But promise me that you won’t think of...”
+
+“Oh, that’s another matter,” said he, interrupting me abruptly. Then
+immediately and as if he were trying to prevent me from going on by
+distracting my attention:
+
+“What do you think, the other day, the mother of one of my pupils
+insisted on taking me to the theatre! About a month ago. It was a
+matinée at the _Théâtre Français_. I hadn’t been inside a theatre
+for more than twenty years. They were giving _Hernani_ by Victor
+Hugo. You know it? It seems that it was very well acted. Everybody was
+in raptures. As for me, I suffered indescribably. If politeness hadn’t
+kept me there, I shouldn’t have been able to stay it out.... We were in
+a box. My friends did their best to calm me. I wanted to apostrophize
+the audience. Oh! how can people? How can people?...”
+
+Not understanding at first what it was he objected to, I asked:
+
+“You thought the actors very bad?”
+
+“Of course. But how can people represent such abominations on the
+stage?... And the audience applauded. And there were children in
+the theatre--children, brought there by their parents, who knew the
+play.... Monstrous! And that, in a theatre subsidized by the State!”
+
+The worthy man’s indignation amused me. By now I was almost laughing.
+I protested that there could be no dramatic art without a portrayal
+of the passions. In his turn, he declared that the portrayal of the
+passions must necessarily be an undesirable example. The discussion
+continued in this way for some time; and as I was comparing this
+portrayal of the passions to the effect of letting loose the brass
+instruments in an orchestra:
+
+“For instance, the entry of the trombones in such and such a symphony
+of Beethoven’s which you admire....”
+
+“But I don’t, I don’t admire the entry of the trombones,” cried he,
+with extraordinary violence. “Why do you want to make me admire what
+disturbs me?”
+
+His whole body was trembling. The indignant--the almost hostile tone of
+his voice surprised me and seemed to astonish even himself, for he went
+on more calmly:
+
+“Have you observed that the whole effect of modern music is to make
+bearable, and even agreeable, certain harmonies which we used to
+consider discords?”
+
+“Exactly,” I rejoined. “Everything must finally resolve into--be
+reduced to harmony.”
+
+“Harmony!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders. “All that I can see
+in it is familiarization with evil--with sin. Sensibility is blunted;
+purity is tarnished; reactions are less vivid; one tolerates; one
+accepts....”
+
+“To listen to you, one would never dare wean a child.”
+
+But he went on without hearing me: “If one could recover the
+uncompromising spirit of one’s youth, one’s greatest indignation would
+be for what one has become.”
+
+It was impossible to start on a teleological argument; I tried to bring
+him back to his own ground:
+
+“But you don’t pretend to restrict music to the mere expression of
+serenity, do you? In that case, a single chord would suffice--a perfect
+and continuous chord.”
+
+He took both my hands in his, and in a burst of ecstasy, his eyes rapt
+in adoration, he repeated several times over:
+
+“A perfect and continuous chord; yes, yes; a perfect and continuous
+chord.... But our whole universe is a prey to discord,” he added sadly.
+
+I took my leave. He accompanied me to the door and as he embraced me,
+murmured again:
+
+“Oh! How long shall we have to wait for the resolution of the chord?”
+
+
+
+
+                              SECOND PART
+
+                               SAAS-FÉE
+
+
+
+
+                                   I
+
+                        FROM BERNARD TO OLIVIER
+
+
+                                                                 Monday
+
+MY DEAR OLD OLIVIER,
+
+ First I must tell you that I’ve cut the “bachot.” I expect you
+ understood as much when I didn’t turn up. I shall go in for it next
+ October. An unparalleled opportunity to go travelling was offered me.
+ I jumped at it and I’m not sorry I did. I had to make up my mind at
+ once--without taking time to reflect--without even saying good-bye to
+ you. A propos, my travelling companion tells me to say how sorry he is
+ he had to leave without seeing you again. For do you know who carried
+ me off? You’ve guessed it already.... It was Edouard--yes! that same
+ uncle of yours, whom I met the very day he arrived in Paris, in rather
+ extraordinary and sensational circumstances, which I’ll tell you about
+ some day. But everything in this adventure is extraordinary, and when
+ I think of it my head whirls. Even now, I can hardly believe it is
+ true and that I am really here in Switzerland with Edouard and....
+ Well! I see I must tell you the whole story, but mind you tear my
+ letter up and never breathe a word about it to a soul.
+
+ Just think, the poor woman your brother Vincent abandoned, the one
+ you heard sobbing outside your door (I must say, it was idiotic of
+ you not to open it) turns out to be a great friend of Edouard’s and
+ moreover is actually a daughter of Vedel’s and a sister of your friend
+ Armand’s. I oughtn’t to be writing you all this, because a woman’s
+ honour is at stake, but I should burst if I didn’t tell someone....
+ So, once more, don’t breathe a word! You know that she married
+ recently; perhaps you know that shortly after her marriage she fell
+ ill and went for a cure to the South of France. That’s where she met
+ Vincent--in the sanatorium at Pau. Perhaps you know that, too. But
+ what you don’t know is that there were consequences. Yes, old boy!
+ She’s going to have a child and it’s your clumsy ass of a brother’s
+ fault. She came back to Paris and didn’t dare show herself to her
+ parents; still less go back to her husband. And then your brother,
+ as you know, chucked her. I’ll spare you my comments; but I can tell
+ you that Laura Douviers has not uttered a word against him, either of
+ reproach or resentment. On the contrary, she says all she can think
+ of to excuse his conduct. In a word, she’s a very fine woman, with a
+ very beautiful nature. And another very fine person is Edouard. As
+ she didn’t know what to do or where to go, he proposed taking her to
+ Switzerland; and at the same time he proposed that I should go with
+ them, because he didn’t care about travelling _tête à tête_, as
+ he is only on terms of friendship with her. So off we started. It
+ was all settled in a jiffy--just time to pack one’s suit-case and
+ for me to get a kit (for you know I left home without a thing). You
+ can’t imagine how nice Edouard was about it; and what’s more he kept
+ repeating all the time that it was I who was doing him a service. Yes,
+ really, old boy, you were quite right, your uncle’s perfectly splendid.
+
+ The journey was rather troublesome, because Laura got very tired and
+ her condition (she’s in her third month) necessitated a great deal of
+ care; and the place where we had settled to go (it would be too long
+ to explain why) is rather difficult to get at. Besides, Laura very
+ often made things more complicated by refusing to take precautions;
+ she had to be forced; she kept repeating that an accident was the
+ best thing that could happen to her. You can imagine how we fussed
+ over her. Oh, Olivier, how wonderful she is! I don’t feel the same
+ as I did before I knew her, and there are thoughts which I no longer
+ dare put into words and impulses which I check, because I should be
+ ashamed not to be worthy of her. Yes, really, when one is with her,
+ one feels forced, as it were, to think nobly. That doesn’t prevent the
+ conversation between the three of us from being very free--Laura isn’t
+ at all prudish--and we talk about anything; but I assure you that when
+ I am with her, there are heaps of things I don’t feel inclined to
+ scoff at any more and which seem to me now very serious.
+
+ You’ll be thinking I’m in love with her. Well, old boy, you aren’t far
+ wrong. Crazy, isn’t it? Can you imagine me in love with a woman who is
+ going to have a child, whom naturally I respect and wouldn’t venture
+ to touch with my finger-tip? Hardly on the road to becoming a rake, am
+ I?...
+
+ When we reached Saas-Fé, after no end of difficulties (we had a
+ carrying chair for Laura, as it’s impossible to get here by driving),
+ we found there were only two rooms available in the hotel--a big
+ one with two beds, and a little one, which it was settled with the
+ hotel-keeper should be for me--for Laura passes as Edouard’s wife,
+ so as to conceal her identity; but every night she sleeps in the
+ little room and I join Edouard in his. Every morning there’s a regular
+ business carrying things backwards and forwards, for the sake of the
+ servants. Fortunately the two rooms communicate, so that makes it
+ easier.
+
+ We’ve been here six days; I didn’t write to you sooner because I was
+ rather in a state of bewilderment to begin with, and I had to get
+ straight with myself. I am only just beginning to find my bearings.
+
+ Edouard and I have already done one or two little excursions in the
+ mountains. Very amusing; but to tell the truth, I don’t much care
+ for this country. Edouard doesn’t either. He says the scenery is
+ “declamatory.” That’s exactly it.
+
+ The best thing about the place is the air--virgin air, which purifies
+ one’s lungs. And then we don’t want to leave Laura alone for too
+ long at a time, for of course she can’t come with us. The company
+ in the hotel is rather amusing. There are people of all sorts of
+ nationalities. The person we see most of is a Polish woman doctor,
+ who is spending the holidays here with her daughter and a little boy
+ she is in charge of. In fact, it’s because of this little boy that
+ we have come here. He’s got a kind of nervous illness, which the
+ doctor is treating according to a new method. But what does the little
+ fellow most good (he’s really a very attractive little thing) is that
+ he’s madly in love with the doctor’s daughter, who is a year or two
+ older than he and the prettiest creature I have ever seen in my life.
+ They never leave each other from morning till night. And they are so
+ charming together that no one ever thinks of chaffing them.
+
+ I haven’t worked much and not opened a book since I left; but I’ve
+ thought a lot. Edouard’s conversation is extraordinarily interesting.
+ He doesn’t speak to me much personally, though he pretends to treat
+ me as his secretary; but I listen to him talking to the others;
+ especially to Laura, with whom he likes discussing his ideas. You
+ can’t imagine how much I learn by it. There are days when I say to
+ myself that I ought to take notes; but I think I can remember it all.
+ There are days when I long for you madly; I say to myself that it’s
+ you who ought to be here; but I can’t be sorry for what’s happened to
+ me, nor wish for anything to be different. At any rate, you may be
+ sure that I never forget it’s thanks to you that I know Edouard and
+ that it’s to you I owe my happiness. When you see me again, I think
+ you’ll find me changed; I remain, nevertheless, and more faithfully
+ and devotedly than ever
+
+                                                           Your friend.
+
+ P.S. _Wednesday._ We have this moment come back from a tremendous
+ expedition. Climbed the Hallalin--guides, ropes, glaciers, precipices,
+ avalanches, etc. Spent the night in a refuge in the middle of the
+ snows, packed in with other tourists; needless to say we didn’t sleep
+ a wink. The next morning we started before dawn.... Well, old boy,
+ I’ll never speak ill of Switzerland again. When one gets up there, out
+ of sight of all culture, of all vegetation, of everything that reminds
+ one of the avarice and stupidity of men, one feels inclined to shout,
+ to sing, to laugh, to cry, to fly, to dive head foremost into the sky,
+ or to fall on one’s knees. Yours
+
+                                                               Bernard.
+
+Bernard was much too spontaneous, too natural, too pure--he knew too
+little of Olivier, to suspect the flood of hideous feelings his letter
+would raise in his friend’s heart--a kind of tidal wave, in which
+pique, despair and rage were mingled. He felt himself supplanted in
+Bernard’s affection and in Edouard’s. The friendship of his two friends
+left no room for his. One sentence in particular of Bernard’s letter
+tortured him--a sentence which Bernard would never have written had he
+imagined all that Olivier read into it: “In the same room,” he repeated
+to himself--and the serpent of jealousy unrolled its abominable coils
+and writhed in his heart. “They sleep in the same room!” What did he
+not imagine? His mind filled with impure visions which he did not even
+try to banish. He was not jealous in particular either of Edouard or
+of Bernard; but of the two. He pictured each of them in turn or both
+simultaneously, and at the same time envied them. He received the
+letter one forenoon. “Ah! so that’s how it is ...” he kept saying
+to himself all the rest of the day. That night the fiends of hell
+inhabited him. Early next morning he rushed off to Robert’s. The Comte
+de Passavant was waiting for him.
+
+
+
+
+                                  II
+
+                    EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: LITTLE BORIS
+
+
+I HAVE had no difficulty in finding little Boris. The day after our
+arrival, he appeared on the hotel terrace and began looking at the
+mountains through a telescope which stands outside, mounted on a swivel
+for the use of the tourists. I recognized him at once. A little girl,
+rather older than Boris, joined him after a short time. I was sitting
+near by in the drawing-room, of which the French window was standing
+open, and I did not lose a word of their conversation. Though I wanted
+very much to speak to him, I thought it more prudent to wait till I
+could make the acquaintance of the little girl’s mother--a Polish woman
+doctor, who is in charge of Boris and keeps very careful watch over
+him. Little Bronja is an exquisite creature; she must be about fifteen.
+She wears her fair hair in two thick plaits, which reach to her waist;
+the expression of her eyes and the sound of her voice are more angelic
+than human. I write down the two children’s conversation:
+
+“Boris, Mamma had rather we didn’t touch the telescope. Won’t you come
+for a walk?”
+
+“Yes, I will. No, I won’t.”
+
+The two contradictory sentences were uttered in the same breath. Bronja
+only answered the second:
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because it’s too hot, it’s too cold.” He had come away from the
+telescope.
+
+“Oh, Boris, do be nice! You know Mamma would like us to go out. Where’s
+your hat?”
+
+“Vibroskomenopatof. Blaf blaf.”
+
+“What does that mean?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“Then why do you say it?”
+
+“So that you shouldn’t understand.”
+
+“If it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t matter about not understanding
+it.”
+
+“But if it did mean something, anyhow you wouldn’t be able to
+understand.”
+
+“When one talks it’s in order to be understood.”
+
+“Shall we play at making words in order to understand them only us?”
+
+“First of all, try to speak good grammar.”
+
+“My mamma can speak French, English, Roumanian, Turkish, Polish,
+Italoscope, Perroquese and Xixitou.”
+
+All this was said very fast, in a kind of lyrical ecstasy. Bronja began
+to laugh.
+
+“Oh, Boris, why are you always saying things that aren’t true?”
+
+“Why do you never believe what I say?”
+
+“I believe it when it’s true.”
+
+“How do you know when it’s true? I believed _you_ the other day
+when you told me about the angels. I say, Bronja, do you think that, if
+I were to pray very hard, I should see them too?”
+
+“Perhaps you’ll see them if you get out of the habit of telling lies,
+and if God wants to show them to you; but God won’t show them to you if
+you pray to him only for that. There are heaps of beautiful things we
+should see if we weren’t too naughty.”
+
+“Bronja, you aren’t naughty; that’s why you can see the angels. I shall
+always be naughty.”
+
+“Why don’t you try not to be? Shall we go to--” some place whose name I
+didn’t know--“and pray together to God and the Blessèd Virgin to help
+you not to be naughty?”
+
+“Yes. No; listen--let’s take a stick; you shall hold one end and I the
+other. I will shut my eyes, and I promise not to open them until we get
+to the place.”
+
+They walked away, and as they were going down the terrace steps I heard
+Boris again:
+
+“Yes, no, not that end. Wait till I’ve wiped it.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“I’ve touched it.”
+
+
+Mme. Sophroniska came up to me as I was sitting alone, just finishing
+my early breakfast and wondering how I could enter into conversation
+with her. I was surprised to see that she was holding my last book in
+her hand; she asked me with the most affable smile whether it was the
+author whom she had the pleasure of speaking to; then she immediately
+launched upon a long appreciation of my book. Her judgment--both praise
+and criticism--seemed to me more intelligent than what I am accustomed
+to hearing, though her point of view is anything but literary. She told
+me she was almost exclusively interested in questions of psychology
+and in anything that may shed a new light on the human soul. “But how
+rare it is,” she added, “to find a poet, or dramatist or novelist, who
+is not satisfied with a ready-made psychology--” the only kind, I told
+her, that satisfies their readers.
+
+Little Boris has been confided to her for the holidays by his mother. I
+took care not to let her know my reasons for being interested in him.
+
+“He is very delicate,” said Mme. Sophroniska. “His mother’s
+companionship is not at all good for him. She wanted to come to
+Saas-Fée with us, but I would only consent to look after the child
+on condition that she left him entirely to my care; otherwise it
+would be impossible to answer for his being cured. Just imagine,” she
+went on, “she keeps the poor little thing in a state of continual
+excitement--the very thing to develop the worst kind of nervous
+troubles in him. She has been obliged to earn her living since his
+father’s death. She used to be a pianist and, I must say, a marvellous
+performer; but her playing was too subtle to please the ordinary
+public. She decided to take to singing at concerts, at casinos--to go
+on the stage. She used to take Boris with her to her dressing-room; I
+believe the artificial atmosphere of the theatre greatly contributed to
+upset the child’s balance. His mother is very fond of him, but to tell
+the truth it is most desirable that he shouldn’t live with her.”
+
+“What is the matter with him exactly?” I asked.
+
+She began to laugh:
+
+“Is it the name of his illness you want to know? Oh, you wouldn’t be
+much the wiser if I were to give you a fine scientific name for it.”
+
+“Just tell me what he suffers from.”
+
+“He suffers from a number of little troubles, tics, manias, which are
+the sign of what people call a ‘nervous child,’ and which are usually
+treated by rest, open air and hygiene. It is certain that a robust
+organism would not allow these disturbances to show themselves. But if
+debility favours them, it does not exactly cause them. I think their
+origin can always be traced to some early shock, brought about by a
+circumstance it is important to discover. The sufferer, as soon as he
+becomes conscious of this cause, is half cured. But this cause, more
+often than not, escapes his memory, as if it were concealing itself in
+the shadow of his illness; it is in this refuge that I look for it, so
+as to bring it out into the daylight--into the field of vision, I mean.
+I believe that the look of a clear-sighted eye cleanses the mind, as a
+ray of light purifies infected water.”
+
+I repeated to Sophroniska the conversation I had overheard the day
+before, from which it appeared to me that Boris was very far from being
+cured.
+
+“It’s because I am far from knowing all that I need to know of Boris’s
+past. It’s only a short while ago that I began my treatment.”
+
+“Of what does it consist?”
+
+“Oh, simply in letting him talk. Every day I spend one or two hours
+with him. I question him, but very little. The important thing is to
+gain his confidence. I know a good many things already. I divine a good
+many others. But the child is still on the defensive; he is ashamed; if
+I insisted too strongly, tried to force his confidence too quickly, I
+should be going against the very thing I want to arrive at--a complete
+surrender. It would set his back up. So long as I shall not have
+vanquished his reserve, his modesty....”
+
+An inquisition of this kind seemed to me so much in the nature of an
+assault that it was with difficulty I refrained from protesting; but my
+curiosity carried the day.
+
+“Do you mean that you expect the child to make you any shameful
+revelations?”
+
+It was she who protested.
+
+“Oh, shameful? There’s no more shame in it than allowing oneself to
+be sounded. I need to know everything and particularly what is most
+carefully hidden. I must bring Boris to make a complete confession;
+until I can do that, I shall not be able to cure him.”
+
+“You suspect then that he has a confession to make? Are you quite
+sure--forgive me--that you won’t yourself suggest what you want him to
+confess?”
+
+“That is a preoccupation which must never leave me, and it is for
+that reason I work so slowly. I have seen clumsy magistrates who
+have unintentionally prompted a child to give evidence that was pure
+invention from beginning to end, and the child, under the pressure of
+the magistrate’s examination, tells lies in perfect good faith and
+makes people believe in entirely imaginary misdeeds. My part is to
+suggest nothing. Extraordinary patience is needed.”
+
+“It seems to me that in such cases the value of the method depends upon
+the value of the operator.”
+
+“I shouldn’t have dared say so. I assure you that after a little
+practice one gets extraordinarily clever at it; it’s a kind of
+divination--intuition, if you prefer. However, one sometimes goes off
+on a wrong track; the important thing is not to persist in it. Do you
+know how all our conversations begin? Boris starts by telling me what
+he has dreamt the night before.”
+
+“How do you know he doesn’t invent?”
+
+“And even if he did invent!... All the inventions of a diseased
+imagination reveal something.”
+
+She was silent for a moment or two, and then: “‘_Invention_,’
+‘_diseased imagination_’ ... no, no, that’s not it. Words betray
+one’s meaning. Boris dreams aloud in my presence. Every morning he
+consents to remain during one hour in that state of semi-somnolence
+in which the images which present themselves to us escape from the
+control of our reason. They no longer group and associate themselves
+according to ordinary logic, but according to unforeseen affinities;
+above all, they answer to a mysterious inward compulsion--which is
+the very thing I want to discover; and the ramblings of this child
+are far more instructive than the most intelligent analysis of the
+most conscious of minds could be. Many things escape the reason, and a
+person who should attempt to understand life by merely using his reason
+would be like a man trying to take hold of a flame with the tongs.
+Nothing remains but a bit of charred wood, which immediately stops
+flaming.”
+
+She was again silent and began to turn over the pages of my book.
+
+“How very little you penetrate into the human soul!” she cried; then
+she laughed and added abruptly:
+
+“Oh, I don’t mean you in particular; when I say _you_, I mean
+novelists in general. Most of your characters seem to be built on
+piles; they have neither foundations nor sub-soil. I really think
+there’s more truth to be found in the poets; everything which is
+created by the intelligence alone is false. But now I am talking of
+what isn’t my business.... Do you know what puzzles me in Boris? I
+believe him to be exceedingly pure.”
+
+“Why should that puzzle you?”
+
+“Because I don’t know where to look for the source of the evil. Nine
+times out of ten a derangement like his has its origin in some sort of
+ugly secret.”
+
+“Such a one exists in every one of us, perhaps,” said I, “but it
+doesn’t make us all ill, thank Heaven!”
+
+At that Mme. Sophroniska rose; she had just seen Bronja pass by the
+window.
+
+“Look!” said she, pointing her out to me; “there is Boris’s real
+doctor. She is looking for me; I must leave you; but I shall see you
+again, shan’t I?”
+
+
+For that matter, I understand what Sophroniska reproaches the novel
+for not giving her; but in this case, certain reasons of art escape
+her--higher reasons, which make me think that a good novelist will
+never be made out of a good naturalist.
+
+I have introduced Laura to Mme. Sophroniska. They seem to take to each
+other, and I am glad of it. I have fewer scruples about keeping to
+myself when I know they are chatting together. I am sorry that Bernard
+has no companion of his own age; but at any rate the preparation for
+his examination keeps him occupied for several hours a day. I have been
+able to start work again on my novel.
+
+
+
+
+                                  III
+
+               EDOUARD EXPLAINS HIS THEORY OF THE NOVEL
+
+
+NOTWITHSTANDING first appearances, and though each of them did his
+best, Uncle Edouard and Bernard were only getting on together fairly
+well. Laura was not feeling satisfied, either. How should she be?
+Circumstances had forced her to assume a part for which she was not
+fitted; her respectability made her feel uncomfortable in it. Like
+those loving and docile creatures who make the most devoted wives,
+she had need of the proprieties to lean on, and felt herself without
+strength now that she was without the frame of her proper surroundings.
+Her situation as regards Edouard seemed to her more and more false
+every day. What she suffered from most and what she found unendurable,
+if she let her mind dwell on it, was the thought that she was living
+at the expense of this protector--or rather that she was giving him
+nothing in exchange--or more exactly, that Edouard asked nothing of
+her in exchange, while she herself felt ready to give him everything.
+“Benefits,” says Tacitus, through the mouth of Montaigne, “are only
+agreeable as long as one can repay them”; no doubt this is only true
+of noble souls, but without question Laura was one of these. She, who
+would have liked to give, was on the contrary continually receiving,
+and this irritated her against Edouard. Moreover when she went over
+the past in her mind, it seemed to her that Edouard had deluded her by
+awakening a love in her which she still felt strong within her and then
+by evading this love and leaving it without an object. Was not that the
+secret motive of her errors--of her marriage with Douviers, to which
+she had resigned herself, to which Edouard had led her--and then of her
+yielding so soon after to the solicitations of the springtime? For she
+must needs admit it to herself, in Vincent’s arms it was still Edouard
+that she sought. And as she could not understand her lover’s coldness,
+she accused herself of being responsible for it, and imagined that she
+might have vanquished him, had she had more beauty or more boldness;
+and as she could not succeed in hating him, it was herself she
+upbraided and depreciated, denying herself all value, and refusing to
+allow herself any reason for existing or the possession of any virtue.
+
+Let us add further that this camping-out style of life, necessitated
+by the arrangement of the rooms, though it might seem amusing to her
+companions, hurt her delicacy in many sensitive places. And she could
+see no issue to the situation, which yet was one it would be difficult
+to prolong.
+
+The only scrap of comfort and joy Laura was able to find in her present
+life, was by inventing for herself the duties of god-mother or elder
+sister towards Bernard. The worship of a youth so charming touched her;
+the adoration he paid her prevented her from slipping down that slope
+of self-contempt and loathing which may lead even the most irresolute
+creature to the extremest resolutions. Bernard, every morning that he
+was not called off before daybreak by an expedition into the mountains
+(for he loved early rising), used to spend two good hours with her
+reading English. The examination he was going up for in October was a
+convenient excuse.
+
+It cannot be said that his secretarial duties took up much of his
+time. They were ill-defined. When Bernard undertook them he imagined
+himself already seated at a desk, writing from Edouard’s dictation,
+or copying out his manuscripts. Now Edouard never dictated, and his
+manuscripts, such as they were, remained at the bottom of his trunk;
+Bernard was free every hour of the day; but it only lay with Edouard
+to make more calls upon Bernard, who was most anxious to have his
+zeal made use of, so that Bernard was not particularly distressed by
+his want of occupation, or by the feeling that he was not earning his
+living--which, thanks to Edouard’s munificence, was a very comfortable
+one. He was quite determined not to let himself be embarrassed by
+scruples. He believed, I dare not say in Providence, but at any rate
+in his star, and that a certain amount of happiness was due to him, as
+the air is to the lungs which breathe it; Edouard was its dispenser
+in the same way as the sacred orator, according to Bossuet, is the
+dispenser of divine wisdom. Moreover Bernard considered the present
+state of affairs as merely temporary, and was convinced that some day
+he would be able to acquit his debt, as soon as he could bring to the
+mint the uncoined riches whose abundance he felt in his heart. What
+vexed him more was that Edouard made no demand upon certain gifts which
+he felt within himself and which it seemed to him Edouard lacked. “He
+doesn’t know how to make use of me,” thought Bernard, who thereupon
+checked his self-conceit and wisely added: “Worse luck!”
+
+But then what was the reason of this uncomfortable feeling between
+Edouard and Bernard? Bernard seems to me to be one of those people
+who find their self-assurance in opposition. He could not endure that
+Edouard should have any ascendancy over him and, rather than yield
+to his influence, rebelled against it. Edouard, who never dreamed
+of coercing him, was alternately vexed and grieved to feel him so
+restive and so constantly on the alert to defend--or, at any rate,
+to protect--himself. He came to the pitch of doubting whether he
+had not committed an act of folly in taking away with him these two
+beings, whom he seemed only to have united in order that they should
+league together against him. Incapable of penetrating Laura’s secret
+sentiments, he took her reserve and her reticence for coldness. It
+would have made him exceedingly uncomfortable if he had been able to
+see more clearly; and Laura understood this; so that her unrequited
+love spent all its strength in keeping hidden and silent.
+
+Tea-time found them as a rule all assembled in the big sitting-room;
+it often happened that, at their invitation, Mme. Sophroniska joined
+them, generally on the days when Boris and Bronja were out walking. She
+left them very free in spite of their youthfulness; she had perfect
+confidence in Bronja and knew that she was very prudent, especially
+with Boris, who was always particularly amenable with her. The
+country was quite safe; for of course there was no question of their
+adventuring on to the mountains, or even of their climbing the rocks
+near the hotel. One day when the two children had obtained leave to go
+to the foot of the glacier, on condition they did not leave the road,
+Mme. Sophroniska, who had been invited to tea, was emboldened, with
+Bernard’s and Laura’s encouragement, to beg Edouard to tell them about
+his next novel--that is, if he had no objection.
+
+“None at all; but I can’t tell you its story.”
+
+And yet he seemed almost to lose his temper when Laura asked him
+(evidently a tactless question) what the book would be like?
+
+“Nothing!” he exclaimed; then, immediately and as if he had only been
+waiting for this provocation: “What is the use of doing over again what
+other people have done already, or what I myself have done already, or
+what other people might do?”
+
+Edouard had no sooner uttered these words than he felt how improper,
+how outrageous and how absurd they were; at any rate they seemed to
+him improper and absurd; or he was afraid that this was how they would
+strike Bernard.
+
+Edouard was very sensitive. As soon as he began talking of his work,
+and especially when other people made him talk of it, he seemed to lose
+his head.
+
+He had the most perfect contempt for the usual fatuity of authors; he
+snuffed out his own as well as he could; but he was not unwilling to
+seek a reinforcement of his modesty in other people’s consideration; if
+this consideration failed him, modesty immediately went by the board.
+He attached extreme importance to Bernard’s esteem. Was it with a view
+to conquering this that, when Bernard was with him, he set his Pegasus
+prancing? It was the worst way possible. Edouard knew it; he said so to
+himself over and over again; but in spite of all his resolutions, as
+soon as he was in Bernard’s company, he behaved quite differently from
+what he wished, and spoke in a manner which immediately appeared absurd
+to him (and which indeed was so). This might almost make one suppose
+that he loved Bernard?... No; I think not. But a little vanity is
+quite as effectual in making us pose as a great deal of love.
+
+“Is it because the novel, of all literary _genres_, is the freest,
+the most _lawless_,” held forth Edouard, “... is it for that very
+reason, for fear of that very liberty (the artists who are always
+sighing after liberty are often the most bewildered when they get it),
+that the novel has always clung to reality with such timidity? And I am
+not speaking only of the French novel. It is the same with the English
+novel; and the Russian novel, for all its throwing off of constraints,
+is a slave to resemblance. The only progress it looks to is to get
+still nearer to nature. The novel has never known that ‘formidable
+erosion of contours,’ as Nietzsche calls it; that deliberate avoidance
+of life, which gave style to the works of the Greek dramatists,
+for instance, or to the tragedies of the French XVIIth century. Is
+there anything more perfectly and deeply human than these works? But
+that’s just it--they are human only in their depths; they don’t pride
+themselves on appearing so--or, at any rate, on appearing real. They
+remain works of art.”
+
+Edouard had got up, and, for fear of seeming to give a lecture, began
+to pour out the tea as he spoke; then he moved up and down, then
+squeezed a lemon into his cup, but, nevertheless, continued speaking:
+
+“Because Balzac was a genius, and because every genius seems to bring
+to his art a final and conclusive solution, it has been decreed that
+the proper function of the novel is to rival the _état-civil_.[4]
+Balzac constructed his work; he never claimed to codify the novel; his
+article on Stendhal proves it. Rival the _état-civil_! As if there
+weren’t enough fools and boors in the world as it is! What have I to
+do with the _état-civil_? _L’état c’est moi!_ I, the artist;
+civil or not, my work doesn’t pretend to rival anything.”
+
+Edouard, who was getting excited--a little factitiously, perhaps--sat
+down. He affected not to look at Bernard; but it was for him that he
+was speaking. If he had been alone with him, he would not have been
+able to say a word; he was grateful to the two women for setting him on.
+
+“Sometimes it seems to me there is nothing in all literature I admire
+so much as, for instance, the discussion between Mithridate and his two
+sons in Racine; it’s a scene in which the characters speak in a way we
+know perfectly well no father and no sons could ever have spoken in,
+and yet (I ought to say for that very reason) it’s a scene in which all
+fathers and all sons can see themselves. By localizing and specifying
+one restricts. It is true that there is no psychological truth unless
+it be particular; but on the other hand there is no art unless it
+be general. The whole problem lies just in that--how to express the
+general by the particular--how to make the particular express the
+general. May I light my pipe?”
+
+“Do, do,” said Sophroniska.
+
+“Well, I should like a novel which should be at the same time as true
+and as far from reality, as particular and at the same time as general,
+as human and as fictitious as _Athalie_, or _Tartuffe_ or
+_Cinna_.”
+
+“And ... the subject of this novel?”
+
+“It hasn’t got one,” answered Edouard brusquely, “and perhaps that’s
+the most astonishing thing about it. My novel hasn’t got a subject.
+Yes, I know, it sounds stupid. Let’s say, if you prefer it, it hasn’t
+got _one_ subject ... ‘a slice of life,’ the naturalist school
+said. The great defect of that school is that it always cuts its slice
+in the same direction; in time, lengthwise. Why not in breadth? Or in
+depth? As for me I should like not to cut at all. Please understand;
+I should like to put everything into my novel. I don’t want any cut
+of the scissors to limit its substance at one point rather than at
+another. For more than a year now that I have been working at it,
+nothing happens to me that I don’t put into it--everything I see,
+everything I know, everything that other people’s lives and my own
+teach me....”
+
+“And the whole thing stylized into art?” said Sophroniska, feigning the
+most lively attention, but no doubt a little ironically. Laura could
+not suppress a smile. Edouard shrugged his shoulders slightly and went
+on:
+
+“And even that isn’t what I want to do. What I want is to represent
+reality on the one hand, and on the other that effort to stylize it
+into art of which I have just been speaking.”
+
+“My poor dear friend, you will make your readers die of boredom,” said
+Laura; as she could no longer hide her smile, she had made up her mind
+to laugh outright.
+
+“Not at all. In order to arrive at this effect--do you follow me?--I
+invent the character of a novelist, whom I make my central figure;
+and the subject of the book, if you must have one, is just that very
+struggle between what reality offers him and what he himself desires to
+make of it.”
+
+“Yes, yes; I’m beginning to see,” said Sophroniska politely, though
+Laura’s laugh was very near conquering her. “But you know it’s always
+dangerous to represent intellectuals in novels. The public is bored by
+them; one only manages to make them say absurdities and they give an
+air of abstraction to everything they touch.”
+
+“And then I see exactly what will happen,” cried Laura; “in this
+novelist of yours you won’t be able to help painting yourself.”
+
+She had lately adopted in talking to Edouard a jeering tone which
+astonished herself and upset Edouard all the more that he saw a
+reflection of it in Bernard’s mocking eyes. Edouard protested:
+
+“No, no. I shall take care to make him very disagreeable.”
+
+Laura was fairly started.
+
+“That’s just it; everybody will recognize you,” she said, bursting into
+such hearty laughter that the others were caught by its infection.
+
+“And is the plan of the book made up?” enquired Sophroniska, trying to
+regain her seriousness.
+
+“Of course not.”
+
+“What do you mean? Of course not!”
+
+“You ought to understand that it’s essentially out of the question for
+a book of this kind to have a plan. Everything would be falsified if
+anything were settled beforehand. I wait for reality to dictate to me.”
+
+“But I thought you wanted to abandon reality.”
+
+“My novelist wants to abandon it; but I shall continually bring him
+back to it. In fact that will be the subject; the struggle between the
+facts presented by reality and the ideal reality.”
+
+The illogical nature of his remarks was flagrant--painfully obvious
+to everyone. It was clear that Edouard housed in his brain two
+incompatible requirements and that he was wearing himself out in the
+desire to reconcile them.
+
+“Have you got on far with it?” asked Sophroniska politely.
+
+“It depends on what you mean by far. To tell the truth, of the actual
+book not a line has been written. But I have worked at it a great deal.
+I think of it every day and incessantly. I work at it in a very odd
+manner, as I’ll tell you. Day by day in a note-book, I note the state
+of the novel in my mind; yes, it’s a kind of diary that I keep as one
+might do of a child.... That is to say, that instead of contenting
+myself with resolving each difficulty as it presents itself (and every
+work of art is only the sum or the product of the solutions of a
+quantity of small difficulties), I set forth each of these difficulties
+and study it. My note-book contains, as it were, a running criticism of
+my novel--or rather of the novel in general. Just think how interesting
+such a note-book kept by Dickens or Balzac would be; if we had the
+diary of the _Education Sentimentale_ or of _The Brothers
+Karamazof_!--the story of the work--of its gestation! How thrilling
+it would be ... more interesting than the work itself....”
+
+Edouard vaguely hoped that someone would ask him to read these notes.
+But not one of the three showed the slightest curiosity. Instead:
+
+“My poor friend,” said Laura, with a touch of sadness, “it’s quite
+clear that you’ll never write this novel of yours.”
+
+“Well, let me tell you,” cried Edouard impetuously, “that I don’t
+care. Yes, if I don’t succeed in writing the book, it’ll be because
+the history of the book will have interested me more than the book
+itself--taken the book’s place; and it’ll be a very good thing.”
+
+“Aren’t you afraid, when you abandon reality in this way, of losing
+yourself in regions of deadly abstraction and of making a novel about
+ideas instead of about human beings?” asked Sophroniska kindly.
+
+“And even so!” cried Edouard with redoubled energy. “Must we condemn
+the novel of ideas because of the groping and stumbling of the
+incapable people who have tried their hands at it? Up till now we have
+been given nothing but novels with a purpose parading as novels of
+ideas. But that’s not it at all, as you may imagine. Ideas ... ideas,
+I must confess, interest me more than men--interest me more than
+anything. They live; they fight; they perish like men. Of course it may
+be said that our only knowledge of them is through men, just as our
+only knowledge of the wind is through the reeds that it bends; but all
+the same the wind is of more importance than the reeds.”
+
+“The wind exists independently of the reed,” ventured Bernard. His
+intervention made Edouard, who had long been waiting for it, start
+afresh with renewed spirit:
+
+“Yes, I know; ideas exist only because of men; but that’s what’s so
+pathetic; they live at their expense.”
+
+Bernard had listened to all this with great attention; he was full of
+scepticism and very near taking Edouard for a mere dreamer; but during
+the last few moments he had been touched by his eloquence and had felt
+his mind waver in its breath; “But,” thought Bernard, “the reed lifts
+its head again as soon as the wind has passed.” He remembered what he
+had been taught at school--that man is swayed by his passions and not
+by ideas. In the mean time Edouard was going on:
+
+“What I should like to do is something like the art of fugue writing.
+And I can’t see why what was possible in music should be impossible in
+literature....”
+
+To which Sophroniska rejoined that music is a mathematical art, and
+moreover that Bach, by dealing only with figures and by banishing all
+pathos and all humanity, had achieved an abstract _chef d’œuvre_
+of boredom, a kind of astronomical temple, open only to the few rare
+initiated. Edouard at once protested that, for his part, he thought the
+temple admirable, and considered it the apex and crowning point of all
+Bach’s career.
+
+“After which,” added Laura, “people were cured of the fugue for a long
+time to come. Human emotion, when it could no longer inhabit it, sought
+a dwelling place elsewhere.”
+
+The discussion tailed off in an unprofitable argument. Bernard, who
+until then had kept silent, but who was beginning to fidget on his
+chair, at last could bear it no longer; with extreme, even exaggerated
+deference, as was his habit whenever he spoke to Edouard, but with a
+kind of sprightliness, which seemed to make a jest of his deference:
+
+“Forgive me, sir,” said he, “for knowing the title of your book, since
+I learnt it through my own indiscretion--which however you have been
+kind enough to pass over. But the title seemed to me to announce a
+story.”
+
+“Oh, tell us what the title is!” said Laura.
+
+“Certainly, my dear Laura, if you wish it.... But I warn you that I may
+possibly change it. I am afraid it’s rather deceptive.... Well, tell it
+them, Bernard.”
+
+“May I?... _The Counterfeiters_,” said Bernard. “But now
+_you_ tell us--who are these Counterfeiters?”
+
+“Oh dear! I don’t know,” said Edouard.
+
+Bernard and Laura looked at each other and then looked at Sophroniska.
+There was a long sigh; I think it was drawn by Laura.
+
+In reality, Edouard had in the first place been thinking of
+certain of his fellow novelists when he began to think of _The
+Counterfeiters_, and in particular of the Comte de Passavant. But
+this attribution had been considerably widened; according as the
+wind blew from Rome or from elsewhere, his heroes became in turn
+either priests or free-masons. If he allowed his mind to follow its
+bent, it soon tumbled headlong into abstractions, where it was as
+comfortable as a fish in water. Ideas of exchange, of depreciation,
+of inflation, etc., gradually invaded his book (like the theory of
+clothes in Carlyle’s _Sartor Resartus_) and usurped the place
+of the characters. As it was impossible for Edouard to speak of this,
+he kept silent in the most awkward manner, and his silence, which
+seemed like an admission of penury, began to make the other three very
+uncomfortable.
+
+“Has it ever happened to you to hold a counterfeit coin in your hands?”
+he asked at last.
+
+“Yes,” said Bernard; but the two women’s “No” drowned his voice.
+
+“Well, imagine a false ten-franc gold piece. In reality it’s not worth
+two sous. But it will be worth ten francs as long as no one recognizes
+it to be false. So if I start from the idea that....”
+
+“But why start from an idea?” interrupted Bernard impatiently. “If you
+were to start from a fact and make a good exposition of it, the idea
+would come of its own accord to inhabit it. If I were writing _The
+Counterfeiters_ I should begin by showing the counterfeit coin--the
+little ten-franc piece you were speaking of just now.”
+
+So saying, he pulled out of his pocket a small coin, which he flung on
+to the table.
+
+“Just hear how true it rings. Almost the same sound as the real one.
+One would swear it was gold. I was taken in by it this morning, just as
+the grocer who passed it on to me had been taken in himself, he told
+me. It isn’t quite the same weight, I think; but it has the brightness
+and the sound of a real piece; it is coated with gold, so that, all the
+same, it is worth a little more than two sous; but it’s made of glass.
+It’ll wear transparent. No; don’t rub it; you’ll spoil it. One can
+almost see through it, as it is.”
+
+Edouard had seized it and was considering it with the utmost curiosity.
+
+“But where did the grocer get it from?”
+
+“He didn’t know. He thinks he has had it in his drawer some days. He
+amused himself by passing it off on me to see whether I should be taken
+in. Upon my word, I was just going to accept it! But as he’s an honest
+man, he undeceived me; then he let me have it for five francs. He
+wanted to keep it to show to what he calls ‘amateurs.’ I thought there
+couldn’t be a better one than the author of _The Counterfeiters_;
+and it was to show you that I took it. But now that you have examined
+it, give it back to me! I’m sorry that the reality doesn’t interest
+you.”
+
+“Yes, it does”; said Edouard, “but it disturbs me too.”
+
+“That’s a pity,” rejoined Bernard.
+
+
+                           EDOUARD’S JOURNAL
+
+_Tuesday evening._--Sophroniska, Bernard and Laura have been
+questioning me about my novel. Why did I let myself go to speak of it?
+I said nothing but stupidities. Interrupted fortunately by the return
+of the two children. They were red and out of breath, as if they had
+been running. As soon as she came in, Bronja fell into her mother’s
+arms; I thought she was going to burst into sobs.
+
+“Mamma!” she cried, “do scold Boris. He wanted to undress and lie down
+in the snow without any clothes on.”
+
+Sophroniska looked at Boris, who was standing in the door-way, his head
+down, his eyes with a look in them of almost hatred; she seemed not to
+notice the little boy’s strange expression, but with admirable calm:
+
+“Listen, Boris,” she said. “That’s a thing you mustn’t do in the
+evening. If you like we’ll go there to-morrow morning; first of all you
+must begin with bare feet....”
+
+She was gently stroking her daughter’s forehead; but the little girl
+suddenly fell on the ground and began rolling about in convulsions. It
+was rather alarming. Sophroniska lifted her and laid her on the sofa.
+Boris stood motionless, watching the scene with a dazed, bewildered
+expression.
+
+Sophroniska’s methods of education seem to me excellent in theory, but
+perhaps she miscalculates the children’s powers of resistance.
+
+“You behave,” said I, when I was alone with her a little later (after
+the evening meal I had gone to enquire after Bronja, who was too
+unwell to come downstairs), “as if good were always sure to triumph
+over evil.”
+
+“It is true,” she said, “I firmly believe that good must triumph. I
+have confidence.”
+
+“And yet, through excess of confidence you might make a mistake....”
+
+“Every time I have made a mistake, it has been because my confidence
+was not great enough. To-day, when I allowed the children to go out, I
+couldn’t help showing them I was a little uneasy. They felt it. All the
+rest followed from that.”
+
+She had taken my hand.
+
+“You don’t seem to believe in the virtue of convictions.... I mean in
+their power as an active principle.”
+
+“You are right,” I said laughing. “I am not a mystic.”
+
+“Well, as for me,” she cried in an admirable burst of enthusiasm,
+“I believe with my whole soul that without mysticism nothing great,
+nothing fine can be accomplished in this world.”
+
+
+Discovered the name of Victor Strouvilhou in the visitors’ book. From
+what the hotel-keeper says, he must have left Saas-Fée two days before
+our arrival, after staying here nearly a month. I should have been
+curious to see him again. No doubt Sophroniska talked to him. I must
+ask her about him.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 4: The state records of each individual citizen, in which are
+noted the legal facts of his existence.]
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV
+
+                           BERNARD AND LAURA
+
+
+“I WANTED to ask you, Laura,” said Bernard, “whether you think there
+exists anything in this world that mayn’t become a subject of doubt....
+So much so, that I wonder whether one couldn’t take doubt itself as a
+starting point; for that, at any rate, will never fail us. I may doubt
+the reality of everything, but not the reality of my doubt. I should
+like.... Forgive me if I express myself pedantically--I am not pedantic
+by nature, but I have just left the _lycée_, and you have no idea
+what a stamp is impressed on the mind by the philosophical training of
+our last year; I will get rid of it I promise you.”
+
+“Why this parenthesis? You would like...?”
+
+“I should like to write a story of a person who starts by listening to
+everyone, who consults everyone like Panurge, before deciding to do
+anything; after having discovered that the opinions of all these people
+are contradictory in every point, he makes up his mind to consult no
+one but himself, and thereupon becomes a person of great capacity.”
+
+“It’s the idea of an old man,” said Laura.
+
+“I am more mature than you think. A few days ago I began to keep a
+note-book, like Edouard; I write down an opinion on the right hand
+page, whenever I can write the opposite opinion, facing it, on the left
+hand page. For instance, the other evening Sophroniska told us that
+she made Bronja and Boris sleep with their windows open. Everything
+she said in support of this régime seemed to us perfectly reasonable
+and convincing, didn’t it? Well, yesterday in the smoking-room, I
+heard that German professor who has just arrived maintain the contrary
+theory, which seemed to me, I must admit, more reasonable still and
+better grounded. The important thing during sleep, said he, is to
+restrict as much as possible all expenditure and the traffic of
+exchanges in which life consists--carburation, he called it; it is only
+then that sleep becomes really restorative. He gave as example the
+birds who sleep with their heads under their wings, and the animals who
+snuggle down when they go to sleep, so as to be hardly able to breathe
+at all; in the same way, he said, the races that are nearest to nature,
+the peasants who are least cultivated, stuff themselves up at night in
+little closets; and Arabs, who are forced to sleep in the open, at any
+rate cover their faces up with the hood of their burnous. But to return
+to Sophroniska and the two children she is bringing up, I come round to
+thinking she is not wrong after all, and that what is good for others
+would be harmful for these two, because, if I understand rightly, they
+have the germs of tubercle in them. In short, I said to myself.... But
+I’m boring you.”
+
+“Never mind about that. You said to yourself...?”
+
+“I’ve forgotten.”
+
+“Now, now, that’s naughty. You mustn’t be ashamed of your thoughts.”
+
+“I said to myself that nothing is good for everyone, but only
+relatively to some people; that nothing is true for everyone, but only
+relatively to the person who believes it is; that there is no method
+and no theory which can be applied indifferently to all alike; that
+if, in order to act, we must make a choice, at any rate we are free
+to choose; and that if we aren’t free to choose, the thing is simpler
+still; the belief that becomes truth for me (not absolutely, no doubt,
+but relatively to me) is that which allows me the best use of my
+strength, the best means of putting my virtues into action. For I can’t
+prevent myself from doubting, and at the same time I loathe indecision.
+The soft and comfortable pillow Montaigne talks of, is not for my
+head, for I’m not sleepy yet and I don’t want to rest. It’s a long way
+that leads from what I thought I was to what perhaps I really am. I am
+afraid sometimes that I got up too early in the morning.”
+
+“Afraid?”
+
+“No; I’m afraid of nothing. But, d’you know, I have already changed a
+great deal; that is, my mind’s landscape is not at all what it was the
+day I left home; since then I have met you. As soon as I did that I
+stopped putting my freedom first. Perhaps you haven’t realized that I
+am at your service.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?”
+
+“Oh, you know quite well. Why do you want to make me say it? Do you
+expect a declaration?... No, no; please don’t cloud your smile, or I
+shall catch cold.”
+
+“Come now, my dear boy, you are not going to pretend that you are
+beginning to love me.”
+
+“Oh, I’m not beginning,” said Bernard. “It’s you who are beginning to
+feel it, perhaps; but you can’t prevent me.”
+
+“It was so delightful for me not to have to be on my guard with you.
+And now, if I’ve got to treat you like inflammable matter and not dare
+go near you without taking precautions.... But think of the deformed,
+swollen creature I shall soon be. The mere look of me will be enough to
+cure you.”
+
+“Yes, if it were only your looks that I loved. And then, in the first
+place, I’m not ill; or if it is being ill to love you, I prefer not to
+be cured.”
+
+He said all this gravely, almost sadly; he looked at her more tenderly
+than ever Edouard had done, or Douviers, but so respectfully that she
+could not take umbrage. She was holding an English book they had been
+reading, on her lap, and was turning over its pages absently; she
+seemed not to be listening, so that Bernard went on without too much
+embarrassment:
+
+“I used to imagine love as something volcanic--at all events the love
+I was destined to feel. Yes; I really thought I should only be able to
+love in a savage, devastating way, à la Byron. How ill I knew myself!
+It was you, Laura, who taught me to know myself; so different from
+what I thought I was! I was playing the part of a dreadful person
+and making desperate efforts to resemble him. When I think of the
+letter I wrote my supposed father before I left home, I feel very
+much ashamed, I assure you. I took myself for a rebel, an outlaw, who
+tramples underfoot everything that opposes his desire; and now here I
+find that when I am with you I have no desires. I longed for liberty
+as the supreme good, and no sooner was I free, than I bowed myself to
+your.... Oh, if you only knew how maddening it is to have in one’s head
+quantities of phrases from great authors, which come irresistibly to
+one’s lips when one wants to express a sincere feeling. This feeling of
+mine is so new to me that I haven’t yet been able to invent a language
+for it. Let’s say it isn’t love, since you dislike that word; let’s
+call it devotion. It’s as though this liberty which seemed to me so
+infinite, had had limits set to it by your laws. It’s as though all
+the turbulent and unformed things that were stirring within me, were
+dancing an harmonious round, with you for their centre. If one of my
+thoughts happens to stray from you, I leave it.... Laura, I don’t ask
+you to love me--I’m nothing but a schoolboy; I’m not worth your notice;
+but everything I want to do now is in order to deserve your ... (oh!
+the word is frightful!) ... your esteem....”
+
+He had gone down on his knees before her, and though she had at first
+drawn her chair away a little, Bernard’s forehead was on her dress, and
+his arms thrown back behind him, in sign of adoration; but when he felt
+Laura’s hand laid upon his forehead, he seized the hand and pressed his
+lips to it.
+
+“What a child you are, Bernard! I am not free, either,” she said,
+taking away her hand. “Here! Read this.”
+
+She took from her bodice a crumpled piece of paper, which she held out
+to Bernard.
+
+Bernard saw the signature first of all. As he feared, it was Felix
+Douviers’. One moment he kept the letter in his hand without reading
+it; he raised his eyes to look at Laura. She was crying. Then Bernard
+felt one more bond burst in his heart--one of the secret ties which
+bind each one of us to himself, to his selfish past. Then he read:
+
+MY BELOVED LAURA,
+
+ In the name of the little child who is to be born, and whom I swear
+ to love as if I were its father, I beseech you to come back. Don’t
+ think that any reproaches will meet you here. Don’t blame yourself too
+ much--that is what hurts me most. Don’t delay. My whole soul awaits
+ you, adores you, is laid humbly at your feet.
+
+Bernard was sitting on the floor in front of Laura, but it was without
+looking at her that he asked:
+
+“When did you get this?”
+
+“This morning.”
+
+“I thought he knew nothing about it. Did you write and tell him?”
+
+“Yes; I told him everything.”
+
+“Does Edouard know this?”
+
+“He knows nothing about it.”
+
+Bernard remained silent a little while with downcast head; then turning
+towards her once more:
+
+“And ... what do you mean to do now?”
+
+“Do you really ask?... Return to him. It is with him that my place
+is--with him that I ought to live. You know it.”
+
+“Yes,” said Bernard.
+
+There was a very long silence. Bernard broke it:
+
+“Do you believe one can love someone else’s child as much as one’s own,
+really?”
+
+“I don’t know if I believe it, but I hope it.”
+
+“For my part, I believe one can. And, on the contrary, I don’t believe
+in what people call so foolishly ‘the blood speaking.’ I believe this
+idea that the blood speaks is a mere myth. I have read somewhere that
+among certain tribes of South Sea Islanders, it is the custom to adopt
+other people’s children, and that these adopted children are often
+preferred to the others. The book said--I remember it quite well--‘made
+more of.’ Do you know what I think now?... I think that my supposed
+father, who stood in my father’s place, never said or did anything that
+could let it be suspected that I was not his real son; that in writing
+to him as I did, that I had always felt the difference, I was lying;
+that, on the contrary, he showed a kind of predilection for me, which
+I felt perfectly, so that my ingratitude towards him was all the more
+abominable; and that I behaved very ill to him. Laura, my friend, I
+should like to ask you.... Do you think I ought to beg his pardon and
+go back to him?”
+
+“No,” said Laura.
+
+“Why not? Since you are going back to Douviers?”
+
+“You were telling me just now, that what was true for one is not true
+for another. I feel I am weak; you are strong. Monsieur Profitendieu
+may love you; but from what you have told me, you are not of the kind
+to understand each other.... Or, at any rate, wait a little. Don’t go
+back to him worsted. Do you want to know what I really think?--that it
+is for me and not for him that you are proposing it--to get what you
+called ‘my esteem.’ You will only get it, Bernard, if I feel you are
+not seeking for it. I can only care for you as you are naturally. Leave
+repentance to me. It is not for you, Bernard.”
+
+“I almost get to like my name when I hear it on your lips. Do you
+know what my chief horror was at home? The luxury. So much comfort,
+so many facilities.... I felt myself becoming an anarchist. Now, on
+the contrary, I think I’m veering toward conservatism. I realized that
+the other day because of the indignation that seized me when I heard
+the tourist at the frontier speak of his pleasure in cheating the
+customs. ‘Robbing the State is robbing no one,’ he said. My feeling of
+antagonism made me suddenly understand what the State was. And I began
+to have an affection for it, simply because it was being injured. I had
+never thought about it before. ‘The State is nothing but a convention,’
+he said, too. What a fine thing a convention would be that rested on
+the bona fides of every individual! ... if only there were nothing
+but honest folk. Why, if anyone were to ask me to-day what virtue I
+considered the finest, I should answer without hesitation--honesty. Oh,
+Laura! I should like all my life long, at the very smallest shock, to
+ring true, with a pure, authentic sound. Nearly all the people I have
+known ring false. To be worth exactly what one seems to be worth--not
+to try to seem to be worth more.... One wants to deceive people, and
+one is so much occupied with seeming, that one ends by not knowing what
+one really is.... Forgive me for talking like this. They are my last
+night’s reflections.”
+
+“You were thinking of the little coin you showed us yesterday. When I
+go away....”
+
+She could not finish her sentence; the tears rose to her eyes and in
+the effort she made to keep them back, Bernard saw her lips tremble.
+
+“Then you are going away, Laura ...” he went on sadly. “I am afraid
+that when I no longer feel you near me, I shall be worth nothing at
+all--or hardly anything.... But, tell me--I should like to ask you
+... would you be going away--would you have made this confession, if
+Edouard ... I don’t know how to say it ...” (and as Laura blushed), “if
+Edouard had been worth more? Oh, don’t protest. I know so well what you
+think of him.”
+
+“You say that, because yesterday you caught me smiling at what he said;
+you immediately jumped to the conclusion that we were judging him in
+the same way. But it’s not so. Don’t deceive yourself. In reality I
+don’t know what I think of him. He is never the same for long together.
+He is attached to nothing, but nothing is more attractive than his
+elusiveness. He is perpetually forming, unforming, re-forming himself.
+One thinks one has grasped him.... Proteus! He takes the shape of what
+he loves, and oneself must love him to understand him.”
+
+“You love him. Oh, Laura! it’s not of Douviers I feel jealous, nor of
+Vincent; it’s of Edouard.”
+
+“Why jealous? I love Douviers; I love Edouard, but differently. If I am
+to love you, it must be with yet another love.”
+
+“Laura, Laura, you don’t love Douviers. You feel affection for him,
+pity, esteem; but that’s not love. I think the secret of your sadness
+(for you are sad, Laura) is that life has divided you; love has only
+consented to take you, incomplete; you distribute among several what
+you would have liked to give to one only. As for me, I feel I am
+indivisible; I can only give the whole of myself.”
+
+“You are too young to speak so. You cannot tell yet whether life will
+not ‘divide’ you too, as you call it. I can only accept from you the
+... devotion which you offer me. The rest will have its exigencies and
+will have to be satisfied elsewhere.”
+
+“Can it be true? Do you want to disgust me beforehand with myself and
+with life, too?”
+
+“You know nothing of life. Everything is before you. Do you know
+what my mistake was? To think there was nothing more for me. It was
+when I thought, alas! that there was nothing more for me, that I let
+myself go. I lived that last spring at Pau as if I were never to see
+another--as if nothing mattered any more. I can tell you now, Bernard,
+now that I’ve been punished for it--Never despair of life!”
+
+Of what use is it to speak so to a young creature full of fire? And
+indeed Laura was hardly speaking to Bernard. Touched by his sympathy,
+and almost in spite of herself, she was thinking aloud in his presence.
+She was unapt at feigning, unapt at self-control. As she had yielded a
+moment ago to the impulsive feeling which carried her away whenever she
+thought of Edouard, and which betrayed her love for him, so now she had
+given way to a certain tendency to sermonize, which she had no doubt
+inherited from her father. But Bernard had a horror of recommendations
+and advice, even if they should come from Laura; his smile told her as
+much and she went on more calmly:
+
+“Are you thinking of keeping on as Edouard’s secretary when you go back
+to Paris?”
+
+“Yes, if he is willing to employ me; but he gives me nothing to do.
+Do you know what would amuse me? To write that book of his with him;
+for he’ll never write it alone; you told him so yesterday. That method
+of working he described to us seemed to me absurd. A good novel gets
+itself written more naïvely than that. And first of all, one must
+believe in one’s own story--don’t you think so--and tell it quite
+simply? I thought at one time I might help him. If he had wanted a
+detective, I might perhaps have done the job. He could have worked on
+the facts that my police work would have furnished him.... But with
+an idea-monger there’s nothing doing. When I’m with him, I feel that
+I have the soul of a reporter. If he sticks to his mistaken ways, I
+shall work on my own account. I must earn my living. I shall offer my
+services to a newspaper. Between times I shall write verses.”
+
+“For when you are with reporters, you’ll certainly feel yourself the
+soul of a poet.”
+
+“Oh! don’t laugh at me. I know I’m ridiculous. Don’t rub it in too
+much.”
+
+“Stay with Edouard; you’ll help him; and let him help you. He is very
+good.”
+
+The luncheon bell rang. Bernard rose. Laura took his hand:
+
+“Just one thing--that little coin you showed us yesterday ... in
+remembrance of you, when I go away”--she pulled herself together and
+this time was able to finish her sentence--“would you give it me?”
+
+“Here it is,” said Bernard, “take it.”
+
+
+
+
+                                   V
+
+           EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: CONVERSATION WITH SOPHRONISKA
+
+        _C’est ce qui arrive de presque toutes les maladies de l’esprit
+    humain qu’on se flatte d’avoir guéries. On les répercute seulement,
+           comme on dit en médecine, et on leur en substitue d’autres._
+
+                                      SAINTE-BEUVE (_Lundis_, I, p. 19)
+
+
+I AM beginning to catch sight of what I might call the “deep-lying
+subject” of my book. It is--it will be--no doubt, the rivalry between
+the real world and the representation of it which we make to ourselves.
+The manner in which the world of appearances imposes itself upon us,
+and the manner in which we try to impose on the outside world our own
+interpretation--this is the drama of our lives. The resistance of
+facts invites us to transport our ideal construction into the realm of
+dreams, of hope, of belief in a future life, which is fed by all the
+disappointments and disillusions of our present one. Realists start
+from facts--fit their ideas to suit the facts. Bernard is a realist. I
+am afraid we shall never understand each other.
+
+How could I agree when Sophroniska told me I had nothing of the mystic
+in me? I am quite ready to recognize, as she does, that without
+mysticism man can achieve nothing great. But is it not precisely my
+mysticism which Laura incriminates when I speak of my book?... Well,
+let them settle the argument as they please.
+
+
+Sophroniska has been speaking to me again about Boris, from whom she
+thinks she has succeeded in obtaining a full confession. The poor child
+has not got the smallest covert, the smallest tuft left in him, where
+he can take shelter from the doctor’s scrutiny. He has been driven into
+the open. Sophroniska takes to bits the innermost wheels of his mental
+organism and spreads them out in the broad daylight, like a watchmaker
+cleaning the works of a clock. If after that he does not keep good
+time, it’s a hopeless job. This is what Sophroniska told me:
+
+When Boris was about nine years old, he was sent to school at Warsaw.
+He there made friends with a schoolfellow one or two years older
+than himself--one Baptistin Kraft, who initiated him into certain
+clandestine practices, which the children in their ignorance and
+astonishment believed to be “magic.” This is the name they bestowed
+upon their vice, from having heard or read that magic enables one in
+some mysterious way to gain possession of what one wishes for, that
+it gives unlimited powers and so forth.... They believed in all good
+faith that they had discovered a secret which made up for real absence
+by illusory presence, and they freely put themselves in a state of
+hallucination and ecstasy, gloating over an empty void, which their
+heated imagination, stimulated by their desire for pleasure, filled
+to overflowing with marvels. Needless to say, Sophroniska did not
+make use of these terms; I should have liked her to repeat exactly
+what Boris said, but she declares she only succeeded in making out
+the above--though she certified its accuracy--through a tangle of
+pretences, reticence and vagueness.
+
+“I have at last found out the explanation of something I have been
+trying to discover for a long time past,” she added, “--of a bit of
+parchment which Boris used always to wear hanging round his neck in a
+little sachet, along with the religious medallions his mother forces
+him to wear. There were six words on it, written in capital letters in
+a childish, painstaking hand--six words whose meaning he never would
+tell me.
+
+           “GAS. TELEPHONE ... ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND ROUBLES
+
+“‘But it means nothing--it’s magic,’ he used always to answer whenever
+I pressed him. That was all I could get out of him. I know now that
+these enigmatic words are in young Baptistin’s handwriting--the grand
+master and professor of magic--and that these six words were the boys’
+formula of incantation--the ‘Open Sesame’ of the shameful Paradise,
+into which their pleasure plunged them. Boris called this bit of
+parchment, his _talisman_. I had great difficulty in persuading
+him to let me see it and still greater in persuading him to give it up
+(it was at the beginning of our stay here); for I wanted him to give it
+up, as I know now that he had already given up his bad habits. I had
+hopes that the tics and manias from which he suffers would disappear
+with the _talisman_. But he clung to it and his illness clung to
+it as to a last refuge.”
+
+“But you said he had already given up his bad habits....”
+
+“His nervous illness only began after that. It arose no doubt from the
+constraint Boris was obliged to exercise in order to get free from
+them. I have just learnt from him that his mother caught him one day in
+the act of ‘doing magic,’ as he says. Why did she never tell me?... out
+of false shame?...”
+
+“And no doubt because she knew he was cured.”
+
+“Absurd!... And that is why I have been in the dark so long. I told you
+that I thought Boris was perfectly pure.”
+
+“You even told me that you were embarrassed by it.”
+
+“You see how right I was!... The mother ought to have warned me. Boris
+would be cured already if I had known this from the beginning.”
+
+“You said these troubles only began later on....”
+
+“I said they arose as a protestation. His mother, I imagine, scolded,
+begged, preached. Then his father died. Boris was convinced that this
+was the punishment of these secret practices he had been told were so
+wicked; he held himself responsible for his father’s death; he thought
+himself criminal, damned. He took fright; and it was then that his
+weakly organism, like a tracked animal, invented all these little
+subterfuges, by means of which he works off his secret sense of guilt,
+and which are so many avowals.”
+
+“If I understand you rightly, you think it would have been less
+prejudicial to Boris if he had gone quietly on with his ‘magic’?”
+
+“I think he might have been cured without being frightened. The change
+of life which was made necessary by his father’s death would have
+been enough, no doubt, to distract his attention, and when they left
+Warsaw he would have been removed from his friend’s influence. No good
+result is to be arrived at by terror. Once I knew the facts, I talked
+the whole thing over with him, and made him ashamed of having preferred
+the possession of imaginary goods to the real goods which are, I told
+him, the reward of effort. Far from attempting to blacken his vice, I
+represented it to him simply as one of the forms of laziness; and I
+really believe it is--the most subtle--the most perfidious.”
+
+These words brought back to my mind some lines of La Rochefoucauld,
+which I thought I should like to show her, and, though I might have
+quoted them by heart, I went to fetch the little book of _Maxims_,
+without which I never travel. I read her the following:
+
+ “Of all the passions, the one about which we ourselves know least
+ is laziness, the fiercest and the most evil of them all, though its
+ violence goes unperceived and the havoc it causes lies hidden....
+ The repose of laziness has a secret charm for the soul, suddenly
+ suspending its most ardent pursuits and most obstinate resolutions.
+ To give, in fine, some idea of this passion, it should be said that
+ laziness is like a state of beatitude, in which the soul is consoled
+ for all its losses, and which stands in lieu to it of all its
+ possessions.”[5]
+
+“Do you mean to say,” said Sophroniska then, “that La Rochefoucauld was
+hinting at what we have been speaking of, when he wrote that?”
+
+“Possibly; but I don’t think so. Our classical authors have a right to
+all the interpretations they allow of. That is why they are so rich.
+Their precision is all the more admirable in that it does not claim to
+be exclusive.”
+
+I asked her to show me this wonderful _talisman_ of Boris’s. She
+told me it was no longer in her possession, as she had given it to a
+person who was interested in Boris and who had asked her for it as a
+souvenir. “A certain M. Strouvilhou, whom I met here some time before
+your arrival.”
+
+I told Sophroniska then, that I had seen the name in the visitors’
+book, and that as I had formerly known a Strouvilhou, I was curious
+to learn whether it was the same. From the description she gave of
+him it was impossible to doubt it. But she could tell me nothing that
+satisfied my curiosity. I merely learnt that he was very polite, very
+attentive, that he seemed to her exceedingly intelligent, but a little
+lazy, “if I dare still use the word,” she added, laughing. In my turn
+I told her all I knew of Strouvilhou, and that led me to speak of the
+boarding school where we had first met, of Laura’s parents (she too
+had been confiding in her), and finally of old La Pérouse, of his
+relationship with Boris, and of the promise I had made him to bring the
+child back to Paris. As Sophroniska had previously said that it was not
+desirable Boris should live with his mother, “Why don’t you send him to
+Azaïs’s school?” I asked. In suggesting this, I was thinking especially
+of his grandfather’s immense joy at having him so near, and staying
+with friends where he could see him whenever he liked. Sophroniska said
+she would think it over; extremely interested by everything I told her.
+
+
+Sophroniska goes on repeating that little Boris is cured--a cure
+which is supposed to corroborate her method; but I am afraid she is
+anticipating a little. Of course I don’t want to set my opinion against
+hers, and I admit that his tics, his way of contradicting himself, his
+hesitations of speech have almost entirely disappeared; but, to my
+mind, the malady has simply taken refuge in some deeper recess of his
+being, as though to escape the doctor’s inquisitorial glance, and now
+it is his soul itself which is the seat of mischief. Just as onanism
+was succeeded by nervous movements, so these movements have given place
+to some strange undefinable, invisible state of terror. Sophroniska,
+it is true, is uneasy at seeing Boris, following upon Bronja’s lead,
+fling himself into a sort of puerile mysticism; she is too intelligent
+not to understand that this new “beatitude” which Boris is now seeking,
+is not very different after all from the one he at first provoked by
+artifice, and that though it may be less wasteful, less ruinous to the
+organism, it turns him aside quite as much from effort and realization.
+But when I say this she replies that creatures like Boris and Bronja
+cannot do without some idealistic food, and that if they were deprived
+of it, they would succumb--Bronja to despair, and Boris to a vulgar
+materialism; she thinks she has no right to destroy the children’s
+confidence, and though she thinks their belief is untrue, she must
+needs see in it a sublimation of low instincts, a higher postulation,
+an incitement, a safeguard, a what-not.... Without herself believing in
+the dogmas of the Church, she believes in the efficacy of faith. She
+speaks with emotion of the two children’s piety, of how they read the
+Apocalypse together, of their fervour, their talk with angels, their
+white-robed souls. Like all women, she is full of contradictions. But
+she was right--I am decidedly not a mystic ... any more than I am lazy.
+I rely on the atmosphere of Azaïs’s school to turn Boris into a worker;
+to cure him in a word of seeking after _imaginary goods_. That is
+where his salvation lies. Sophroniska, I think, is coming round to the
+idea of confiding him to my care; but she will no doubt accompany him
+to Paris so as to be able to settle him into the school herself, and so
+reassure his mother, whose consent she makes sure of obtaining.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 5: _De toutes les passions, celle qui est la plus inconnue
+à nous-mêmes, c’est la paresse; elle est la plus ardente et la plus
+maligne de toutes, quoique sa violence soit insensible et que les
+dommages qu’elle cause soient très-cachés.... Le repos de la paresse
+est un charme secret de l’âme qui suspend soudainement les plus
+ardentes poursuites et les plus opiniâtres résolutions. Pour donner
+enfin la véritable idée de cette passion, il faut dire que la paresse
+est comme une béatitude de l’âme, qui la console de toutes ses pertes
+et qui lui tient lieu de tous ses biens._
+
+LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.]
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI
+
+                        FROM OLIVIER TO BERNARD
+
+   _Il y a de certains défauts qui, bien mis en œuvre brillent plus que
+                                                        la vertu même_.
+
+                                                      LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
+
+
+DEAR OLD FELLOW--
+
+ I must first tell you that I have passed my _bachot_ all right.
+ But that’s of no importance. A unique opportunity came in my way of
+ travelling for a bit. I was still hesitating; but after reading your
+ letter, I jumped at it. My mother made some objections at first; but
+ Vincent soon got over them. He has been nicer than I could have hoped.
+ I cannot believe that in the circumstances you allude to, he can have
+ behaved like a cad. At our age, we have an unfortunate tendency to
+ judge people severely and condemn them without appeal. Many actions
+ appear to us reprehensible--odious even--simply because we don’t enter
+ sufficiently into their motives. Vincent didn’t ... but this would
+ take too long and I have too many things to say to you.
+
+ You must know that the writer of this letter is no less a person than
+ the editor-in-chief of the new review, _The Vanguard_. After some
+ reflection I agreed to take up this responsible position, as Comte
+ Robert de Passavant considered I should fill it worthily. It is he
+ who is financing the review, though he doesn’t care about its being
+ known just yet, and my name is to figure alone on the cover. We shall
+ come out in October; try to send me something for the first number;
+ I should be heart-broken if your name didn’t adorn the first list of
+ contents alongside of mine. Passavant would like the first number to
+ contain something rather shocking and spicy, for he thinks the most
+ appalling thing that can be said against a new review is that it is
+ mealy-mouthed. I’m inclined to agree with him. We discuss it a great
+ deal. He has asked me to write the thing in question and has provided
+ me with a rather risky subject for a short story; it worries me a
+ little because of my mother, who may be hurt by it. But it can’t be
+ helped. As Passavant says, the younger one is, the less compromising
+ the scandal.
+
+ I am writing this from Vizzavone. Vizzavone is a little place half
+ way up one of the highest mountains in Corsica, buried in a thick
+ forest. The hotel in which we are staying is some way off the village
+ and is used by tourists as a starting place for their excursions. We
+ have been here only a few days. We began by staying in an inn not far
+ from the beautiful bay of Porto, where we bathed every morning; it is
+ absolutely deserted and one can spend the whole day without a stitch
+ on one. It was marvellous; but the weather turned too hot and we had
+ to go up to the mountains.
+
+ Passavant is a delightful companion; he isn’t at all stuck up about
+ his title; he likes me to call him Robert; and the name he has
+ invented for me is Olive--isn’t it charming? He does all he can
+ to make me forget his age and I assure you he does. My mother was
+ rather alarmed at the idea of my going away with him, for she hardly
+ knows him at all. I hesitated at first for fear of distressing her.
+ Before your letter came I had almost given it up. Vincent persuaded
+ her, however, and your letter suddenly gave me courage. We spent the
+ last days before starting in doing a round of shops. Passavant is so
+ generous that he is always wanting to give me things and I had to stop
+ him all the time. But he thought my wretched rags frightful; shirts,
+ ties, socks--nothing I had pleased him; he kept repeating that if we
+ were to spend some time together, it would be too painful to him not
+ to see me properly dressed--that is to say, as he likes. Naturally
+ everything we bought was sent to his house, for fear of making my
+ mother uncomfortable. He himself is exquisitely elegant; but above all
+ his taste is very good, and a great many things which I used to think
+ quite bearable now seem odious to me. You can’t imagine how amusing he
+ was in the shops. He is really very witty. I should like to give you
+ an idea of it. One day, we were at Brentano’s, where he was having a
+ fountain pen mended. There was a huge Englishman just behind him who
+ wanted to be served before his turn, and as Robert pushed him away
+ rather roughly, he began to jabber something or other in his lingo;
+ Robert turned round very calmly and said:
+
+ “It’s not a bit of use. I don’t understand English.”
+
+ The Englishman was in a rage and answered back in the purest French:
+
+ “Then you ought to.”
+
+ To which Robert answered with a polite smile:
+
+ “I told you it wasn’t a bit of use.”
+
+ The Englishman was boiling over, but he hadn’t another word to say. It
+ was killing.
+
+ Another day we were at the Olympia. During the _entr’acte_ we
+ were in the promenade with a lot of prostitutes walking round. Two of
+ them--rather decayed looking creatures--accosted him:
+
+ “Stand us a glass of beer, dearie?”
+
+ We sat down at a table with them.
+
+ “Waiter! A glass of beer for these ladies.”
+
+ “And for you and the young gentleman, sir?”
+
+ “Oh, for us? We’ll take champagne,” he said carelessly. He ordered a
+ bottle of Moët, and we blew it all to ourselves. You should have seen
+ the poor things’ faces!... I think he has a loathing for prostitutes.
+ He confided to me that he has never been inside a brothel, and gave me
+ to understand that he would be very angry with me if I ever went. So
+ you see he’s perfectly all right in spite of his airs and his cynical
+ talk--as, for instance, when he says he calls it a “dull day” if he
+ hasn’t met at least five people before lunch, with whom he wants to go
+ to bed. (I must tell you by the way, that I haven’t tried again ...
+ you know what.)
+
+ He has a particularly odd and amusing way of moralizing. The other day
+ he said to me:
+
+ “You see, my dear boy, the important thing in life is not to step on
+ to the downward path. One thing leads on to another and one never
+ can tell how it will end. For instance, I once knew a very worthy
+ young man who was engaged to marry my cook’s daughter. One night he
+ chanced to go into a small jeweller’s shop; he killed the owner; then
+ he robbed; after that he dissembled. You see where it leads. The last
+ time I saw him he had taken to lying. So do be careful.”
+
+ “He’s like that the whole time. So there’s no chance of being bored.
+ We left with the idea of getting through a lot of work, but so
+ far we’ve done nothing but bathe, dry in the sun and talk. He has
+ extremely original ideas and opinions about everything. I am trying
+ to persuade him all I can to write about some new theories he has
+ on deep-sea fishes and what he calls their “private lights,” which
+ enables them to do without the light of the sun--which he compares to
+ grace and revelation. Told baldly like that it doesn’t sound anything,
+ but I assure you that when he talks about it, it’s as interesting as
+ a novel. People don’t know that he’s extremely well up in natural
+ history; but he kind of prides himself on hiding his knowledge--what
+ he calls his secret jewels. He says it’s only snobs who like showing
+ off all their possessions--especially if they’re imitation.
+
+ He knows admirably well how to make use of ideas, images, people,
+ things; that is, he gets something out of everything. He says the
+ great art of life is not so much to enjoy things as to make the most
+ of them.
+
+ I have written a few verses, but I don’t care enough about them to
+ send them to you.
+
+ Good-bye, old boy. Till October. You will find me changed, too. Every
+ day I get a little more self-confidence. I am glad to hear you are in
+ Switzerland, but you see that I have no cause to envy you.
+
+                                                               OLIVIER.
+
+Bernard held this letter out to Edouard, who read it without showing
+any sign of the feelings that agitated him.
+
+Everything that Olivier said of Robert with such complacency filled
+him with indignation and put the final touch to his detestation. What
+hurt him more than anything was that Olivier had not even mentioned him
+in his letter and seemed to have forgotten him. He tried in vain to
+decipher three lines of postscript, which had been heavily inked over
+and which had run as follows:
+
+“Tell Uncle E. that I think of him constantly; that I cannot forgive
+him for having chucked me and that my heart has been mortally wounded.”
+
+These lines were the only sincere ones in a letter which had been
+written for show and inspired by pique. Olivier had crossed them out.
+
+Edouard gave the horrible letter back to Bernard without breathing
+a word; without breathing a word, Bernard took it. I have said
+before that they didn’t speak to each other much--a kind of strange,
+inexplicable constraint weighed upon them when they were alone
+together. (I confess I don’t like the word “inexplicable” and use it
+only because I am momentarily at a loss.) But that evening, when they
+were alone in their room and getting ready to go to bed, Bernard, with
+a great effort and the words sticking in his throat a little, asked:
+
+“I suppose Laura has shown you Douviers’ letter?”
+
+“I never doubted that Douviers would take it properly,” said Edouard,
+getting into bed. “He’s an excellent fellow--a little weak, perhaps,
+but still excellent. He’ll adore the child, I’m sure. And it’ll
+certainly be more robust than if it were his own. For he doesn’t strike
+me as being much of a Hercules.”
+
+Bernard was much too fond of Laura not to be shocked by Edouard’s cool
+way of talking; but he did not let it be seen.
+
+“So!” went on Edouard, putting out his candle, “I am glad to see that
+after all there is to be a satisfactory ending to this affair, which at
+one time seemed as if it could only lead to despair. Anybody may make a
+false start; the important thing is not to persist in....”
+
+“Evidently,” interrupted Bernard, who wanted to change the subject.
+
+“I must confess, Bernard, that I am afraid I have made one with you.”
+
+“A false start?”
+
+“Yes; I’m afraid so. In spite of all the affection I have for you, I
+have been thinking for the last few days that we aren’t the sort to
+understand each other and that ...” (he hesitated a few seconds to
+find his words) “... staying with me longer would set you on the wrong
+track.”
+
+Bernard had been thinking the same till Edouard spoke; but Edouard
+could certainly have said nothing more likely to bring Bernard back.
+The instinct of contradiction carried the day and he protested.
+
+“You don’t know me yet, and I don’t know myself. You haven’t put me to
+the test. If you have no complaint against me, mayn’t I ask you to wait
+a little longer? I admit that we aren’t at all like each other: but my
+idea was precisely that it was better for each of us that we shouldn’t
+be too much alike. I think that if I can help you, it’ll be above all
+by being different and by the new things I may be able to bring you.
+If I am wrong, it will be always time enough to tell me so. I am not
+the kind of person to complain or recriminate. See here--this is what
+I propose--it may be idiotic.... Little Boris, I understand, is to go
+to the Vedel-Azaïs school. Wasn’t Sophroniska telling you that she was
+afraid he would feel a little lost there? Supposing I were to go there
+myself, with a recommendation from Laura; couldn’t I get some kind of
+place--under-master--usher--something or other? I have got to earn my
+living. I shouldn’t ask much--just my board and lodging.... Sophroniska
+seems to trust me and I get on very well with Boris. I would look after
+him, help him, tutor him, be his friend and protector. But at the same
+time I should remain at your disposition, work for you in the intervals
+and be at hand at your smallest sign. Tell me what you say to that?”
+
+And as if to give “that” greater weight, he added:
+
+“I have been thinking of it for the last two days.”
+
+Which wasn’t true. If he hadn’t invented it on the spur of the moment,
+he would have already spoken to Laura about it. But what was true,
+and what he didn’t say, was that ever since his indiscreet reading
+of Edouard’s journal, and since his meeting with Laura, his thoughts
+often turned to the Vedels’ boarding school; he wanted to know Armand,
+Olivier’s friend, of whom he never spoke; he wanted still more to know
+Sarah, the younger sister; but his curiosity remained a secret one; out
+of consideration for Laura, he did not even own it to himself.
+
+Edouard said nothing; and yet Bernard’s plan in so far as it provided
+him with a domicile, pleased him. He didn’t at all care for the idea of
+taking him in himself. Bernard blew out his candle, and then went on:
+
+“Don’t think that I didn’t understand what you said about your book and
+about the conflict you imagine between brute reality and....”
+
+“I don’t imagine it,” said Edouard, “it exists.”
+
+“But for that very reason, wouldn’t it be a good thing if I were to
+beat in a few facts for you, so as to give you something to fight with?
+I could do your observing for you.”
+
+Edouard had a suspicion that he was laughing at him a little. The truth
+is he felt humiliated by Bernard. He expressed himself too well....
+
+“We’ll think it over,” said Edouard.
+
+A long time went by. Bernard tried in vain to sleep. Olivier’s letter
+kept tormenting him. Finally, unable to hold out any longer, and
+hearing Edouard tossing in his bed, he murmured:
+
+“If you aren’t asleep, I should like to ask you one thing more.... What
+do you think of the Comte de Passavant?”
+
+“I should think you could pretty well imagine,” said Edouard. Then,
+after a moment: “Are you?”
+
+“I?” said Bernard savagely, “... I could kill him.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII
+
+                   THE AUTHOR REVIEWS HIS CHARACTERS
+
+
+THE traveller, having reached the top of the hill, sits down and looks
+about him before continuing his journey, which henceforward lies
+all downhill. He seeks to distinguish in the darkness--for night is
+falling--where the winding path he has chosen is leading him. So the
+undiscerning author stops awhile to regain his breath, and wonders with
+some anxiety where his tale will take him.
+
+I am afraid that Edouard, in confiding little Boris to Azaïs’s care,
+is committing an imprudence. Every creature acts according to his own
+law and Edouard’s leads him to constant experimentalizing. He has a
+kind heart, no doubt, but for the sake of others I should prefer to
+see him act out of self-interest; for the generosity which impels him
+is often merely the accompaniment of a curiosity which is liable to
+turn into cruelty. He knows Azaïs’s school; he knows the poisonous air
+that reigns in it, under the stifling cover of morality and religion.
+He knows Boris--how tender he is--how fragile. He ought to foresee the
+rubs to which he is exposing him. But he refuses to consider anything
+but the protection, the help, the support, which old Azaïs’s austerity
+will afford the little boy’s precarious purity. To what sophisms does
+he not lend an ear? They must be the promptings of the devil, for if
+they came from anyone else, he would not listen to them.
+
+Edouard has irritated me more than once (when he speaks of Douviers,
+for instance)--enraged me even; I hope I haven’t shown it too much; but
+now I may be allowed to say so. His behaviour to Laura--at times so
+generous--has at times seemed to me revolting.
+
+What I dislike about Edouard are the reasons he gives himself. Why does
+he try and persuade himself that he is conspiring for Boris’s good?
+Does the torrent which drowns a child pretend that it is giving him
+drink?... I do not deny that there are actions in the world that are
+noble, generous and even disinterested; I only say that there often
+lies hidden behind the good motive a devil who is clever enough to find
+his profit in the very thing one thought one was wresting from him.
+
+Let us make use of this summer season which disperses our characters
+to examine them at leisure. And besides, we have reached that middle
+point of our story, when its pace seems to slacken, in order to gather
+a new impetus and rush on again with swifter speed to its end. Bernard
+is assuredly much too young to take direction of an intrigue. He is
+convinced he will be able to guard Boris; but the very utmost he will
+be able to do is to observe him. We have already seen Bernard change;
+passions may come which will modify him still more. I find in a
+note-book a sentence or two in which I have written down what I thought
+of him some time ago:
+
+“I ought to have been mistrustful of behaviour as excessive as
+Bernard’s at the beginning of his story. It seems to me, to judge by
+his subsequent state, that this behaviour exhausted all his reserves
+of anarchy, which would no doubt have been kept replenished if he had
+continued to vegetate, as is fitting, in the midst of his family’s
+oppression. And from that time onwards his life was, so to speak, a
+reaction and a protest against this original action. The habit he had
+formed of rebellion and opposition incited him to rebel against his
+very rebellion. Without a doubt not one of my heroes has disappointed
+me more than he, for perhaps there was not one who had given me greater
+hopes. Perhaps he gave way too early to his own bent.”
+
+But this does not seem very true to me any longer. I think we ought to
+allow him a little more credit. There is a great deal of generosity
+in him; virility too and strength; he is capable of indignation. He
+enjoys hearing himself talk a little too much; but it’s a fact that he
+talks well. I mistrust feelings that find their expression too quickly.
+He is very good at his studies, but new feelings do not easily fill
+forms that have been learnt by heart. A little invention would make him
+stammer. He has already read too much, remembered too much, and learnt
+a great deal more from books than from life.
+
+I cannot console myself for the turn of chance which made him take
+Olivier’s place beside Edouard. Events fell out badly. It was Olivier
+that Edouard loved. With what care he would have ripened him! With
+what lover-like respect he would have guided, supported, raised him to
+his own level! Passavant will ruin him to a certainty. Nothing could
+be more pernicious for him than to be enveloped in so unscrupulous an
+atmosphere. I had hoped that Olivier would have defended himself a
+little better; but his is a tender nature and sensitive to flattery.
+Everything goes to his head. Moreover I seem to gather from certain
+accents in his letter to Bernard that he is a little vain. Sensuality,
+pique, vanity--to what does not all this lay him open? When Edouard
+finds him again, I very much fear it will be too late. But he is still
+young and one has the right to hope.
+
+Passavant...? best not speak of him, I think. Nothing spreads more
+ruin or receives more applause than men of his stamp--unless it be
+women like Lady Griffith. At the beginning, I must confess, she rather
+took me in. But I soon recognized my mistake. People like her are
+cut out of a cloth which has no thickness. America exports a great
+many of them, but is not the only country to breed them. Fortune,
+intelligence, beauty--they seem to possess everything, except a soul.
+Vincent, we may be sure, will soon find it out. No past weighs upon
+them--no constraint; they have neither laws, nor masters, nor scruples;
+by their freedom and spontaneity, they make the novelist’s despair; he
+can get nothing from them but worthless reactions. I hope not to see
+Lady Griffith again for a long time to come. I am sorry she has carried
+off Vincent, who interested me more, but who becomes commonplace by
+frequenting her. Rolling in her wake, he loses his angles. It’s a pity;
+he had rather fine ones.
+
+If it ever happens to me to invent another story, I shall allow only
+well-tempered characters to inhabit it--characters that life, instead
+of blunting, sharpens. Laura, Douviers, La Pérouse, Azaïs ... what is
+to be done with such people as these? It was not I who sought them out;
+while following Bernard and Olivier I found them in my path. So much
+the worse for me; henceforth it is my duty to attend them.
+
+
+
+
+                              THIRD PART
+
+                                 PARIS
+
+
+       _When we are in possession of a few more local monographs--then,
+     and only then, by grouping their data, by minutely confronting and
+comparing them, we shall be able to re-consider the subject as a whole,
+  and take a new and decisive step forward. To proceed otherwise, would
+    be merely to start, armed with two or three rough and simple ideas,
+   on a kind of rapid excursion. It would be, in most cases, to pass by
+  everything that is particular, individual, irregular--that is to say,
+                   everything, on the whole, that is most interesting_.
+
+                      LUCIEN FÈBVRE: _La Terre et L’Evolution Humaine_.
+
+
+
+
+                                   I
+
+                   EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: OSCAR MOLINIER
+
+                    _Son retour à Paris ne lui causa point de plaisir._
+
+                                  FLAUBERT: _L’Education Sentimentale_.
+
+
+_Sept. 22nd._--Hot; bored. Have come back to Paris a week too
+soon. My eagerness always makes me respond before I am summoned.
+Curiosity rather than zeal; desire to anticipate. I have never been
+able to come to terms with my thirst.
+
+Took Boris to see his grandfather. Sophroniska, who had been the day
+before to prepare him, tells me that Madame de La Pérouse has gone into
+the home. Heavens! What a relief!
+
+I left the little boy on the landing, after ringing the bell, thinking
+it would be more discreet not to be present at the first meeting; I was
+afraid of the old fellow’s thanks. Questioned the boy later on, but
+could get nothing out of him. Sophroniska, when I saw her later, told
+me he had not said anything to her either. When she went to fetch him
+after an hour’s interval, as had been arranged, a maid-servant opened
+the door; she found the old gentleman sitting in front of a game of
+draughts and the child sulking by himself in a corner at the other end
+of the room.
+
+“It’s odd,” said La Pérouse, very much out of countenance, “he seemed
+to be amused, but all of a sudden he got tired of it. I am afraid he is
+a little wanting in patience.”
+
+It was a mistake to leave them alone together too long.
+
+
+_Sept. 27th._--This morning met Molinier under the arcades
+of the Odéon. Pauline and George are not coming back till the day
+after to-morrow. If Molinier, who has been by himself in Paris since
+yesterday, was as bored as I am, it’s no wonder that he seemed
+enchanted to see me. We went and sat down in the Luxembourg, till it
+should be time for lunch, and agreed to take it together.
+
+Molinier, when he is with me, affects a rather jocose--even, at times,
+a kind of rakish tone--which he no doubt thinks the correct thing to
+please an artist. A desire too to show that he is still full of beans.
+
+“At heart,” he declared, “I am a passionate man.” I understand that
+what he really meant was that he was a libidinous one. I smiled, as
+one would if one heard a woman declare she had very fine legs--a smile
+which signifies “I never doubted it for a moment.” Until that day I had
+only seen the magistrate; the man at last threw aside his toga.
+
+I waited till we were seated at table at Foyot’s before speaking to him
+of Olivier; I told him that I had recently had news of him through one
+of his schoolfellows, and that I had heard he was travelling in Corsica
+with the Comte de Passavant.
+
+“Yes, he’s a friend of Vincent’s: he offered to take him with him.
+As Olivier had just passed his _bachot_ rather brilliantly, his
+mother thought it would be hard to refuse him such a pleasure.... The
+Comte de Passavant is a writer. I expect you know him.”
+
+I did not conceal that I had no great liking for either his books or
+his person.
+
+“Amongst _confrères_ one is sometimes apt to be a little severe in
+one’s judgments,” he retorted. “I tried to read his last novel; certain
+critics think very highly of it. I didn’t see much in it myself; but
+it’s not my line, you know....” Then as I expressed my fear as to the
+influence Passavant might have over Olivier:
+
+“In reality,” he added in his rather woolly way, “I personally didn’t
+approve of this expedition. But it’s no good not realizing that when
+they get to a certain age our children escape from our control. It’s
+in the nature of things and there’s nothing to be done. Pauline would
+like to go on hanging over them for ever. She’s like all mothers.
+I sometimes say to her: ‘But you worry your sons to death. Leave
+them alone. It’s you who put things into their heads with all your
+questions....’ For my part I consider it does no good to watch over
+them too long. The important thing is that a few good principles should
+be inculcated into them during their early education. The important
+thing above all is that they should come of a good stock. Heredity, my
+dear friend, heredity triumphs over everything. There are certain bad
+lots whom nothing can improve--the predestined, we call them. Those
+must have a tight hand kept over them. But when one has to do with
+well-conditioned natures, one can let them go a bit easy.”
+
+“But you were telling me,” I insisted, “that you didn’t approve of
+Olivier’s being carried off in this way.”
+
+“Oh! approve ... approve!” he said with his nose in his plate, “there’s
+no need for my approval. There are many households, you know--and those
+the most united--where it isn’t always the husband who settles things.
+But you aren’t married; such things don’t interest you....”
+
+“Oh!” said I, laughing, “but I’m a novelist.”
+
+“Then you have no doubt remarked that it isn’t always from weakness of
+character that a man allows himself to be led by his wife.”
+
+“Yes,” I conceded by way of flattery, “there are strong and even
+dominating men whom one discovers to be of a lamb-like docility in
+their married life.”
+
+“And do you know why?” he went on. “Nine times out of ten, when the
+husband submits to his wife, it is because he has something to be
+forgiven him. A virtuous woman, my dear fellow, takes advantage of
+everything. If the man stoops for a second, there she is sitting on his
+shoulders. Oh! we poor husbands are sometimes greatly to be pitied.
+When we are young, our one wish is to have chaste wives, without a
+thought of how much their virtue is going to cost us.”
+
+I gazed at Molinier, sitting there with his elbows on the table and
+his chin in his hands. The poor man little suspected how naturally his
+backbone fell into the stooping attitude of which he complained; he
+kept mopping his forehead, ate a great deal--not like a gourmet, but
+like a glutton--and seemed particularly to appreciate the old Burgundy
+which we had ordered. Happy to feel himself listened to, understood,
+and, no doubt he thought, approved, he overflowed in confessions.
+
+“In my capacity as magistrate,” he continued, “I have known women who
+only lent themselves to their husbands against the grain of their heart
+and senses ... and who yet are indignant when the poor wretch who has
+been repulsed, seeks his provender elsewhere.”
+
+The magistrate had begun his sentence in the past; the husband finished
+it in the present, with an unmistakable allusion to himself. He added
+sententiously between two mouthfuls:
+
+“Other people’s appetites easily appear excessive when one doesn’t
+share them.” He drank a long draught of wine, then: “And this explains,
+my dear friend, how a husband loses the direction of his household.”
+
+I understood, indeed--it was clear under the apparent incoherence of
+his talk--his desire to make the responsibility of his own shortcomings
+fall upon his wife’s virtue. Creatures as disjointed as this puppet,
+I said to myself, need every scrap of their egoism to bind together
+the disconnected elements of which they are formed. A moment’s
+self-forgetfulness, and they would fall to pieces. He was silent. I
+felt I must pour a few reflections over him, as one pours oil on an
+engine that has accomplished a bout of work; and to set him going again
+I remarked:
+
+“Fortunately Pauline is intelligent.”
+
+He prolonged his “ye-e-s” till it turned into a query; then:
+
+“But still there are things she doesn’t understand. However intelligent
+a woman may be, you know.... Still, I must admit that in the
+circumstances I didn’t manage very cleverly. I began telling her about
+a little affair of mine at a time when I thought--when I was absolutely
+convinced--that it wouldn’t go any further. It did go further ... and
+Pauline’s suspicions too. It was a mistake to put her on the ‘_qui
+vive_,’ as people say. I have been obliged to hide things from
+her--to tell lies.... That’s what comes of not holding one’s tongue
+to begin with. It’s not my fault. I’m naturally confiding.... But
+Pauline’s jealousy is alarming. You can’t imagine how careful I have
+had to be.”
+
+“Was it long ago?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, it’s been going on for about five years now; and I flatter myself
+I had completely reassured her. But now the whole thing has to begin
+all over again. What do you think! When I got back home the day before
+yesterday.... Suppose we order another bottle of Pommard, eh?”
+
+“Not for me, please.”
+
+“Perhaps I could have a half bottle. I’ll go home and take a little nap
+after lunch. I feel this heat so.... Well, I was telling you that the
+day before yesterday, when I got back, I went to my writing desk to put
+some papers away. I pulled open the drawer where I had hidden ... the
+person in question’s letters. Imagine my stupefaction, my dear fellow;
+the drawer was empty! Deuce take it! I see exactly what has happened;
+about a fortnight ago, Pauline came up to Paris with George, to go to
+the wedding of the daughter of one of my colleagues. I wasn’t able to
+attend it myself; I was away in Holland.... And besides, functions of
+that kind are women’s business. Well, there she was, with nothing to
+do, in an empty flat; under pretence of putting things straight ... you
+know what women are like--always rather curious ... she began nosing
+about ... oh! intending no ill--I’m not blaming her. But Pauline has
+always had a perfect mania for tidying.... Well, what on earth am I to
+say to her, now that she’s got all the proofs? If only the silly little
+thing didn’t call me by my Christian name! Such a united couple! When I
+think what I’m in for!...”
+
+The poor man stuck in the slough of his confidences. He dabbed his
+forehead--fanned himself. I had drunk much less than he. The heart does
+not furnish compassion at command; I merely felt disgust for him. I
+could put up with him as the father of a family (though it was painful
+to me to think that he was Olivier’s father), as a respectable, honest,
+retired bourgeois; but as a man in love, I could only imagine him
+ridiculous. I was especially made uncomfortable by the clumsiness and
+triviality of his words, of his pantomime; neither his face nor his
+voice seemed suited to the feelings he expressed; it was like a double
+bass trying to produce the effects of an alto; his instrument brought
+out nothing but squeaks.
+
+“You said that she had George with her....”
+
+“Yes; she didn’t want to leave him at the sea-side alone. But naturally
+in Paris he wasn’t in her pocket the whole time.... Why, my dear
+fellow, in twenty-six years of married life I have never had the
+smallest scene, the slightest altercation.... When I think of what’s in
+store for me!... for Pauline’s coming back in two days.... Oh! I say,
+let’s talk of something else. Well, what do you think of Vincent? The
+Prince of Monaco--a cruise.... By Jove!... What! didn’t you know?...
+Yes; he has gone out in charge of soundings and deep-sea fishing near
+the Azores. Ah! there’s no need to be anxious about him, I assure you.
+_He’ll_ make his way all right, without help from anyone.”
+
+“His health?”
+
+“Completely restored. With his intelligence, I think he is on the high
+road to becoming famous. The Comte de Passavant made no bones about
+saying that he considered him one of the most remarkable men he ever
+met. He even said ‘the _most_ remarkable’ ... but one must make
+allowances for exaggeration.”
+
+The meal was finished; he lit a cigar.
+
+“May I ask you,” he went on, “who the friend is who gave you news of
+Olivier? I must tell you that I attach particular importance to the
+company my children keep. I consider that it’s a thing it’s impossible
+to pay too much attention to. My sons fortunately have a natural
+tendency to make friends with only the best people. Vincent, you see,
+with his prince; Olivier with the Comte de Passavant.... As for George,
+he has been going about at Houlgate with one of his schoolfellows--a
+young Adamanti--he’s to be at the Vedel-Azaïs school next term too; a
+boy in whom one can have complete confidence; his father is senator
+for Corsica. But just see how prudent one has to be! Olivier had a
+friend who seemed to belong to an excellent family--a certain Bernard
+Profitendieu. I must tell you that old Profitendieu is a colleague of
+mine; a most distinguished man. I have particular esteem for him. But
+... (between ourselves) ... it has just come to my knowledge that he is
+not the father of the boy who bears his name! What do you say to that?”
+
+“Young Bernard Profitendieu is the very person who spoke to me about
+Olivier,” I said.
+
+Molinier drew a few deep puffs from his cigar and raised his eyebrows
+very high, so that his forehead was covered with wrinkles:
+
+“I had rather Olivier saw as little as possible of that young fellow.
+I have heard the most deplorable things about him--not that I’m much
+astonished at that. We must admit that there’s no grounds for expecting
+any good from a boy who has been born in such unfortunate conditions. I
+don’t mean to say that a natural child mayn’t have great qualities--and
+even virtues; but the fruit of lawlessness and insubordination must
+necessarily be tainted with the germs of anarchy. Yes, my dear friend,
+what was bound to happen has happened. Young Bernard has suddenly left
+the shelter of the family which he ought never to have entered. He has
+gone “to live his life,” as Emile Augier says; live Heaven knows how
+or where. Poor Profitendieu, when he told me about this extravagant
+behaviour, seemed exceedingly upset about it. I made him understand
+that he ought not to take it so much to heart. In reality the boy’s
+departure puts everything to rights again.”
+
+I protested that I knew Bernard well enough to vouch for his being a
+charming, well-behaved boy. (Needless to say I took good care not to
+mention the affair of the suit-case.) But Molinier only went on all the
+more vigorously.
+
+“So! So! I see I must tell you more.”
+
+Then, leaning forward and speaking in a whisper:
+
+“My colleague Profitendieu has recently had to investigate an
+exceedingly shady and disagreeable affair, both on its own account
+and because of the scandalous consequences it may entail. It’s a
+preposterous story and one would be only too glad if one could
+disbelieve it.... Imagine, my dear fellow, a regular concern of
+organized prostitution, in fact of a ... no, I don’t want to use
+bad words; let’s say a tea-shop, with this particularly scandalous
+feature, that its habitués are mostly, almost exclusively, very young
+schoolboys. I tell you it’s incredible. The children certainly don’t
+realize the gravity of their acts, for they hardly attempt to conceal
+themselves. It takes place when they come out of school. They take
+tea, they talk, they amuse themselves with the ladies; and the play
+is carried further in the rooms which adjoin the tea rooms. Of course
+not everyone is allowed in. One has to be introduced, initiated. Who
+stands the expense of these orgies? Who pays the rent? It wouldn’t
+have been very difficult to find out; but the investigations had to
+be conducted with extreme prudence, for fear of learning too much, of
+being carried further than one meant, of being forced to prosecute and
+compromise the respectable families whose children are suspected of
+being the principal clients of the affair. I did what I could therefore
+to moderate Profitendieu’s zeal. He charged into the business like a
+bull, without suspecting that with the first stroke of his horns ...
+(oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t say it on purpose; ha! ha! ha! how funny! It
+came out quite unintentionally) ... he ran the risk of sticking his own
+son. Fortunately the holidays broke everything up. The schoolboys were
+scattered and I hope the whole business will peter out, be hushed up
+after a warning or so and a few discreet penalties.”
+
+“Are you quite sure Bernard Profitendieu was mixed up in it?”
+
+“Not absolutely, but....”
+
+“What makes you think so?”
+
+“First, the fact that he is a natural child. You don’t suppose that a
+boy of his age runs away from home without having touched the lowest
+depths?... And then I have an idea that Profitendieu was seized with
+some suspicions, for his zeal suddenly cooled down; more than that,
+he seemed to be backing out, and the last time I asked him how the
+affair was going on he seemed embarrassed: ‘I think, after all that
+nothing will come of it,’ he said and hastily changed the subject.
+Poor Profitendieu! I must say he doesn’t deserve it. He’s an honest
+man, and what’s rarer perhaps, a good fellow. By the way, his daughter
+has just married exceedingly well. I wasn’t able to go to the wedding
+because I was in Holland, but Pauline and George came back on purpose.
+Did I tell you that before? It’s time I went and had my nap.... What!
+really? You want to pay it all? No, no! You mustn’t. Bachelors--old
+friends--go shares.... No use? Well! well! Good-bye! Don’t forget that
+Pauline is coming back in two days. Come and see us. And don’t call me
+Molinier. Won’t you say Oscar?... I’ve been meaning to ask you for a
+long time.”
+
+
+This evening a note from Rachel, Laura’s sister:
+
+ “I have something very serious to say to you. Could you, without
+ inconvenience, look in at the school to-morrow afternoon? It would be
+ doing me a great service.”
+
+If she had wanted to speak about Laura, she wouldn’t have waited so
+long. This is the first time she has written to me.
+
+
+
+
+                                  II
+
+                   EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: AT THE VEDELS’
+
+
+_Sept. 28th._--I found Rachel standing at the door of the big
+class-room on the ground floor. Two servants were washing the boards.
+She herself had a servant’s apron on and was holding a duster in her
+hand.
+
+“I knew I could count on you,” she said, holding out her hand with a
+look on her face of tender, resigned sadness, and yet a look that was
+smiling too, and more touching than beauty itself. “If you aren’t in
+too great a hurry, the best thing would be for you first to go up and
+pay grandfather a little visit, and then Mamma. If they heard you had
+been here without seeing them, they would be hurt. But keep a little
+time for me; I simply must speak to you. You will find me here; you
+see, I am superintending the maids’ work.”
+
+Out of a kind of modesty, she never says “my work.” Rachel has effaced
+herself all her life and nothing could be more discreet, more retiring
+than her virtue. Abnegation is so natural to her, that not one of her
+family is grateful to her for her perpetual self-sacrifice. She has the
+most beautiful woman’s nature that I know.
+
+I went up to the second floor to see old Azaïs. He hardly ever leaves
+his arm-chair nowadays. He made me sit down beside him and began
+talking about La Pérouse almost at once.
+
+“It makes me feel anxious to know that he is living all alone, and I
+should like to persuade him to come and stay here. We are old friends,
+you know. I went to see him the other day. I am afraid he has been very
+much affected by his dear wife’s leaving him to go to Sainte Périne.
+His maid told me he hardly eats anything. I consider that as a rule
+we eat too much; but there should be moderation in all things and we
+should avoid excess in both directions. He thinks it useless to have
+things cooked only for him; but if he took his meals with us, seeing
+others eat would encourage him to do the same. Moreover, he would be
+with his charming little grandson, whom he would otherwise see very
+little of; for Rue Vavin is quite a long journey away from the Faubourg
+St. Honoré. And moreover, I shouldn’t much care to let the child go
+out by himself in Paris. I have known Anatole de La Pérouse for a long
+time. He was always eccentric. I don’t mean it as a reproach, but he is
+a little proud by nature, and perhaps he wouldn’t accept my hospitality
+without wishing to make some return. So I thought I might propose that
+he should take school preparation; it wouldn’t be tiring, and moreover
+it would have the advantage of distracting him, of taking him out of
+himself a little. He is a good mathematician, and if necessary he might
+give algebra and geometry lessons. Now that he has no pupils left, his
+furniture and his piano are of no use to him; he ought to give notice;
+and as coming here would save his rent, I thought we might agree on a
+little sum for his board and lodging, to put him more at his ease, so
+that he shouldn’t feel himself too much under an obligation to me. You
+ought to try and persuade him--and without much delay, for with his
+poor style of living, I am afraid he may soon become too enfeebled.
+Moreover, the boys are coming back in two days; so it would be a good
+thing to know how the matter stands and whether we may count on him--as
+he may count on us.”
+
+I promised to speak to La Pérouse the following day. As if relieved, he
+went on at once:
+
+“Oh! by the bye, what a good fellow your young protégé Bernard is! He
+has kindly offered to make himself useful to us; he spoke of taking
+preparation in the lower school; but I’m afraid he’s rather young
+himself and perhaps he might not be able to keep order. I talked to him
+for a long time and found him most attractive. He is the metal out of
+which the best Christians are forged. It is assuredly to be regretted
+that an unfortunate early education has turned aside his soul from the
+true path. He confessed that he was without faith; but the tone in
+which he said so filled me with hope. I replied that I trusted I should
+find in him all the qualities that go to the making of a good little
+Christian soldier, and that he ought to devote himself to the increase
+of those talents which God had vouchsafed to grant him. We read the
+parable together and I think the seed has not fallen on bad ground. He
+seemed moved by my words and promised to reflect on them.”
+
+Bernard had already given me an account of this interview; I knew what
+he thought of it, so that I felt the conversation becoming a little
+painful. I had already got up to go, but old Azaïs, keeping the hand I
+held out to him in both his, went on:
+
+“Oh! by the bye. I have seen our Laura. I know the dear child passed a
+whole delightful month with you in the mountains; it seems to have done
+her a great deal of good. I am happy to think she is with her husband
+once more; he must have been beginning to suffer from her long absence.
+It is regrettable that his work would not allow of his joining you.”
+
+I was pulling away my hand to leave, more and more embarrassed, for I
+didn’t know what Laura might have said, but with a sudden commanding
+gesture he drew me towards him, and bending forward, whispered in my
+ear:
+
+“Laura confided her hopes to me; but hush!... She prefers it not to
+be known yet. I mention it to you because I know that you are in the
+secret and because we are both discreet. The poor child was quite
+abashed when she told me and blushed deeply; she is so reserved. As
+she had gone down on her knees before me, we thanked God together for
+having, in His goodness, blessed their union.”
+
+I think that Laura might have put off this confidence, which her
+condition doesn’t as yet necessitate. Had she consulted me, I should
+have told her to wait until she had seen Douviers before saying
+anything. Azaïs can’t see an inch in front of his nose, but the rest of
+the family will not be taken in so easily.
+
+The old fellow went on to execute a few further variations on diverse
+pastoral themes; then he told me his daughter would be happy to see me
+and I went downstairs to the Vedels’ floor.
+
+Just re-read the above. In speaking so of Azaïs, it is myself that I
+render odious. I am fully aware of it, and add these few lines for
+Bernard’s sake, in case his charming indiscretion leads him to poke
+his nose again into this note-book. He has only to go on frequenting
+him a little longer in order to understand what I mean. I like the old
+fellow very much, and “moreover,” as he says, I respect him; but when I
+am with him I have the greatest difficulty in containing myself; this
+doesn’t tend to make me enjoy his society.
+
+I like his daughter, the pastoress, very much. Madame Vedel is like
+Lamartine’s Elvire--an elderly Elvire. Her conversation is not without
+charm. She has a frequent habit of leaving her sentences unfinished,
+which gives her reflections a kind of poetic vagueness. She reaches
+the infinite by way of the indeterminate and the indefinite. She
+expects from a future life all that is lacking to her in this one; this
+enables her to enlarge her hopes boundlessly. The very narrowness of
+her taking-off ground adds strength to her impetus. Seeing Vedel so
+rarely enables her to imagine that she loves him. The worthy man is
+incessantly on the go, in request on all sides, taken up by a hundred
+and one different ploys--sermons, congresses, visits to the sick,
+visits to the poor. He can only shake your hand in passing, but it is
+with all the greater cordiality.
+
+“Too busy to talk to-day.”
+
+“Never mind; we shall meet again in Heaven,” say I; but he hasn’t had
+time to hear me.
+
+“Not a moment to himself,” sighs Madame Vedel. “If you only knew the
+things he gets put on his shoulders now that.... As people know that he
+never refuses anything, everyone.... When he comes home at night, he is
+sometimes so tired that I hardly dare speak to him for fear of.... He
+gives so much of himself to others that there’s nothing left for his
+own family.”
+
+And while she was speaking I remembered some of Vedel’s home-comings
+at the time I was staying at the pension. I sometimes saw him take his
+head between his hands and pant aloud for a little respite. But even
+then I used to think he feared a respite even more than he longed for
+it, and that nothing more painful could have been accorded him than a
+little time in which to reflect.
+
+“You’ll take a cup of tea, won’t you?” asked Madame Vedel, as a little
+maid brought in a loaded tray.
+
+“There’s not enough sugar, Ma’am.”
+
+“Haven’t I said that you must tell Miss Rachel about it? Quick!... Have
+you let the young gentlemen know tea’s ready?”
+
+“Mr. Bernard and Mr. Boris have gone out.”
+
+“Oh! And Mr. Armand?... Make haste.”
+
+Then, without waiting for the maid to leave the room:
+
+“The poor girl has just arrived from Strasburg. She has no.... She has
+to be told everything.... Well! What are you waiting for now?”
+
+The maid-servant turned round like a serpent whose tail has been
+trodden on:
+
+“The tutor’s downstairs; he wanted to come up. He says he won’t go till
+he’s been paid.”
+
+Madame Vedel’s features assumed an air of tragic boredom:
+
+“How many times must I repeat that I have nothing to do with settling
+accounts. Tell him to go to Miss Rachel. Go along.... Not a moment’s
+peace! What can Rachel be thinking of?”
+
+“Aren’t we going to wait tea for her?”
+
+“She never takes tea.... Oh! the beginning of term is a troublesome
+time for us. The tutors who apply ask exorbitant fees, or when their
+fees are possible, they themselves aren’t. Papa was not at all pleased
+with the last; he was a great deal too weak with him; and now he comes
+threatening. You heard what the maid said. All these people think of
+nothing but money.... As if there were nothing more important than that
+in the world.... In the mean time we don’t know how to replace him.
+Prosper always thinks one has nothing to do but to pray to God for
+everything to go right....”
+
+The maid came back with the sugar.
+
+“Have you told Mr. Armand?”
+
+“Yes, Ma’am; he’s coming directly.”
+
+“And Sarah?” I asked.
+
+“She won’t be back for another two days. She’s staying with friends in
+England; with the parents of the girl you saw here before the holidays.
+They have been very kind, and I’m glad that Sarah was able to.... And
+Laura. I thought she was looking much better. The stay in Switzerland
+coming after the South has done her a great deal of good, and it was
+very kind of you to persuade her to it. It’s only poor Armand who
+hasn’t left Paris all the holidays.”
+
+“And Rachel?”
+
+“Yes, of course; Rachel too. She had a great many invitations, but she
+preferred to stop in Paris. And then Grandfather needed her. Besides
+one doesn’t always do what one wants in this life--as I am obliged to
+repeat to the children now and then. One must think of other people.
+Do you suppose I shouldn’t have enjoyed going away for a change to
+Switzerland too? And Prosper? When he travels, do you suppose it’s for
+his pleasure?... Armand, you know I don’t like you to come in here
+without a collar on,” she added, as she saw her son enter the room.
+
+“My dear mother, you religiously taught me to attach no importance
+to my personal appearance,” said he, offering me his hand; “and with
+eminent _à propos_ too, as the wash doesn’t come home till Tuesday
+and all the rest of my collars are in rags.”
+
+I remembered what Olivier had told me about his schoolfellow, and it
+seemed to me that he was right and that an expression of profound
+anxiety lay hidden beneath the spiteful irony he affected. Armand’s
+face had fined down; his nose was pinched; it curved hawk-like over
+lips which had grown thin and colourless. He went on:
+
+“Have you informed your noble visitor that we have made several
+additions to our usual company of performers and engaged a few
+sensational stars for the opening of the winter season? The son of
+a distinguished senator and the Vicomte de Passavant, brother to
+the illustrious writer--without counting two recruits whom you know
+already, but who are all the more honourable on that account--Prince
+Boris and the Marquis de Profitendieu--besides some others whose titles
+and virtues remain to be discovered.”
+
+“You see he hasn’t changed,” said the poor mother, smiling at these
+witticisms.
+
+I was so terribly afraid that he would begin to talk about Laura that
+I cut short my visit and went downstairs as fast as I could to find
+Rachel.
+
+She had turned up her sleeves to help in the arrangement of the
+class-room; but she hastily pulled them down again as she saw me come
+up.
+
+“It is extremely painful to me to have recourse to you,” she began,
+drawing me into a small room adjoining, which is used for private
+lessons. “I meant to apply to Felix Douviers--he asked me to; but now
+that I have seen Laura, I understand it’s impossible....”
+
+She was very pale, and as she said these last words, her chin and lips
+quivered so convulsively that for some moments she was unable to speak.
+I looked away from her, in the fear of adding to her discomfort. She
+had shut the door and was leaning against it. I tried to take her hand,
+but she tore it away from between mine. At last she went on again in a
+voice that seemed strangled by the immensity of her effort:
+
+“Can you lend me ten thousand francs? The term promises to be fairly
+good and I hope to be able to pay you back soon.”
+
+“When do you want it?”
+
+She made no answer.
+
+“I happen to have a little over a thousand francs on me,” I went on. “I
+can complete the sum to-morrow morning--this evening, if necessary.”
+
+“No; to-morrow will do. But if you can let me have a thousand francs at
+once without inconvenience....”
+
+I took out my pocket-book and handed them to her.
+
+“Would you like fourteen hundred?”
+
+She lowered her head and uttered a “yes” so faint that I could hardly
+hear it, then she tottered to a school bench, dropped down on it, and
+with her elbows leaning on the desk in front of her, stayed for a few
+moments, her face hidden in her hands. I thought she was crying, but
+when I put my hand on her shoulder, she raised her head and I saw that
+her eyes were dry.
+
+“Rachel,” I said, “don’t mind having had to ask me this; I am glad to
+be able to oblige you.”
+
+She looked at me gravely:
+
+“What is painful to me is to have to ask you not to mention it either
+to Grandfather or to Mamma. Since they gave the accounts of the school
+over to me, I have let them think that ... well, they don’t know. Don’t
+say anything, I beg you. Grandfather is old and Mamma takes so much
+trouble.”
+
+“Rachel, it’s not your mother who takes trouble.... It’s you.”
+
+“She _has_ taken trouble. She’s tired now. It’s my turn. I have
+nothing else to do.”
+
+It was quite simply that she said these simple words. I felt no
+bitterness in her resignation--on the contrary, a kind of serenity.
+
+“But don’t imagine that things are worse than they are. It’s just
+a difficult moment to tide over, because some of the creditors are
+getting impatient.”
+
+“I heard the maid just now mention a tutor who was asking to be paid.”
+
+“Yes; he came and had a very painful scene with Grandfather, which
+unfortunately I was unable to prevent. He’s a brutal, vulgar man. I
+must go and pay him.”
+
+“Would you like me to do it for you?”
+
+She hesitated a moment, trying in vain to force a smile.
+
+“Thank you. No; I had better do it myself.... But come with me, will
+you? I’m rather frightened of him. If he sees you, he won’t dare say
+anything.”
+
+The school courtyard is separated from the garden by two or three steps
+and a balustrade, against which the tutor was leaning with his elbows
+thrust behind him. He had on an enormous soft felt hat and was smoking
+a pipe. While Rachel was engaging him, Armand came up to me.
+
+“Rachel has been bleeding you,” he said cynically. “You have come in
+the nick of time to save her from a horrid anxiety. It’s Alexander--my
+beast of a brother, who has been getting into debt again in the
+colonies. She wants to hide it from my parents. She has already given
+up half her ‘dot’ to make Laura’s a little larger; but this time all
+the rest of it has gone. She didn’t tell you anything about that, I
+bet. Her modesty exasperates me. It’s one of the most sinister jokes in
+this world below that every time anyone sacrifices himself for others,
+one may be perfectly certain he is worth more than they.... Just look
+at all she has done for Laura! And how she has rewarded her! The
+slut!...”
+
+“Armand!” I cried indignantly. “You have no right to judge your sister.”
+
+But he continued in a jerky, hissing voice:
+
+“On the contrary, it’s because I am no better than she that I am able
+to judge her. I know all about it. Rachel doesn’t judge us. Rachel
+never judges anyone.... Yes, the slut! the slut!... I didn’t beat
+about the bush to tell her what I thought of her, I promise you. And
+you! To have covered it all up, to have protected it! You who knew!...
+Grandfather is as blind as a bat. Mamma tries all she can to understand
+nothing. As for Papa, he trusts in the Lord; it’s the most convenient
+thing to do. Whenever there’s a difficulty, he falls to praying and
+leaves Rachel to get out of it. All he asks is to remain in the dark.
+He rushes about like a lunatic; he’s hardly ever at home. I’m not
+surprised he finds it stifling here. As for me, it’s smothering me to
+death. He tries to stupefy himself, by Jove. In the mean time Mamma
+writes verses. Oh! I’m not blaming her; I write them myself. But at any
+rate, I know I’m nothing but a blackguard; and I’ve never pretended to
+be anything else. But, I say, isn’t it disgusting--Grandfather setting
+up to do the charitable by La Pérouse, because he’s in need of a
+tutor?...” Then, suddenly: “What’s that beast there daring to say to my
+sister? If he doesn’t take his hat off to her when he goes, I’ll black
+his bloody eyes for him....”
+
+He darted towards the Bohemian, and I thought for a moment he was going
+to hit him. But at Armand’s approach, the man made a theatrical and
+ironical flourish with his hat and disappeared under the archway. At
+that moment the door into the street opened to let in the pastor. He
+was dressed in a frock coat, chimney-pot hat and black gloves, like a
+person on his way back from a christening or a wedding. The ex-tutor
+and he exchanged a ceremonious bow.
+
+Rachel and Armand came towards me; when Vedel joined them:
+
+“It’s all arranged,” said Rachel to her father.
+
+He kissed her on the forehead.
+
+“Didn’t I tell you so, my child? God never abandons those who put their
+trust in Him.”
+
+Then, holding out his hand to me:
+
+“Going already?... Well, we shall see you again one of these days,
+shan’t we?”
+
+
+
+
+                                  III
+
+             EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: THIRD VISIT TO LA PÉROUSE
+
+
+_Sept. 29th._--Visit to La Pérouse. The maid hesitated before
+letting me in. “Monsieur won’t see anyone.” I insisted so much that at
+last she showed me into the drawing-room. The shutters were shut; in
+the semi-obscurity I could hardly make out my old master, as he sat
+huddled up in a straight-backed arm-chair. He did not rise. He held out
+a limp hand, without looking at me, and let it fall again as soon as
+I had pressed it. I sat down beside him, so that I could see him only
+in profile. His features were hard and unbending. By moments his lips
+moved, but he said nothing. I actually doubted whether he recognized
+me. The clock struck four; then, as though he too were moved by
+clock-work, he slowly turned his head.
+
+“Why,” he asked, and his voice was solemn and loud, but as toneless as
+though it came from beyond the grave, “why did they let you in? I told
+the maid to say if anyone came, that Monsieur de La Pérouse was dead.”
+
+I was greatly distressed, not so much by these absurd words, as by
+their tone--a declamatory tone, unspeakably affected, to which I was
+unaccustomed in my old master--so natural with me, as a rule--so
+confiding.
+
+“The girl didn’t want to tell a falsehood,” I said at last. “Don’t
+scold her for having let me in. I am happy to see you.”
+
+He repeated stolidly: “Monsieur de La Pérouse is dead,” and then
+plunged back into silence. I had a moment’s ill temper and got up,
+meaning to leave, and put off till another day the task of finding a
+clue to this melancholy piece of acting. But at that moment the maid
+came back; she was carrying a cup of smoking chocolate:
+
+“Make a little effort, sir; you haven’t tasted anything all day.”
+
+La Pérouse made an impatient gesture, like an actor whose effect has
+been spoilt by a clumsy super.
+
+“Later. When the gentleman has gone.”
+
+But the maid had no sooner shut the door, when:
+
+“Be kind, my dear friend. Get me a glass of water--plain water. I’m
+dying of thirst.”
+
+I found a water bottle and a glass in the dining-room. He filled the
+glass, emptied it at a draught and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his
+old alpaca coat.
+
+“Are you feverish?” I asked.
+
+The words brought him back to the remembrance of the part he was
+playing.
+
+“Monsieur de La Pérouse is not feverish. He is not anything. On
+Wednesday evening Monsieur de La Pérouse ceased to live.” I wondered
+whether it would not be best to humour him.
+
+“Wasn’t Wednesday the very day little Boris came to see you?”
+
+He turned his head towards me; a smile, the ghost of the one he used to
+have at Boris’s name, lighted up his features, and at last consenting
+to abandon his rôle:
+
+“My friend,” he said, “I can at any rate talk to you about it. That
+Wednesday was the last day I had left.” Then he went on in a lower
+voice: “The very last day, in fact, which I had allowed myself before
+... putting an end to everything.”
+
+It was with extreme pain that I heard La Pérouse revert to this
+sinister topic. I realized that I had never taken seriously what he had
+said about it before, for I had allowed it to slip from my memory; and
+now I reproached myself. Now I remembered everything clearly, but I was
+astonished, for he had at first mentioned a more distant date, and as I
+reminded him of this, he confessed, in a voice that had become natural
+again, and even a little ironical, that he had deceived me as to the
+date, in the fear that I should try and prevent him, or hasten my
+return from abroad; but that he had gone on his knees several nights
+running to pray God to allow him to see Boris before dying.
+
+“And I had even agreed with Him,” added he, “that if needs were, I
+should delay my departure for a few days ... because of the assurance
+you had given me that you would bring him back with you, do you
+remember?”
+
+I had taken his hand; it was icy and I chafed it between mine. He
+continued in a monotonous voice:
+
+“Then when I saw that you weren’t going to wait till the end of the
+holidays before coming back, and that I should be able to see the boy
+without putting off my departure, I thought ... it seemed to me that
+God had heard my prayer. I thought that He approved me. Yes, I thought
+that. I didn’t understand at first that He was laughing at me, as
+usual.”
+
+He took his hand from between mine and went on in a more animated voice:
+
+“So it was on Wednesday evening that I had resolved to put an end to
+myself; and it was on Wednesday afternoon that you brought me Boris.
+I must admit that I did not feel the joy I had looked forward to on
+seeing him. I thought it over afterwards. Evidently I had no right to
+expect that the child would be glad to see me. His mother has never
+talked to him about me.
+
+He stopped; his lips trembled and I thought he was going to cry.
+
+“Boris asks no better than to love you,” I ventured, “but give him time
+to know you.”
+
+“After the boy had left me,” went on La Pérouse, without having heard
+me, “when I found myself alone again in the evening (for you know
+that Madame de La Pérouse is no longer here), I said to myself: ‘The
+moment has come! Now for it!’ You must know that my brother--the one I
+lost--left me a pair of pistols, which I always keep beside me, in a
+case, by my bedside. I went then to fetch the case. I sat down in an
+arm-chair; there, just as I am now. I loaded one of the pistols....”
+
+He turned towards me and abruptly, brutally, repeated, as if I had
+doubted his word:
+
+“Yes, I did load it. You can see for yourself. It still is loaded.
+What happened? I can’t succeed in understanding. I put the pistol to
+my forehead. I held it for a long time against my temple. And I didn’t
+fire. I couldn’t.... At the last moment--it’s shameful ... I hadn’t the
+courage to fire.”
+
+He had grown animated while speaking. His eye was livelier and his
+cheeks faintly flushed. He looked at me, nodding his head.
+
+“How do you explain that? A thing I had resolved on; a thing I hadn’t
+ceased thinking of for months.... Perhaps that’s the very reason.
+Perhaps I had exhausted all my courage in thought beforehand.”
+
+“As before Boris’s arrival, you had exhausted the joy of seeing him,”
+said I; but he continued:
+
+“I stayed a long time with the pistol to my temple. My finger was
+on the trigger. I pressed it a little; but not hard enough. I said
+to myself: ‘In another moment I shall press harder and it will go
+off.’ I felt the cold of the metal and I said to myself: ‘In another
+moment I shall not feel anything. But before that I shall hear a
+terrible noise.’... Just think! So near to one’s ear!... That’s the
+chief thing that prevented me--the fear of the noise.... It’s absurd,
+for as soon as one’s dead.... Yes, but I hope for death as a sleep;
+and a detonation doesn’t send one to sleep--it wakes one up.... Yes;
+certainly that was what I was afraid of. I was afraid that instead of
+going to sleep I should suddenly wake up.”
+
+He seemed to be collecting himself, and for some moments his lips again
+moved without making a sound.
+
+“I only said all that to myself,” he went on, “afterwards. In reality,
+the reason I didn’t kill myself is that I wasn’t free. I say now that
+I was afraid; but no; it wasn’t that. Something completely foreign to
+my will held me back. As if God didn’t want to let me go. Imagine a
+marionette who should want to leave the stage before the end of the
+play.... Halt! You’re wanted for the _finale_. Ah! Ah! you thought
+you would be able to go off whenever you liked!... I understood that
+what we call our will is merely the threads which work the marionette,
+and which God pulls. Don’t you see? Well, I’ll explain. For instance,
+I say to myself: ‘Now I’m going to raise my right arm’; and I raise
+it.” (And he did raise it.) “But it’s because the string had already
+been pulled which made me think and say: ‘I’m going to raise my right
+arm.’... And the proof that I’m not free is that if it had been my left
+arm that I had had to raise, I should have said to you: ‘Now I’m going
+to raise my left arm.’... No; I see you don’t understand.... You are
+not free to understand.... Oh! I realize now that God is playing with
+us. It amuses him to let us think that what he makes us do is what
+we wanted to do. That’s his horrible game.... Do you think I’m going
+mad? A propos--Madame de La Pérouse ... you know she has gone into a
+home?... Well, what do you think? She is convinced that it’s a lunatic
+asylum and that I have had her shut up to get rid of her--that I am
+passing her off for mad.... You must grant that it’s rather a curious
+thing that the first passer-by in the street would understand one
+better than the woman one has given one’s life to.... At first I went
+to see her every day. But as soon as she caught sight of me, she used
+to call out: ‘Ah! there you are again! come to spy on me!...’ I had to
+give up my visits, as they only irritated her. How can you expect one
+to care about life, when one’s of no good to anyone?”
+
+His voice was stifled by sobs. He dropped his head and I thought he was
+going to relapse again into his dejection. But with a sudden start:
+
+“Do you know what she did before she left? She broke open my drawer
+and burnt all my late brother’s letters. She has always been jealous
+of my brother; especially since he died. She used to make scenes when
+she found me reading his letters at night. She used to cry out: ‘Ah!
+you wanted me to go to bed! You do things on the sly!’ Or else: ‘You
+had far better go to bed and sleep. You’re tiring your eyes.’ One would
+have said she was full of attentions; but I know her; it was jealousy.
+She didn’t want to leave me alone with him.”
+
+“Because she loved you. There’s no jealousy without love.”
+
+“Well, you must allow it’s a melancholy business when love, instead of
+making the happiness of life, becomes its calamity.... That’s no doubt
+the way God loves us.”
+
+He had become excited while he was speaking and all of a sudden he
+exclaimed:
+
+“I’m hungry. When I want to eat, that servant always brings me
+chocolate. I suppose Madame de La Pérouse must have told her that I
+never took anything else. It would be very kind of you to go to the
+kitchen ... the second door on the right in the passage ... and see
+whether there aren’t any eggs. I think she told me there were some....”
+
+“Would you like her to get you a poached egg?”
+
+“I think I could eat two. Will you be so kind? I can’t make myself
+understood.”
+
+“My dear friend,” said I when I came back, “your eggs will be ready in
+a moment. If you’ll allow me I’ll stay and see you eat them; yes; it
+will be a pleasure. I was very much distressed just now to hear you say
+that you were of no good to anyone. You seem to forget your grandson.
+Your friend, Monsieur Azaïs, proposes that you should go and live with
+him, at the school. He commissioned me to tell you so. He thinks that
+now that Madame de La Pérouse is no longer here, there’s nothing to
+keep you.”
+
+I expected some resistance, but he hardly enquired the conditions of
+the new existence which was offered him.
+
+“Though I didn’t kill myself, I am none the less dead. Here or there,
+it doesn’t matter to me. You can take me away.”
+
+It was settled I should come and fetch him the next day but one; and
+that before then I should put at his disposal two trunks, for him to
+pack his clothes in and anything else he might want to take with him.
+
+“And besides,” I added, “as you will keep this apartment on till the
+expiration of your lease, you will always be able to come and fetch
+anything you need.”
+
+The maid brought in the eggs, which he devoured hungrily. I ordered
+dinner for him, greatly relieved to see that nature at last was getting
+the upper hand.
+
+“I give you a great deal of trouble,” he kept repeating. “You are very
+kind.”
+
+I should have liked him to hand over his pistols to me, and I told him
+he had no use for them now; but he would not consent to part with them.
+
+“There’s nothing to fear. What I didn’t do that day, I know I shall
+never be able to do. But they are the only remembrances I have left of
+my brother--and I need them too to remind me that I am nothing but a
+plaything in God’s hands.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  IV
+
+                       THE FIRST DAY OF THE TERM
+
+
+THE day was very hot. Through the open windows of the Vedels’ school
+could be seen the tree-tops of the Gardens, over which there still
+floated an immense, unexhausted store of summer.
+
+The first day of the term was an opportunity old Azaïs never missed of
+making a speech. He stood at the foot of the master’s desk, upright and
+facing the boys, as is proper. At the desk sat old La Pérouse. He had
+risen as the boys came in; but Azaïs, with a friendly gesture, signed
+to him to sit down again. His anxious eyes had gone straight to Boris,
+and this look of his embarrassed Boris all the more because Azaïs,
+in the speech in which he introduced the new master to his pupils,
+thought fit to allude to his relationship to one of them. La Pérouse,
+in the mean time was distressed at receiving no answering look from
+Boris--indifference, he thought, coldness.
+
+“Oh!” thought Boris, “if only he would leave me alone! If only he
+wouldn’t make me ‘an object’!” His schoolfellows terrified him. On
+coming out of the _lycée_, he had had to join them, and as he
+walked with them from the _lycée_ to the Vedels’, he had listened
+to their talk. He would have liked to fall in with it, for he had great
+need of sympathy, but he was of too fastidious and sensitive a nature,
+and he could not overcome his repugnance; the words froze on his lips;
+he reproached himself for his foolishness and tried hard not to let
+it show; tried hard even to laugh, so as not to be scoffed at; but it
+was no good; he looked like a girl among the others, and realized it
+sorrowfully.
+
+They had broken up into groups almost immediately. A certain Léon
+Ghéridanisol was a central figure and was already beginning to
+take the lead. Rather older than the others, and more advanced in
+his studies, of a dark complexion, with black hair and black eyes,
+Ghéridanisol was neither very tall nor particularly strong--but he had
+what is called “_lip_.” Really infernal lip! Even young George
+Molinier admitted that Ghéridanisol had “made him sit up”; “and you
+know, it takes a good deal to make me sit up!” Hadn’t he seen him
+that very morning, with his own eyes, go up to a young woman who was
+carrying a child in her arms:
+
+“Is that kid yours, Madam?” (This with a low bow.) “It’s jolly ugly, I
+must say. But don’t worry. It won’t live.”
+
+George was still rocking.
+
+“No? Honour bright?” said Philippe Adamanti, his friend, when George
+told him the story.
+
+This piece of insolence filled them with rapture; impossible to imagine
+anything funnier. A stale enough joke. Léon had learnt it from his
+cousin Strouvilhou, but that was no business of George’s.
+
+At school, Molinier and Adamanti got leave to sit on the same bench as
+Ghéridanisol--the fifth, so as not to be too near the usher. Molinier
+had Adamanti on his left hand and Ghéridanisol (Ghéri for short) on his
+right; at the end of the bench sat Boris. Behind him was Passavant.
+
+Gontran de Passavant’s life has been a sad one since his father’s
+death--not that it had been very lively before it. He had long ago
+understood that he could expect no sympathy from his brother, no
+support. He had spent his holidays in Brittany, where his old nurse,
+the faithful Séraphine, had taken him to stay with her people. All
+his qualities are folded inwards; he devotes himself to his work. A
+secret desire spurs him on to prove to his brother that he is worth
+more than he. It is by his own choice that he is at school; out of a
+wish too not to go on living with his brother in the big house in the
+Rue de Babylone, which has nothing but melancholy recollections for
+him. Séraphine has taken a lodging in Paris so as not to leave him
+alone; she is able to do this with the little pension specially left
+her by the late Count’s will and served her by his two sons. Gontran
+has one of her rooms, and it is here that he spends his free time.
+He has furnished it to his own taste. He takes two meals a week with
+Séraphine; she looks after him and sees that he wants for nothing.
+When he is with her, Gontran chatters freely enough, though he can
+speak to her of hardly any of the things he has most at heart. At
+school he keeps his independence; he listens absent-mindedly to his
+schoolfellows’ nonsense, and often refuses to join in their games. He
+prefers reading to any but out-of-door games. He likes sports--all
+kinds of sports--but preferably those that are solitary. For he is
+proud and will not associate with everyone. On Sundays, according to
+the season, he skates or swims, or boats, or takes immense walks in the
+country. He has repugnances and does not try to overcome them; nor does
+he try to widen his mind so much as to strengthen it. He is perhaps not
+so simple as he thinks--as he tries to make himself become; we have
+seen him at his father’s death-bed; but he does not like mysteries
+and whenever he is unlike himself, he is disgusted. If he succeeds
+in remaining at the top of his class, it is through application, not
+through facility. Boris would find a protector in him, if he were only
+to look towards him, but it is his neighbour George who attracts him.
+As for George, he has eyes for no one but Ghéri, who has eyes for no
+one.
+
+George had some important news to communicate to Philippe Adamanti,
+which he had judged it more prudent not to write.
+
+That morning he had arrived at the _lycée_ doors a quarter of an
+hour before the opening and had waited for him in vain. It was while he
+was waiting that he had heard Léon Ghéridanisol apostrophize the young
+woman so brilliantly, after which incident the two urchins had entered
+into conversation and had discovered to George’s great joy that they
+were going to be schoolfellows.
+
+On coming out of the _lycée_, George and Phiphi had at last
+succeeded in meeting. They walked to the Pension Azaïs in company with
+the other boys, but a little apart, so as to be able to talk freely.
+
+“You had better hide that thing,” George had begun, pointing to the
+yellow rosette which Phiphi was still sporting in his buttonhole.
+
+“Why?” asked Philippe, noticing that George was no longer wearing his.
+
+“You run the risk of getting collared. I wanted to tell you before
+school, my boy; why didn’t you turn up earlier? I was waiting outside
+the doors to warn you.”
+
+“But I didn’t know,” Phiphi had answered.
+
+“I didn’t know. I didn’t know,” George repeated, mimicking him. “You
+might have guessed that there would be things to tell you when I didn’t
+see you again at Houlgate.”
+
+The perpetual aim and object of these two boys is to get the better of
+each other. His father’s situation and fortune give Philippe certain
+advantages, but George is greatly superior in audacity and cynicism.
+Phiphi has to make an effort to keep up with him. He isn’t a bad boy;
+but lacking in back bone.
+
+“Well then, out with your things!” he had said.
+
+Léon Ghéridanisol, who had come up, was listening to them. George was
+not ill pleased that he should overhear him; if Ghéri had filled him
+with admiration just now, George had a little surprise in store for
+Ghéri; he therefore answered Phiphi quite calmly:
+
+“That girl Praline has got run in.”
+
+“Praline!” cried Phiphi, thunderstruck by George’s coolness. And Léon
+showed signs of being interested. Phiphi said to George:
+
+“Can one tell him?”
+
+“As you please,” said George, shrugging his shoulders. Then Phiphi,
+pointing to George:
+
+“She’s his tart.” Then to George:
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“I met Germaine and she told me.”
+
+And he went on to tell Phiphi how, when he had come up to Paris a
+fortnight before, he had wanted to visit the apartment which the
+procureur Molinier had once called “the scene of the orgies,” and had
+found the doors closed; that a little later as he was strolling about
+the neighbourhood, he had met Germaine (Phiphi’s tart) and she had
+given him the news: the place had been raided by the police at the
+beginning of the holidays. What neither the women nor the boys knew,
+was that Profitendieu had taken good care to wait before taking this
+action until the younger delinquents should have left Paris, so that
+their parents might be spared the scandal of their being caught.
+
+“Oh, Lord!...” repeated Phiphi without comments. “Oh Lord!...” It had
+been a narrow squeak, thought he, for George and him.
+
+“Makes your marrow freeze, eh?” said George, with a grin. He considered
+it perfectly useless to confess--especially before Ghéridanisol, that
+he had himself been terrified.
+
+From the dialogue here recorded, these children might be thought more
+depraved than they actually are. I feel convinced that it is chiefly to
+show off that they talk in this way. There is a good deal of bravado in
+their case. No matter: Ghéridanisol is listening to them. He listens
+and leads them on. His cousin Strouvilhou will be greatly amused when
+he reports the conversation to him this evening.
+
+
+That same evening Bernard went to see Edouard.
+
+“Well? Did the first day go off all right?”
+
+“Pretty well.” And then as he said no more:
+
+“Master Bernard, if you are not in the humour to talk of your own
+accord, don’t expect me to pump you. There’s nothing I dislike so much.
+But allow me to remind you that you offered me your services and that I
+have a right to expect a few stories....”
+
+“What do you want to know?” rejoined Bernard, with no very good
+grace. “That old Azaïs made a solemn speech and exhorted the boys ‘to
+press forward in a common endeavour and with the impetuous ardour
+of youth...’? I remember those words because they occurred three
+times. Armand declares the old boy regularly puts them into all his
+pi-jaws. He and I were sitting on the last bench at the back of the
+class-room, watching the boys come into school--like Noah, watching the
+animals come into the Ark. There were every kind and sort--ruminants,
+pachiderms, molluscs and other invertebrates. When they began to talk
+to each other after the speech, Armand and I calculated that four
+sentences out of ten began with: ‘I bet you won’t....’”
+
+“And the other six?”
+
+“‘As for me, _I_....’”
+
+“Not badly observed, I’m afraid. What else?”
+
+“Some of them seem to me to have a _fabricated_ personality.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?” asked Edouard.
+
+“I am thinking particularly of a boy who sat beside young Passavant.
+(Passavant himself just seems to me a good boy.) His neighbour, whom
+I watched for a long time, appears to have adopted the ‘_Ne quid
+nimis_’ of the ancients as his rule of life. Doesn’t that strike you
+as an absurd device at his age? His clothes are meagre; his neck-tie
+exiguous; even his bootlaces are only just long enough to tie. In the
+course of a few moments, energies, and to repeat, like a refrain:
+‘Let’s have no useless efforts!’”
+
+“A plague upon the economical!” said Edouard. “In art they turn into
+the prolix.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because they can’t bear to lose anything. What else? You have said
+nothing about Armand.”
+
+“He’s an odd chap. To tell you the truth, I don’t much care for him.
+I don’t like contortionists. He’s by no means stupid; but he uses
+his intelligence for mere destruction; for that matter, it’s against
+himself that he’s the most ferocious; everything that’s good in him,
+that’s generous, or noble, or tender, he’s ashamed of. He ought to go
+in for sport--take the air. Being shut up indoors all day is turning
+him sour. He seems to like my company. I don’t avoid him; but I can’t
+get accustomed to his cast of mind.”
+
+“Don’t you think that his sarcasm and his irony are the veil of
+excessive sensitiveness--and perhaps of great suffering? Olivier thinks
+so.”
+
+“It may be. I have sometimes wondered. I don’t know him well enough
+to say yet. The rest of my reflections are not ripe. I must think them
+over. I’ll tell you about them--but later. This evening, forgive me if
+I leave you. I’ve got my examination in two days; and besides, I may as
+well own up to it ... I’m feeling sad.”
+
+
+
+
+                                   V
+
+                         OLIVIER MEETS BERNARD
+
+        _Il ne faut prendre, si je ne me trompe, que la fleur de chaque
+                                                             objet_....
+
+                                                               FÉNELON.
+
+
+OLIVIER, who had returned to Paris the day before, arose that morning
+fresh and rested. The air was warm, the sky pure. When he went out,
+after his shave and his shower-bath, elegantly dressed, conscious of
+his strength, his youth, his beauty, Passavant was still sleeping.
+
+Olivier hastened to the Sorbonne. This was the morning that Bernard had
+to go up for his examination. How did Olivier know that? But perhaps he
+didn’t know it. He was going to find out.
+
+He quickened his step. He had not seen his friend since the night that
+Bernard came to take refuge in his room. What changes since then! Who
+knows whether he was not more anxious to show himself to his friend
+than to see him. A pity that Bernard cared so little about elegance.
+But it’s a taste that sometimes comes with affluence. Olivier knew that
+by experience, thanks to the Comte de Passavant.
+
+Bernard was doing his written examination this morning. He wouldn’t
+be out before twelve. Olivier waited for him in the quadrangle. He
+recognized a few of his schoolfellows, shook a few hands. He felt
+slightly embarrassed by his clothes. He felt still more so when
+Bernard, free at last, came up to him in the quadrangle and exclaimed,
+with outstretched hand:
+
+“Oh, dear! how lovely he is!”
+
+Olivier, who _had_ thought he would never blush again, blushed.
+He could not but feel the irony of these words, notwithstanding the
+cordiality of their tone. As for Bernard, he was still wearing the same
+suit he had on the evening of his flight. He had not been expecting to
+see Olivier. With his arm in his, he drew him along, questioning as
+they went. He felt a sudden shock of joy at seeing him. If at first he
+smiled a little at the refinement of his dress, it was with no malice;
+his heart was good; he was without bitterness.
+
+“You’ll lunch with me, won’t you? Yes; I have got to go back at one
+thirty for Latin. This morning it was French.”
+
+“Pleased?”
+
+“_I_ am, yes; but I don’t know whether the examiners will be. We
+had to discuss these lines from La Fontaine:
+
+    ‘_Papillon du Parnasse, et semblable aux abeilles_
+    _A qui le bon Platon compare nos merveilles,_
+    _Je suis chose légère et vole à tout sujet,_
+    _Je vais de fleur en fleur et d’objet en objet._’
+
+How would you have done it?”
+
+Olivier could not resist a desire to shine:
+
+“I should have said that La Fontaine, in painting himself, had painted
+the portrait of the artist--of the man who consents to take merely
+the outside of things, their surface, their bloom. Then I should have
+contrasted with that the portrait of the scholar, the seeker, the man
+who goes deep into things, and I should have shown that while the
+scholar seeks, the artist finds; that the man who goes deep, gets
+stuck, the man who gets stuck, gets sunk--up to his eyes and over them;
+that the truth is the appearance of things, that their secret is their
+form and that what is deepest in man is his skin.”
+
+This last phrase Olivier had stolen from Passavant, who himself had
+gathered it from the lips of Paul-Ambroise, as he was discoursing one
+day in a lady’s drawing-room. Everything that was not printed was fish
+for Passavant’s net; what he called “ideas in the air”--that is to
+say--other people’s.
+
+Something or other in Olivier’s tone showed Bernard that this phrase
+was not his own. Olivier’s voice did not seem at home in it. Bernard
+was on the point of asking: “Whose?” But besides not wishing to hurt
+his friend, he was afraid of hearing Passavant’s name, which up till
+now had not been pronounced. Bernard contented himself with giving his
+friend a searching look; and Olivier, for the second time, blushed.
+
+Bernard’s surprise at hearing the sentimental Olivier give voice to
+ideas which were entirely different from those which he had once known
+him to have, immediately gave place to violent indignation; he was
+overwhelmed by something as sudden and surprising and irresistible
+as a cyclone. And it was not precisely against the ideas themselves
+that he was angry--though they struck him as absurd. And even perhaps,
+after all, they were not as absurd as all that. In his collection of
+contradictory opinions, he might have written them down on the page
+facing his own. Had they been genuinely Olivier’s ideas, he would not
+have been angry either with him or with them; but he felt there was
+someone hidden behind them; it was with Passavant that he was angry.
+
+“It’s with ideas like those that France is being poisoned!” he cried in
+a muffled, vehement voice. He took a high stand. He wished to outsoar
+Passavant. And he was himself surprised at what he said--as if his
+words had preceded his thoughts; and yet it was these very thoughts
+he had developed that morning in his essay; but he felt shamefaced at
+expressing what he called “fine sentiments,” particularly when he was
+talking to Olivier. As soon as they were put into words, they seemed to
+him less sincere. So that Olivier had never heard his friend speak of
+the interests of “France”; it was his turn to be surprised. He opened
+his eyes wide, without even thinking of smiling. Was it really Bernard?
+He repeated stupidly:
+
+“France?...” Then, so as to disengage his responsibility--for Bernard
+was decidedly not joking:
+
+“But, old boy, it isn’t _I_ who think so, it’s La Fontaine.”
+
+Bernard became almost aggressive:
+
+“By Jove, I know well enough it isn’t you who think so. But, my
+dear fellow, it isn’t La Fontaine either. If he had only had that
+lightness, which, for that matter, he regretted and apologized for at
+the end of his life, he would never have been the artist we admire.
+That’s just what I said in my essay this morning, and I brought a
+great many quotations in support of my theory--for you know I’ve a
+fairly good memory. But I soon left La Fontaine, and taking as my
+text the justification these lines might afford to a certain class
+of superficial minds, I just let myself go in a tirade against the
+spirit of carelessness, of flippancy, of irony, of what is called
+‘French wit,’ which some people think is the spirit of France, and
+which sometimes gives us such a deplorable reputation among foreigners.
+I said that we ought not to consider all this as even the smile of
+France, but as her grimace; that the real spirit of France was a spirit
+of investigation, of logic, of devotedness, of patient thoroughness;
+and if La Fontaine had not been animated by that spirit, he might have
+written his tales, but never his fables nor the admirable epistle (I
+showed that I knew it) from which the lines we had to comment upon were
+taken. Yes, old boy, a violent attack--perhaps I shall get ploughed for
+it. But I don’t care two straws; I had to say it.”
+
+Olivier had not particularly meant what he had said just before. He
+had yielded to his desire to be brilliant and to bring out, as it were
+carelessly, a sentence which he thought would tremendously impress his
+friend. But now that Bernard took it in this way, there was nothing
+for him to do but to beat a retreat. But his great weakness lay in the
+fact that he was in much more need of Bernard’s affection than Bernard
+of his. Bernard’s speech had humiliated, mortified him. He was vexed
+with himself for having spoken too soon. It was too late now to go back
+on it--to agree with Bernard, as he certainly would have done if he
+had let him speak first. But how could he have foreseen that Bernard,
+whom he remembered so scathingly subversive, would set up as a defender
+of feelings and ideas which Passavant had taught him could not be
+considered without a smile? But he really had no desire to smile now;
+he was ashamed. And as he could neither retract nor contradict Bernard,
+whose genuine emotion he couldn’t help respecting, his one idea was to
+protect himself--to slip out of it.
+
+“Oh! well, if you put that in your essay, it wasn’t against me that you
+were saying it.... I’m glad of that.”
+
+He spoke as though he were vexed--not at all in the tone he would have
+liked.
+
+“But it _is_ against you that I am saying it now,” retorted
+Bernard.
+
+These words cut straight at Olivier’s heart. Bernard had certainly not
+said them with a hostile intention, but how else could they be taken?
+Olivier was silent. Between Bernard and him a gulf was yawning. He
+tried to think of some question to fling from one side of the gulf
+to the other which might re-establish the contact. He tried, without
+much hope of succeeding. “Doesn’t he understand how miserable I am?”
+he said to himself, and he grew more miserable still. He did not have
+to force back his tears, perhaps, but he said to himself that it was
+enough to make anyone cry. It was his own fault, too; his meeting
+with Bernard would have seemed less sad if he had looked forward to
+it with less joy. When two months before he had hurried off to meet
+Edouard, it had been the same thing. It would always be the same thing,
+he said to himself. He wanted to go away--anywhere--by himself--to
+chuck Bernard--to forget Passavant, Edouard.... An unexpected meeting
+suddenly interrupted these melancholy thoughts.
+
+A few steps in front of them, going up the Boulevard Saint-Michel,
+along which he and Bernard were walking, Olivier caught sight of his
+young brother George. He seized Bernard’s arm, and, turning sharply on
+his heel, drew him hurriedly along with him.
+
+“Do you think he saw us?... My people don’t know I’m back.”
+
+
+Young George was not alone. Léon Ghéridanisol and Philippe Adamanti
+were with him. The conversation of the three boys was exceedingly
+animated; but George’s interest in it did not prevent him from keeping
+“his eyes skinned,” as he said. In order to listen to the children’s
+talk we will leave Olivier and Bernard for a moment; especially since
+our two friends have gone into a restaurant, and are for the moment
+more occupied in eating than in talking--to Olivier’s great relief.
+
+“Well then, _you_ do it,” says Phiphi to George.
+
+“Oh, he’s got the dithers! He’s got the dithers!” retorts George,
+putting what cold contempt he can into his voice, so as to goad
+Philippe to action. Then says Ghéridanisol with calm superiority:
+
+“Look here, my lambs, if you aren’t game, you had better say so at
+once. I shan’t have any difficulty in finding fellows with a little
+more pluck than you. Here! Give it back!”
+
+He turns to George, who is holding a small coin in his tight-shut hand.
+
+“I’ll do it!” cries George, in a sudden burst of courage. “Won’t I
+just! Come on!” (They are opposite a tobacco shop.)
+
+“No,” says Léon; “we’ll wait for you at the corner. Come along, Phiphi.”
+
+A moment later George comes out of the shop; he has a packet of
+so-called “de luxe” cigarettes in his hand and offers them to his
+friends.
+
+“Well?” asks Phiphi anxiously.
+
+“Well, what?” replies George with an air of affected indifference, as
+if what he has just done has suddenly become so natural that it wasn’t
+worth mentioning.
+
+But Philippe insists:
+
+“Did you pass it?”
+
+“Good Lord! Didn’t I?”
+
+“And nobody said anything?”
+
+George shrugged his shoulders:
+
+“What on earth should they say?”
+
+“And they gave you back the change?”
+
+This time George doesn’t even deign to answer. But as Philippe, still
+a little sceptical and fearful, insists again: “Show us,” George pulls
+the money out of his pocket. Philippe counts--the seven francs are
+there right enough. He feels inclined to ask: “Are you sure _they_
+aren’t false too?” But he refrains.
+
+George had given one franc for the false coin. It had been agreed that
+the money should be divided between them. He holds out three francs to
+Ghéridanisol. As for Phiphi, he shan’t have a farthing; at the outside
+a cigarette; it’ll be a lesson to him.
+
+Encouraged by this first success, Phiphi is now anxious to try for
+himself. He asks Léon to sell him another coin. But Léon considers
+Phiphi a muff, and in order to screw him up to the right pitch, he
+affects contempt for his former cowardice and pretends to hold back. He
+had only to make up his mind sooner; they could very well do without
+him. Besides which, Léon thinks it imprudent to risk another attempt
+so close upon the first. And then it’s too late now. His cousin
+Strouvilhou is expecting him to lunch.
+
+Ghéridanisol is not such a duffer that he can’t pass his false coins
+by himself; but his big cousin’s instructions are that he is to get
+himself accomplices. He goes off now to give him an account of his
+successfully performed mission.
+
+
+“The kids we want, you see, are those who come of good families,
+because then if rumours get about, their parents do all they can to
+stifle them.” (It is Cousin Strouvilhou who is talking in this way,
+while the two are having lunch together.) “Only with this system of
+selling the coins one by one, they get put into circulation too slowly.
+I’ve got fifty-two boxes containing twenty coins each, to dispose of.
+They must be sold for twenty francs a box; but not to anyone, you
+understand. The best thing would be to form an association to which no
+one should be admitted who didn’t furnish pledges. The kids must be
+made to compromise themselves, and hand over something or other which
+will give us a hold over their parents. Before letting them have the
+coins, they must be made to understand that--oh! without frightening
+them. One must never frighten children. You told me Molinier’s father
+was a magistrate? Good. And Adamanti’s father?”
+
+“A senator.”
+
+“Better still. You’re old enough now to grasp that there’s no family
+without some skeleton or other in the cupboard, which the people
+concerned are terrified of having discovered. The kids must be set
+hunting; it’ll give them something to do. Family life as a rule is
+so boring! And then it’ll teach them to observe, to look about them.
+It’s quite simple. Those who contribute nothing will get nothing. When
+certain parents understand that they are in our hands, they’ll pay a
+high price for our silence. What the deuce! we have no intention of
+blackmailing them; we are honest folk. We merely want to have a hold
+on them. Their silence for ours. Let them keep silent and make other
+people keep silent, and then we’ll keep silent too. Here’s a health to
+them!”
+
+Strouvilhou filled two glasses. They drank to each other.
+
+“It’s a good--it’s even an indispensable thing,” he went on, “to create
+ties of reciprocity between citizens; by so doing societies are solidly
+established. We all hold together, good Lord! _We_ have a hold on
+the children, who have a hold on their parents, who have a hold on us.
+A perfect arrangement. Twig?”
+
+Léon twigged admirably. He chuckled.
+
+“That little George....” he began.
+
+“Well, what about him? That little George...?”
+
+“Molinier. I think he’s pretty well screwed up. He has laid his hands
+on some letters to his father from an Olympia chorus girl.”
+
+“Have you seen them?”
+
+“He showed them to me. I overheard him talking to Adamanti. I think
+they were pleased at my listening to them; at any rate they didn’t
+hide from me; I had already taken steps and treated them to a little
+entertainment in your style, to inspire them with confidence. George
+said to Phiphi (to give him a stunner): ‘My father’s got a mistress.’
+Upon which, Phiphi, not to be outdone, answered: ‘_My_ father’s
+got two.’ It was idiotic and really nothing to make a fuss about;
+but I went up to George and said: ‘How do you know?’ ‘I’ve seen some
+letters,’ he answered. I pretended I didn’t believe him and said:
+‘Rubbish!’... Well, I went on at him, until at last he said he had got
+them with him; he pulled them out of a big letter-case and showed them
+to me.”
+
+“Did you read them?”
+
+“I didn’t have time to. I only saw they were all in the same
+handwriting; one of them began: ‘My darling old ducky.’”
+
+“And signed?”
+
+“‘Your little white mousie.’ I asked George how he had got hold of
+them. He grinned and pulled out of his trouser pocket an enormous bunch
+of keys.... To fit every drawer in the universe,’ said he.”
+
+“And what did Master Phiphi say?”
+
+“Nothing. I think he was jealous.”
+
+“Would George give you the letters?”
+
+“If necessary I’ll get him to. I don’t want to take them from him.
+He’ll give them if Phiphi joins in, too. They each of them egg the
+other on.”
+
+“That’s what goes by the name of emulation. And you don’t see anyone
+else at the school?”
+
+“I’ll look about.”
+
+“One thing more I wanted to say.... I think there must be a little
+boy called Boris amongst the boarders. You’re to leave him alone”; he
+paused a moment and then added in a whisper: “for the moment.”
+
+
+Olivier and Bernard are seated at a table in one of the Boulevard
+restaurants. Olivier’s unhappiness melts like hoar-frost in the warmth
+of his friend’s smile. Bernard avoids pronouncing Passavant’s name;
+Olivier feels it; a secret instinct warns him; but the name is on the
+tip of his tongue; he must speak, come what may.
+
+“Yes; I didn’t let my people know we were coming back so soon.
+This evening the _Argonauts_ are giving a dinner. Passavant
+particularly wants me to be present. He wishes our new review to be
+on good terms with its elder and not to set up as a rival.... You
+ought to come; and I tell you what ... you ought to bring Edouard....
+Perhaps not to dinner, because one’s got to be invited, but immediately
+after. It’s to be in the upstairs room of the Taverne du Panthéon. The
+principal members of the _Argonaut_ staff will be there and a good
+many of our own _Vanguard_ contributors. Our first number is
+nearly ready; but, I say, why didn’t you send me anything?”
+
+“Because I hadn’t anything ready,” he answers rather curtly.
+
+Olivier’s voice becomes almost imploring:
+
+“I put your name down next to mine in the list of contents.... We could
+wait a little, if necessary ... no matter what; anything.... You had
+almost promised.”
+
+It grieves Bernard to hurt his friend; but he hardens himself:
+
+“Look here, old boy, I had better tell you at once--I’m afraid I
+shouldn’t hit it off with Passavant very well.”
+
+“But it’s I who am the editor. He leaves me perfectly free.”
+
+“And then I dislike the idea of sending you _no matter what_; I
+don’t want to write _no matter what_.”
+
+“I said _no matter what_, because I knew that no matter what you
+wrote would be good ... that it would never really be _no matter
+what_.”
+
+He doesn’t know what to say. He is just floundering. If he cannot feel
+his friend beside him, all his interest in the review vanishes. It had
+been such a delightful dream, this of making their début together.
+
+“And then, old fellow, if I’m beginning to know what I don’t want to
+do, I don’t know yet what I _do_ want to do. I don’t even know
+whether I shall write.”
+
+This declaration fills Olivier with consternation. But Bernard goes on:
+
+“Nothing that I could write easily tempts me. It’s because I can
+turn my sentences easily that I have a detestation of well-turned
+sentences. Not that I like difficulty for its own sake; but I really
+do think that writers of the present time take things a bit too easy.
+I don’t know enough about other people’s lives to write a novel; and I
+haven’t yet had a life of my own. Poetry bores me. The alexandrine is
+worn threadbare; the _vers libre_ is formless. The only poet who
+satisfies me nowadays is Rimbaud.”
+
+“That’s exactly what I say in our manifesto.”
+
+“Then it’s not worth while my repeating it. No, old boy; no; I don’t
+know whether I shall write. It sometimes seems to me that writing
+prevents one from living, and that one can express oneself better by
+acts than by words.”
+
+“Works of art are acts that endure,” ventured Olivier timidly; but
+Bernard was not listening.
+
+“That’s what I admire most of all in Rimbaud--to have preferred life.”
+
+“He made a mess of his own.”
+
+“What do you know about it?”
+
+“Oh! really, old boy!...”
+
+“One can’t judge other people’s lives from the outside. But anyhow,
+let’s grant he was a failure; with ill-luck, poverty, illness to
+bear.... Even so, I envy him his life; yes, I envy it more--even with
+its sordid ending--more than the life of....”
+
+Bernard did not finish his sentence; on the point of naming an
+illustrious contemporary, he hesitated between too many of them. He
+shrugged his shoulders and went on:
+
+“I have a confused feeling in myself of extraordinary aspirations,
+surgings, stirrings, incomprehensible agitations, which I don’t want to
+understand--which I don’t even want to observe, for fear of preventing
+them. Not so long ago, I was constantly talking to myself. Now, even if
+I wanted to, I shouldn’t be able to. It was a mania that came to an end
+suddenly, without my even being aware of it. I think that this habit
+of soliloquizing--of inward dialogue, as our professor used to call
+it--necessitated a kind of division of the personality, which I ceased
+to be capable of, the day that I began to love someone else better than
+myself.”
+
+“You mean Laura,” said Olivier. “Do you still love her as much as ever?”
+
+“No,” said Bernard; “more than ever. I think it’s the special quality
+of love not to be able to remain stationary, to be obliged to increase
+under pain of diminishing; and that’s what distinguishes it from
+friendship.”
+
+“Friendship, too, can grow less,” said Olivier sadly.
+
+“I think that the margins of friendship aren’t so wide.”
+
+“I say ... you won’t be angry if I ask you something?”
+
+“Try.”
+
+“I don’t want to make you angry.”
+
+“If you keep your questions to yourself, you’ll make me more angry
+still.”
+
+“I want to know whether you feel ... desire for Laura.”
+
+Bernard suddenly became very grave.
+
+“If it weren’t you ...” he began. “Well, old boy, it’s a curious thing
+that’s happened to me: ever since I have come to know her, all my
+desires have gone; I have none left at all. You remember in the old
+days how I used to be all fire and flame for twenty women at once whom
+I happened to pass by in the street (and that’s the very thing that
+prevented me from choosing any one of them); well, now it seems to me
+that I shall never be touched again by any other form of beauty than
+hers; that I shall never be able to love any other forehead than hers;
+her lips, her eyes. But what I feel for her is veneration; when I am
+with her every carnal thought seems an impiety. I think I was mistaken
+about myself, and that in reality I am very chaste by nature. Thanks to
+Laura, my instincts have been sublimated. I feel I have within me great
+unemployed forces. I should like to make them take up service. I envy
+the Carthusian who bends his pride to the rule of his order; the person
+to whom one says: “I count upon you.” I envy the soldier.... Or rather,
+no; I envy no one; but the turbulence I feel within me oppresses me
+and my aspiration is to discipline it. It’s like steam inside me;
+it may whistle as it escapes (that’s poetry), put in motion wheels
+and pistons; or even burst the engine. Do you know the act which I
+sometimes think would express me best? It’s.... Oh! I know well enough
+I shan’t kill myself; but I understand Dmitri Karamazof perfectly when
+he asks his brother if he understands a person killing himself out of
+enthusiasm, out of sheer excess of life ... just _bursting_.”
+
+An extraordinary radiance shone from his whole being. How well he
+expressed himself! Olivier gazed at him in a kind of ecstasy.
+
+“So do I,” he murmured timidly, “I understand killing oneself too; but
+it would be after having tasted a joy so great, that all one’s life to
+come would seem pale beside it; a joy so great, that it would make one
+feel: ‘I have had enough. I am content; never again shall I....’”
+
+But Bernard was not listening. He stopped. What was the use of talking
+to empty air? All his sky clouded over again. Bernard took out his
+watch:
+
+“I must be off. Well then, this evening, you say?... What time?”
+
+“Oh, I should think ten would be early enough. Will you come?”
+
+“Yes. I’ll try to bring Edouard, too. But you know he doesn’t much care
+for Passavant; and literary gatherings bore him. It would only be to
+see you. I say, can’t we meet somewhere after my Latin paper?” Olivier
+did not immediately answer. He reflected with despair that he had
+promised to meet Passavant that afternoon at the printer’s to talk over
+the printing of the _Vanguard_. What would he not have given to be
+free?
+
+“I should like to, but I’m engaged.”
+
+No trace of his unhappiness was apparent; and Bernard answered:
+
+“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”
+
+And at that the two friends parted.
+
+
+Olivier had said nothing to Bernard of all he had meant and hoped
+to say. He was afraid Bernard had taken a dislike to him. He took a
+dislike to himself. He, so gay, so smart that morning, walked now with
+lowered head. Passavant’s friendship, of which at first he had been so
+proud, began to be irksome to him; for he felt Bernard’s reprobation
+weighing upon it. Even if he were to meet his friend at the dinner
+that evening, he would be unable to speak to him in front of all those
+people. He would be unable to enjoy the dinner if they had not come to
+an understanding beforehand. And what an unfortunate idea his vanity
+had suggested to him of trying to get Uncle Edouard to come too!
+There, in the presence of Passavant, surrounded by elder men, by other
+writers, by the future contributors to the _Vanguard_, he would be
+obliged to show off. Edouard would misjudge him still more--misjudge
+him no doubt irrevocably.... If only he could see him before this
+evening!... see him at once; he would fling his arms round his neck;
+he would cry perhaps; he would tell all his troubles.... From now till
+four o’clock, he has the time. Quick! a taxi.
+
+He gives the address to the chauffeur. He reaches the door with a
+beating heart; he rings.... Edouard is out.
+
+Poor Olivier! Instead of hiding from his parents, why did he not simply
+return home? He would have found his Uncle Edouard sitting with his
+mother.
+
+
+
+
+                                  VI
+
+                  EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: MADAME MOLINIER
+
+
+THOSE novelists deceive us who show the individual’s development
+without taking into account the pressure of surroundings. The forest
+fashions the tree. To each one how small a place is given! How many
+buds are atrophied! One shoots one’s branches where one can. The mystic
+bough is due more often than not to stifling. The only escape is
+upwards. I cannot understand how Pauline manages not to grow a mystic
+bough, nor what further pressure she needs. She has talked to me more
+intimately than ever before. I did not suspect, I confess, the amount
+of disillusionment and resignation she hides beneath the appearance
+of happiness. But I recognize that she would have had to have a
+very vulgar nature not to have been disappointed in Molinier. In my
+conversation with her the day before yesterday, I was able to gauge his
+limits. How in the world could Pauline have married him?... Alas! the
+most lamentable lack of all--lack of character--is a hidden one, to be
+revealed only by time and usage.
+
+Pauline puts all her efforts into palliating Oscar’s insufficiencies
+and weaknesses, into hiding them from everyone; and especially from his
+children. Her utmost ingenuity is employed in enabling them to respect
+their father; and she is really hard put to it; but she does it in such
+a way that I myself was deceived. She speaks of her husband without
+contempt, but with a kind of indulgence which is expressive enough. She
+deplores his want of authority over the boys; and, as I expressed my
+regrets at Olivier’s being with Passavant, I understood that if it had
+depended on her, the trip to Corsica would not have taken place.
+
+“I didn’t approve of it,” she said, “and to tell you the truth,
+I don’t much care about that Monsieur Passavant. But what could I
+do? When I see that I can’t prevent a thing, I prefer granting it
+with a good grace. As for Oscar, he always gives in; he gives in to
+me, too. But when I think it’s my duty to oppose any plan of the
+children’s--stand out against them in any way, he never supports me in
+the least. On this occasion Vincent stepped in as well. After that, how
+could I oppose Olivier without risking the loss of his confidence? And
+it’s that I care about most.”
+
+She was darning old socks--the socks, I said to myself, which were no
+longer good enough for Olivier. She stopped to thread her needle, and
+then went on again in a lower voice, more confidingly and more sadly:
+
+“His confidence.... If I were only sure I still had it. But no; I’ve
+lost it....”
+
+The protest I attempted--without conviction--made her smile. She
+dropped her work and went on:
+
+“For instance, I know he is in Paris. George met him this morning; he
+mentioned it casually, and I pretended not to hear, for I don’t like
+him to tell tales about his brother. But still I know it. Olivier hides
+things from me. When I see him again, he will think himself obliged to
+lie to me, and I shall pretend to believe him, as I pretend to believe
+his father every time _he_ hides things from me.”
+
+“It’s for fear of paining you.”
+
+“He pains me a great deal more as it is. I am not intolerant. There are
+a number of little shortcomings that I tolerate, that I shut my eyes
+to.”
+
+“Of whom are you talking now?”
+
+“Oh! of the father as well as the sons.”
+
+“When you pretend not to see them, _you_ are lying too.”
+
+“But what am I to do? It’s enough not to complain. I really can’t
+approve! No, I say to myself that, sooner or later, one loses hold,
+that the tenderest affection is helpless. More than that. It’s in
+the way; it’s a nuisance. I have come to the pitch of hiding my love
+itself.”
+
+“Now you are talking of your sons.”
+
+“Why do you say that? Do you mean that I can’t love Oscar any more?
+Sometimes I think so, but I think too that it’s for fear of suffering
+too much that I don’t love him more. And.... Yes, I suppose you are
+right--in Olivier’s case, I prefer to suffer.”
+
+“And Vincent?”
+
+“A few years ago everything I now say of Olivier would have been true
+of Vincent.”
+
+“My poor friend.... Soon you will be saying the same of George.”
+
+“But one becomes resigned, slowly. And yet one didn’t ask so much of
+life. One learns to ask less ... less and less.” Then she added softly:
+“And of oneself, more and more.”
+
+“With ideas of that kind, one is almost a Christian,” said I, smiling
+in my turn.
+
+“I sometimes think so too. But having them isn’t enough to make one a
+Christian.”
+
+“Any more than being a Christian is enough to make one have them.”
+
+“I have often thought--will you let me say so?--that in their father’s
+default, _you_ might speak to the boys.”
+
+“Vincent is not here.”
+
+“It is too late for him. I am thinking of Olivier. It’s with you that I
+should have liked him to go away.”
+
+At these words, which gave me the sudden imagination of what might have
+been if I had not so thoughtlessly listened to the appeal of passing
+adventure, a dreadful emotion wrung my heart, and at first I could find
+nothing to say; then, as the tears started to my eyes, and wishing to
+give some appearance of a motive to my disturbance:
+
+“Too late, I fear, for him too,” I sighed.
+
+Pauline seized my hand:
+
+“How good you are!” she cried.
+
+Embarrassed at seeing her thus mistake me, and unable to undeceive her,
+I could only turn aside the conversation from a subject which put me
+too ill at my ease.
+
+“And George?” I asked.
+
+“He makes me more anxious than the other two put together,” she
+answered. “I can’t say that with him I am losing my hold, for he has
+never been either confiding or obedient.”
+
+She hesitated a few moments. It obviously cost her a great deal to say
+what follows.
+
+“This summer something very serious happened,” she went on at last,
+“something it’s a little painful for me to speak to you about,
+especially as I am still not very sure.... A hundred-franc note
+disappeared from a cupboard in which I was in the habit of keeping
+my money. The fear of being wrong in my suspicions prevented me from
+bringing any accusation; the maid who waited on us at the hotel was a
+very young girl and seemed to me honest. I said I had lost the note
+before George; I might as well admit that my suspicions fell upon him.
+He didn’t appear disturbed; he didn’t blush.... I felt ashamed of
+having suspected him; I tried to persuade myself I had made a mistake.
+I did my accounts over again; unfortunately there was no possibility
+of a doubt--a hundred francs were missing. I shrank from questioning
+him, and finally I didn’t. The fear of seeing him add a lie to a theft
+kept me back. Was I wrong?... Yes, I reproach myself now for not having
+insisted; perhaps it was out of a fear that I should have to be too
+severe--or that I shouldn’t be severe enough. Once again, I played the
+part of a person who knows nothing, but with a very anxious heart, I
+assure you. I had let the time go by, and I said to myself it was too
+late and that the punishment would come too long after the fault. And
+how punish him? I did nothing; I reproach myself for it ... but what
+could I have done?
+
+“I had thought of sending him to England; I even wanted to ask your
+advice about it, but I didn’t know where you were.... At any rate,
+I didn’t hide my trouble from him--my anxiety; I think he must have
+felt it, for, you know, he has a good heart. I count more on his own
+conscience to reproach him than on anything I could have said. He won’t
+do it again, I feel certain. He used to go about with a very rich boy
+at the sea-side, and he was no doubt led on to spend money. No doubt I
+must have left the cupboard open; and I repeat, I’m not really sure
+it was he. There were a great many people coming and going in the
+hotel....”
+
+I admired the ingenious way in which she put forward every possible
+consideration that might exonerate her child.
+
+“I should have liked him to put the money back,” I said.
+
+“I hoped he would. And when he didn’t, I thought it must be a proof of
+his innocence. And then I said to myself that he was afraid to.”
+
+“Did you tell his father?”
+
+She hesitated a few moments:
+
+“No,” she said at last, “I prefer him to know nothing about it.”
+
+No doubt she thought she heard a noise in the next room; she went to
+make sure there was no one there; then she sat down again beside me.
+
+“Oscar told me you lunched together the other day. He was so loud in
+your praise, that I suppose what you chiefly did was to listen to him.”
+(She smiled sadly, as she said these words.) “If he confided in you,
+I have no desire not to respect his confidences ... though in reality
+I know a great deal more about his private life than he imagines.
+But since I got back, I can’t understand what has come over him. He
+is so gentle--I was almost going to say--so humble.... It’s almost
+embarrassing. He goes on as if he were afraid of me. He needn’t be.
+For a long time past I’ve been aware that he has been carrying on....
+I even know with whom. He thinks I know nothing about it and takes
+enormous pains to hide it; but his precautions are so obvious, that the
+more he hides, the more he gives himself away. Every time he goes out
+with an affectation of being busy, worried, anxious, I know that he
+is off to his pleasure. I feel inclined to say to him: ‘But, my dear
+friend, I’m not keeping you; are you afraid I’m jealous?’ I should
+laugh if I had the heart to. My only fear is that the children may
+notice something; he’s so careless--so clumsy! Sometimes, without his
+suspecting it, I find myself forced to help him, as if I were playing
+his game. I assure you I end by being almost amused by it; I invent
+excuses for him; I put the letters he leaves lying about back in his
+coat pocket.”
+
+“That’s just it,” I said; “he’s afraid you have discovered some
+letters.”
+
+“Did he tell you so?”
+
+“And that’s what’s making him so nervous.”
+
+“Do you think I want to read them?”
+
+A kind of wounded pride made her draw herself up. I was obliged to add:
+
+“It’s not a question of the letters he may have mislaid inadvertently;
+but of some letters he had put in a drawer and which he says he can’t
+find. He thinks you have taken them.”
+
+At these words, I saw Pauline turn pale, and the horrible suspicion
+which darted upon her, forced itself suddenly into my mind too. I
+regretted having spoken, but it was too late. She looked away from me
+and murmured:
+
+“Would to Heaven it _were_ I!”
+
+She seemed overcome.
+
+“What am I to do?” she repeated. “What am I to do?” Then raising her
+eyes to mine again: “You? Couldn’t _you_ speak to him?”
+
+Although she avoided, as I did, pronouncing George’s name, it was clear
+that she was thinking of him.
+
+“I will try. I will think it over,” I said, rising. And as she
+accompanied me to the front door:
+
+“Say nothing about it to Oscar, please. Let him go on suspecting
+me--thinking what he thinks.... It is better so. Come and see me
+again.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII
+
+                          OLIVIER AND ARMAND
+
+
+IN THE mean time Olivier, deeply disappointed at not having found his
+Uncle Edouard, and unable to bear his solitude, turned his thoughts
+towards Armand with a heart aching for friendship. He made his way to
+the Pension Vedel.
+
+Armand received him in his bedroom. It was a small, narrow room,
+reached by the backstairs. Its window looked on to an inner courtyard,
+on to which the water-closets and kitchens of the next-door house
+opened also. The light came from a corrugated zinc reflector, which
+caught it from above and cast it down, pallid, leaden and dreary. The
+room was badly ventilated; an unpleasant odour pervaded it.
+
+“But one gets accustomed to it,” said Armand. “My parents, you
+understand, keep the best rooms for the boarders who pay best.
+It’s only natural. I have given up the room I had last year to a
+Vicomte--the brother of your illustrious friend Passavant. A princely
+room--but under the observation of Rachel’s. There are heaps of rooms
+here, but not all of them are independent. For instance, poor Sarah,
+who came back from England this morning, is obliged to pass, either
+through our parents’ room (which doesn’t suit her at all) to get to
+her new abode, or else through mine, which, truth to tell, is really
+nothing but a dressing-room or box-room. At any rate, I have the
+advantage here of being able to go out and in as I please, without
+being spied upon by anyone. I prefer that to the attics, where the
+servants live. To tell the truth, I rather like being uncomfortably
+lodged; my father would call it the ‘love of maceration,’ and would
+explain that what is hurtful to the body leads to the salvation of the
+soul. For that matter, he has never been inside the place. He has other
+things to do, you understand, than worrying over his son’s habitat.
+My papa’s a wonderful fellow. He has by heart a number of consoling
+phrases for the principal events of life. It’s magnificent to hear him.
+A pity he never has any time for a little chat.... You’re looking at
+my picture gallery; one can enjoy it better in the morning. That is a
+colour print by a pupil of Paolo Ucelli’s--for the use of veterinaries.
+In an admirable attempt at synthesis, the artist has concentrated on
+a single horse all the ills by means of which Providence chastens the
+equine soul; you observe the spirituality of the look.... That is a
+symbolical picture of the ages of life from the cradle to the grave.
+As a drawing, not much can be said for it; its chief value lies in its
+intention. Further on you will note with admiration the photograph of
+one of Titian’s courtesans, which I have put over my bed in order to
+give myself libidinous thoughts. That is the door into Sarah’s room.”
+
+The almost sordid aspect of the place made a melancholy impression on
+Olivier; the bed was not made and the basin on the wash-stand was not
+emptied.
+
+“Yes, I fix up my room myself,” said Armand, in response to his
+anxious look. “Here, you see, is my writing table. You have no idea
+how the atmosphere of the room inspires me.... ‘_L’atmosphère d’un
+cher réduit...._’ I even owe it the idea of my last poem--_The
+Nocturnal Vase_.”
+
+Olivier had come to see Armand with the intention of speaking about his
+review and asking him to contribute to it; he no longer dared to. But
+Armand’s own conversation was coming round to the subject.
+
+“_The Nocturnal Vase_--eh? What a magnificent title!... With this
+motto from Baudelaire:
+
+            ‘_Funereal vase, what tears awaitest thou?_’[6]
+
+                                                            BAUDELAIRE.
+
+“I take up once more the ancient (and ever young) comparison of the
+potter creator, who fashions every human being as a vase destined to
+hold--ah! what? And I compare myself in a lyrical outburst to the
+above-mentioned vase--an idea which, as I was telling you, came to me
+as the natural result of breathing the odour of this chamber. I am
+particularly pleased with the opening line:
+
+‘_Whoe’er at forty boasts no hemorrhoids...._’
+
+I had first of all written, in order to reassure the reader, Whoe’er at
+fifty...’ but I should have missed the assonance. As for ‘hemorrhoids,’
+it is undoubtedly the finest word in the French language--independently
+of its meaning,” he added with a saturnine laugh.
+
+Olivier, a pain at his heart, kept silent. Armand went on:
+
+“Needless to say, the night vase is particularly flattered when it
+receives a visit from a pot filled with aromatics like yourself.”
+
+“And haven’t you written anything but that?” asked Olivier at last,
+desperately.
+
+“I was going to offer my _Nocturnal Vase_ to your great and
+glorious review, but from the tone in which you have just said
+‘_that_,’ I see there isn’t much likelihood of its pleasing you.
+In such cases the poet always has the resource of arguing: ‘I don’t
+write to please,’ and of persuading himself that he has brought forth
+a master-piece. But I cannot conceal from you that I consider my poem
+execrably bad. For that matter, I have so far only written the first
+line. And when I say _written_, it’s a figure of speech, for I
+have this very moment composed it in your honour.... No, really? were
+you thinking of publishing something of mine? You actually desired my
+collaboration? You judged me, then, not incapable of writing something
+decent? Can you have discerned on my pale brow the revealing stigmata
+of genius? I know the light here is not very favourable for looking at
+oneself in the glass, but when--like another Narcissus--I gaze at my
+reflection, I can see nothing but the features of a failure. After all,
+perhaps it’s an effect of chiaroscuro.... No, my dear Olivier, no; I
+have done nothing this summer, and if you are counting on me for your
+review, you may go to blazes. But that’s enough about me.... Did all go
+well in Corsica? Did you enjoy your trip? Did it do you good? Did you
+rest after your labours? Did you....”
+
+Olivier could bear it no longer:
+
+“Oh! do shut up, old boy. Stop playing the ass. If you imagine I think
+it’s funny....”
+
+“And what about me?” cried Armand. “No, my dear fellow, no; all the
+same I’m not so stupid as all that. I’ve still intelligence enough to
+understand that everything I’ve been saying is idiotic.”
+
+“Can’t you ever talk seriously?”
+
+“Very well; we’ll talk seriously, since seriousness is the style you
+favour. Rachel, my eldest sister, is going blind. Her sight has been
+getting very bad lately. For the last two years, she hasn’t been able
+to read without glasses. I thought at first it would be all right if
+she were to change them. But it wasn’t. At my request, she went to
+see an oculist. It seems the sensitiveness of the retina is failing.
+You understand there are two very different things--on the one hand,
+a defective power of accommodation of the crystalline, which can be
+remedied by glasses. But even after they have brought the visual image
+to the proper focus, that image may make an insufficient impression
+on the retina and be only dimly transmitted to the brain. Do I make
+myself clear? You hardly know Rachel, so don’t imagine that I am trying
+to arouse your pity for her. Then why am I telling you all this?...
+Because, reflecting on my own case, I became aware that not only images
+but ideas may strike the brain with more or less clearness. A person
+with a dull mind receives only confused perceptions; but for that very
+reason he cannot realize clearly that he is dull. He would only begin
+to suffer from his stupidity if he were conscious of it; and in order
+to be conscious of it, he would have to become intelligent. Now imagine
+for a moment such a monster--an imbecile who is intelligent enough to
+understand that he is stupid.”
+
+“Why, he would cease to be an imbecile.”
+
+“No, my dear fellow; you may believe me, because as a matter of fact,
+_I_ am that very imbecile.”
+
+Olivier shrugged his shoulders. Armand went on:
+
+“A real imbecile has no consciousness of any idea beyond his own.
+_I_ am conscious of the _beyond_. But all the same I’m an
+imbecile, because I know that I shall never be able to attain that
+‘_beyond_’!...”
+
+“But, old fellow,” said Olivier, in a burst of sympathy, “we are all
+made so that we might be better, and I think the greatest intelligence
+is precisely the one that suffers most from its own limitations.”
+
+Armand shook off the hand that Olivier had placed affectionately on his
+arm.
+
+“Others,” said he, “have the feeling of what they possess; I have only
+the feeling of what I lack. Lack of money, lack of strength, lack of
+intelligence, lack of love--an everlasting deficit. I shall never be
+anything but below the mark.”
+
+He went up to the toilette table, dipped a hairbrush in the dirty water
+in the basin and plastered his hair down in hideous fashion over his
+forehead.
+
+“I told you I hadn’t written anything; but a few days ago, I did have
+an idea for an essay, which I should have called: _On Incapacity_.
+But of course I was incapable of writing it. I should have said.... But
+I’m boring you.”
+
+“No; go on; you bore me when you make jokes; you’re interesting me very
+much now.”
+
+“I should have tried to find throughout nature the dividing line,
+below which nothing exists. An example will show you what I mean.
+The newspapers the other day had an account of a workman who was
+electrocuted. He was handling some live wires carelessly; the
+voltage was not very high; but it seems his body was in a state of
+perspiration. His death is attributed to the layer of humidity which
+enabled the current to envelop his body. If his body had been drier,
+the accident wouldn’t have taken place. But now let’s imagine the
+perspiration added drop by drop.... One more drop--there you are!”
+
+“I don’t understand,” said Olivier.
+
+“Because my example is badly chosen. I always choose my examples badly.
+Here’s another: Six shipwrecked persons are picked up in a boat. They
+have been adrift for ten days in the storm. Three are dead; two are
+saved. The sixth is expiring. It was hoped he might be restored to
+life; but his organism had reached the extreme limit.”
+
+“Yes, I understand,” said Olivier. “An hour sooner and he might have
+been saved.”
+
+“An hour! How you go it! I am calculating the extremest point. It is
+possible. It is still possible.... It is no longer possible! My mind
+walks along that narrow ridge. That dividing line between existence
+and non-existence is the one I keep trying to trace everywhere. The
+limit of resistance to--well, for instance, to what my father would
+call temptation. One holds out; the cord on which the devil pulls is
+stretched to breaking.... A tiny bit more, the cord snaps--one is
+damned. Do you understand now? A tiny bit less--non-existence. God
+would not have created the world. Nothing would have been. ‘The face of
+the world would have been changed,’ says Pascal. But it’s not enough
+for me to think--‘if Cleopatra’s nose had been shorter.’ I insist. I
+ask: shorter, by how much? For it might have been a tiny bit shorter,
+mightn’t it?... Gradation; gradation; and then a sudden leap....
+_Natura non fecit saltus._ What absurd rubbish! As for me, I
+am like the Arab in the desert who is dying of thirst. I am at that
+precise point, you see, when a drop of water might still save him ...
+or a tear....”
+
+His voice trailed away; there had come into it a note of pathos which
+surprised Olivier and disturbed him. He went on more gently--almost
+tenderly:
+
+“You remember: ‘I shed that very tear for thee....’”
+
+Olivier remembered Pascal’s words; he was even a little put out that
+his friend had not quoted them exactly. He could not refrain from
+correcting: “‘I shed that very drop of blood for thee....’”
+
+Armand’s emotion dropped at once. He shrugged his shoulders:
+
+“What can we do? There are some who get through with more than enough
+and to spare.... Do you understand now what it is to feel that one is
+always ‘on the border line’? As for me, I shall always have one mark
+too little.”
+
+He had begun to laugh again. Olivier thought that it was for fear of
+crying. He would have liked to speak in his turn, to tell Armand how
+much his words had moved him, and how he felt all the sickness of
+heart that lay beneath his exasperating irony. But the time for his
+rendezvous with Passavant was pressing him; he pulled out his watch.
+
+“I must go now. Are you free this evening?”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“To come and meet me at the Taverne du Panthéon. The _Argonauts_
+are giving a dinner. You might look in afterwards. There’ll be a lot of
+fellows there--some of them more or less well known--and most of them
+rather drunk. Bernard Profitendieu has promised to come. It might be
+funny.”
+
+“I’m not shaved,” said Armand a little crossly. “And then what should I
+do among a lot of celebrities? But, I say--why don’t you ask Sarah? She
+got back from England this very morning. I’m sure it would amuse her.
+Shall I invite her from you? Bernard could take her.”
+
+“All right, old chap,” said Olivier.
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 6: _Es-tu vase funèbre attendant quelques pleurs?_]
+
+
+
+
+                                 VIII
+
+                         THE ARGONAUTS’ DINNER
+
+
+IT HAD been agreed then that Bernard and Edouard, after having dined
+together, should pick up Sarah a little before ten o’clock. She had
+delightedly accepted the proposal passed on to her by Armand. At about
+half past nine, she had gone up to her bedroom, accompanied by her
+mother. She had to pass through her parents’ room in order to reach
+hers; but another door, which was supposed to be kept shut, led from
+Sarah’s room to Armand’s, which in its turn opened, as we have seen, on
+to the backstairs.
+
+Sarah, in her mother’s presence, made as though she were going to bed,
+and asked to be left to go to sleep; but as soon as she was alone, she
+went up to her dressing table to put an added touch of brilliancy to
+her lips and cheeks. The toilette table had been placed in front of the
+closed door, but it was not too heavy for Sarah to lift noiselessly.
+She opened the door.
+
+Sarah was afraid of meeting her brother, whose sarcasms she dreaded.
+Armand, it is true, encouraged her most audacious exploits; it was as
+though he took pleasure in them--but only with a kind of temporary
+indulgence, for it was to judge them later on with all the greater
+severity; so that Sarah wondered whether his complaisance itself was
+not calculated to play the censor’s game.
+
+Armand’s room was empty. Sarah sat down on a little low chair and, as
+she was waiting, meditated. She cultivated a facile contempt for all
+the domestic virtues as a kind of preventive protest. The constraint of
+family life had intensified her energies and exasperated her instinct
+for revolt. During her stay in England, she had worked herself up
+into a white heat of courage. Like Miss Aberdeen, the English girl
+boarder, she was resolved to conquer her liberty, to grant herself
+every license, to dare all. She felt ready to affront scorn and blame
+on every side, capable of every defiance. In the advances she had made
+to Olivier, she had already triumphed over natural modesty and many an
+instinctive reluctance. The example of her two sisters had taught her
+her lesson; she looked upon Rachel’s pious resignation as the delusion
+of a dupe, and saw in Laura’s marriage nothing but a lugubrious barter
+with slavery as its upshot. The education she had received, that which
+she had given herself, that which she had taken, inclined her very
+little to what she called “conjugal piety.” She did not see in what
+particular the man she might marry could be her superior. Hadn’t she
+passed her examinations like a man? Hadn’t she her opinions and ideas
+on any and every subject? On the equality of the sexes in particular;
+and it even seemed to her that in the conduct of life, and consequently
+of business, and even, if need were, of politics, women often gave
+proof of more sense than many men....
+
+Steps on the staircase. She listened and then opened the door gently.
+
+Bernard and Sarah had never met. There was no light in the passage.
+They could hardly distinguish each other in the dark.
+
+“Mademoiselle Sarah Vedel?” whispered Bernard. She took his arm without
+more ado.
+
+“Edouard is waiting for us at the corner of the street in a taxi. He
+didn’t want to get down for fear of meeting your parents. It didn’t
+matter for me; you know I am staying in the house.”
+
+Bernard had been careful to leave the door into the street ajar, so
+as not to attract the porter’s attention. A few minutes later, the
+taxi deposited them all three in front of the Taverne du Panthéon. As
+Edouard was paying the taxi, they heard a clock strike ten.
+
+
+Dinner was finished. The table had been cleared, but it was still
+covered with coffee-cups, bottles and glasses. Everyone was smoking
+and the atmosphere was stifling. Madame des Brousses, the wife of the
+editor of the _Argonauts_, called for fresh air in a strident
+voice, which rang out shrilly above the hum of general talk. Someone
+opened a window. But Justinien, who wanted to put in a speech, had it
+shut almost immediately “for acoustics’ sake.” He rose to his feet
+and struck on his glass with a spoon, but failed to attract anyone’s
+attention. The editor of the _Argonauts_, whom people called the
+Président des Brousses, interposed, and having at last succeeded in
+obtaining a modicum of silence, Justinien’s voice gushed forth in a
+copious stream of dullness. A flood of metaphors covered the triteness
+of his ideas. He spoke with an emphasis which took the place of wit,
+and managed to ladle out to everyone in turn a handsome helping of
+grandiloquent flummery. At the first pause, and just as Edouard,
+Bernard and Sarah were making their entry, there was a loud burst of
+polite applause. Some of the company prolonged it, no doubt a little
+ironically, and as if hoping to put an end to the speech; but in
+vain--Justinien started off afresh; nothing could daunt his eloquence.
+At that moment it was the Comte de Passavant whom he was bestrewing
+with the flowers of his rhetoric. He spoke of _The Horizontal Bar_
+as of another _Iliad_. Passavant’s health was drunk. Edouard had
+no glass, neither had Bernard nor Sarah, so that they were dispensed
+from joining in the toast.
+
+Justinien’s speech ended with a few heartfelt wishes for the prosperity
+of the new review and a few elegant compliments to its future
+editor--“the young and gifted Molinier--the darling of the Muses,
+whose pure and lofty brow would not long have to wait for its crown of
+laurels.”
+
+Olivier was standing near the door, so as to welcome his friends as
+soon as they should arrive. Justinien’s blatant compliments obviously
+embarrassed him, but he was obliged to respond to the little ovation
+which followed them.
+
+The three new arrivals had dined too soberly to feel in tune with the
+rest of the assembly. In this sort of gathering, late comers understand
+ill--or only too well--the others’ excitement. They judge, when they
+have no business to judge, and exercise, even though involuntarily, a
+criticism which is without indulgence; this was the case at any rate
+with Edouard and Bernard. As for Sarah, in this milieu, everything was
+new to her; her one idea was to learn what she could, her one anxiety
+to be up to the mark.
+
+Bernard knew no one. Olivier, who had taken him by the arm, wanted to
+introduce him to Passavant and des Brousses. He refused. Passavant,
+however, forced the situation by coming up to him and holding out a
+hand, which he could not in decency refuse:
+
+“I have heard you spoken of so often that I feel as if I knew you
+already.”
+
+“The same with me,” said Bernard in such a tone that Passavant’s
+amenity froze. He at once turned to Edouard.
+
+Though often abroad travelling, and keeping, even when he was in Paris,
+a great deal to himself, Edouard was nevertheless acquainted with
+several of the guests and feeling perfectly at his ease. Little liked,
+but at the same time esteemed, by his _confrères_, he did not
+object to being thought proud, when, in reality, he was only distant.
+He was more willing to listen than to speak.
+
+“From what your nephew said, I was hoping you would come to-night,”
+began Passavant in a gentle voice that was almost a whisper. “I was
+delighted because....”
+
+Edouard’s ironical look cut short the rest of his sentence. Skilful
+in the arts of pleasing and accustomed to please, Passavant, in order
+to shine, had need to feel himself confronted by a flattering mirror.
+He collected himself, however, for he was not the man to lose his
+self-possession for long or to let himself be easily snubbed. He raised
+his head, and his eyes were charged with insolence. If Edouard would
+not follow his lead with a good grace, he would find means to worst him.
+
+“I was wanting to ask you ...” he went on, as if he were continuing his
+first remark, “whether you had any news of your other nephew, Vincent?
+It was he who was my special friend.”
+
+“No,” said Edouard dryly.
+
+This “no” upset Passavant once more; he did not know whether to
+take it as a provocative contradiction, or as a simple answer to his
+question. His disturbance lasted only a second; it was Edouard who
+unintentionally restored him to his balance by adding almost at once:
+
+“I have merely heard from his father that he was travelling with the
+Prince of Monaco.”
+
+“Yes, I asked a lady, who is a friend of mine, to introduce him to the
+Prince. I was glad to hit upon this diversion to distract him a little
+from his unlucky affair with that Madame Douviers.... You know her, so
+Olivier told me. He was in danger of wrecking his whole life over it.”
+
+Passavant handled disdain, contempt, condescension with marvellous
+skill; but he was satisfied with having won this bout and with keeping
+Edouard at sword’s length. Edouard indeed was racking his brains for
+some cutting answer. He was singularly lacking in presence of mind.
+That was no doubt the reason he cared so little for society--he had
+none of the qualities which are necessary to shine in it. His eyebrows
+however began to look frowningly. Passavant was quick to notice; when
+anything disagreeable was coming to him, he sniffed it in the air, and
+veered about. Without even stopping to take breath, and with a sudden
+change of tone:
+
+“But who is that delightful girl who is with you?” he asked smiling.
+
+“It is Mademoiselle Sarah Vedel, the sister of the very lady you were
+mentioning--my friend Madame Douviers.”
+
+In default of any better repartee, he sharpened the words “my friend”
+like an arrow--but an arrow which fell short, and Passavant, letting it
+lie, went on:
+
+“It would be very kind of you to introduce me.”
+
+He had said these last words and the sentence which preceded them loud
+enough for Sarah to hear, and as she turned towards them, Edouard was
+unable to escape:
+
+“Sarah, the Comte de Passavant desires the honour of your
+acquaintance,” said he with a forced smile.
+
+Passavant had sent for three fresh glasses, which he filled with
+kummel. They all four drank Olivier’s health. The bottle was almost
+empty, and as Sarah was astonished to see the crystals remaining at the
+bottom, Passavant tried to dislodge them with a straw. A strange kind
+of clown, with a befloured face, a black beady eye, and hair plastered
+down on his head like a skull-cap, came up.
+
+“You won’t do it,” he said, munching out each one of his syllables with
+an effort which was obviously assumed. “Pass me the bottle. I’ll smash
+it.”
+
+He seized it, broke it with a blow against the window ledge, and
+presenting the bottom of the bottle to Sarah:
+
+“With a few of these little sharp-edged polyhedra, the charming young
+lady will easily induce a perforation of her gizzard.”
+
+“Who is that pierrot?” she asked Passavant, who had made her sit down
+and was sitting beside her.
+
+“It’s Alfred Jarry, the author of _Ubu Roi_. The _Argonauts_
+have dubbed him a genius because the public have just damned his play.
+All the same, it’s the most interesting thing that’s been put on the
+stage for a long time.”
+
+“I like _Ubu Roi_ very much,” said Sarah, “and I’m delighted to
+see Jarry. I had heard he was always drunk.”
+
+“I should think he must be to-night. I saw him drink two glasses
+of neat absinthe at dinner. He doesn’t seem any the worse for it.
+Won’t you have a cigarette? One has to smoke oneself so as not to be
+smothered by the other people’s smoke.”
+
+He bent towards her to give her a light. She crunched a few of the
+crystals.
+
+“Why! it’s nothing but sugar candy,” said she, a little disappointed.
+“I hoped it was going to be something strong.”
+
+All the time she was talking to Passavant, she kept smiling at Bernard,
+who had stayed beside her. Her dancing eyes shone with an extraordinary
+brightness. Bernard, who had not been able to see her before because
+of the dark, was struck by her likeness to Laura. The same forehead,
+the same lips.... In her features, it is true, there breathed a less
+angelic grace, and her looks stirred he knew not what troubled depths
+in his heart. Feeling a little uncomfortable, he turned to Olivier:
+
+“Introduce me to your friend Bercail.”
+
+He had already met Bercail in the Luxembourg, but he had never spoken
+to him. Bercail was feeling rather out of it in this milieu into which
+Olivier had introduced him, and which he was too timid not to find
+distasteful, and every time Olivier presented him as one of the chief
+contributors to the _Vanguard_, he blushed. The fact is, that the
+allegorical poem of which he had spoken to Olivier at the beginning
+of our story, was to appear on the first page of the new review,
+immediately after the manifesto.
+
+“In the place I had kept for you,” said Olivier to Bernard. “I’m sure
+you’ll like it. It’s by far the best thing in the number. And so
+original!”
+
+Olivier took more pleasure in praising his friends than in hearing
+himself praised. At Bernard’s approach, Bercail rose; he was holding
+his cup of coffee in his hand so awkwardly, that in his agitation
+he spilled half of it down his waistcoat. At that moment, Jarry’s
+mechanical voice was heard close at hand:
+
+“Little Bercail will be poisoned. I’ve put poison in his cup.”
+
+Bercail’s timidity amused Jarry, and he liked putting him out of
+countenance. But Bercail was not afraid of Jarry. He shrugged his
+shoulders and finished his coffee calmly.
+
+“Who is that?” asked Bernard.
+
+“What! Don’t you know the author of _Ubu Roi_?”
+
+“Not possible! _That_ Jarry? I took him for a servant.”
+
+“Oh, all the same,” said Olivier, a little vexed, for he took a pride
+in his great men. “Look at him more carefully. Don’t you think he’s
+extraordinary?”
+
+“He does all he can to appear so,” said Bernard, who only esteemed
+what was natural, and who nevertheless was full of consideration for
+_Ubu_.
+
+Everything about Jarry, who was got up to look like the traditional
+circus clown, smacked of affectation--his way of talking in particular;
+several of the _Argonauts_ did their utmost to imitate it,
+snapping out their syllables, inventing odd words, and oddly mangling
+others; but it was only Jarry who could succeed in producing that
+toneless voice of his--a voice without warmth or intonation, or accent
+or emphasis.
+
+“When one knows him, he is charming, really,” went on Olivier.
+
+“I prefer not to know him. He looks ferocious.”
+
+“Oh, that’s just the way he has. Passavant thinks that in reality he
+is the kindest of creatures. But he has drunk a terrible lot to-night;
+and not a drop of water, you may be sure--nor even of wine; nothing but
+absinthe and spirits. Passavant’s afraid he may do something eccentric.”
+
+In spite of himself, Passavant’s name kept recurring to his lips, and
+all the more obstinately that he wanted to avoid it.
+
+Exasperated at feeling so little able to control himself, and as if he
+were trying to escape from his own pursuit, he changed his ground:
+
+“You should talk to Dhurmer a little. I’m afraid he bears me a deadly
+grudge for having stepped into his shoes at the _Vanguard_; but it
+really wasn’t my fault; I simply had to accept. You might try and make
+him see it and calm him down a bit. Pass.... I’m told he’s fearfully
+worked up against me.”
+
+He had tripped, but this time he had not fallen.
+
+“I hope he has taken his copy with him. I don’t like what he
+writes,” said Bercail; then turning to Bernard: “But, you, Monsieur
+Profitendieu, I thought that you....”
+
+“Oh, please don’t call me Monsieur.... I know I’ve got a ridiculous
+mouthful of a name.... I mean to take a pseudonym, if I write.”
+
+“Why haven’t you contributed anything?”
+
+“Because I hadn’t anything ready.”
+
+Olivier, leaving his two friends to talk together, went up to Edouard.
+
+“How nice of you to come! I was longing to see you again. But I would
+rather have met you anywhere but here.... This afternoon, I went and
+rang at your door. Did they tell you? I was so sorry not to find you;
+if I had known where you were....”
+
+He was quite pleased to be able to express himself so easily,
+remembering a time when his emotion in Edouard’s presence kept him
+dumb. This ease of his was due, alas! to his potations and to the
+banality of his words.
+
+Edouard realized it sadly.
+
+“I was at your mother’s.” (And for the first time he said “you” to
+Olivier instead of “thou.”)
+
+“Were you?” said Olivier, who was in a state of consternation at
+Edouard’s style of address. He hesitated whether he should not tell him
+so.
+
+“Is it in this milieu that you mean to live for the future?” asked
+Edouard, looking at him fixedly.
+
+“Oh, I don’t let it encroach on me.”
+
+“Are you quite sure of that?”
+
+These words were said in so grave, so tender, so fraternal a tone....
+Olivier felt his self-assurance tottering within him.
+
+“You think I am wrong to frequent these people?”
+
+“Not all of them, perhaps; but certainly some.”
+
+Olivier took this as a direct allusion to Passavant, and in his inward
+sky a flash of blinding, painful light shot through the bank of clouds
+which ever since the morning had been thickening and darkening in his
+heart. He loved Bernard, he loved Edouard far too well to bear the loss
+of their esteem. Edouard’s presence exalted all that was best in him;
+Passavant’s all that was worst; he acknowledged it now; and indeed,
+had he not always known it? Had not his blindness as regards Passavant
+been deliberate? His gratitude for all that the count had done for him
+turned to loathing. With his whole soul, he cast him off. What he now
+saw put the finishing touch to his hatred.
+
+Passavant, leaning towards Sarah, had passed his arm round her waist
+and was becoming more and more pressing. Aware of the unpleasant
+rumours which were rife concerning his relations with Olivier, he
+thought he would give them the lie. And to make his behaviour more
+public, he had determined to get Sarah to sit on his knees. Sarah had
+so far put up very little defence, but her eyes sought Bernard’s, and
+when they met them, her smile seemed to say:
+
+“See how far a person may go with me!”
+
+But Passavant was afraid of overdoing it; he was lacking in experience.
+
+“If I can only get her to drink a little more, I’ll risk it,” he said
+to himself, putting out his free hand towards a bottle of curaçao.
+
+Olivier, who was watching him, was beforehand with him; he snatched up
+the bottle, simply to prevent Passavant from getting it; but as soon as
+he took hold of it, it seemed to him that the liqueur would restore him
+a little of his courage--the courage he felt failing within him--the
+courage he needed to utter, loud enough for Edouard to hear, the
+complaint that was trembling on his lips:
+
+“If only you had chosen....”
+
+Olivier filled his glass and emptied it at a draught. Just at that
+moment, he heard Jarry, who was moving about from group to group, say
+in a half-whisper, as he passed behind Bercail:
+
+“And now we’re going to ki-kill little Bercail.”
+
+Bercail turned round sharply:
+
+“Just say that again out loud.”
+
+Jarry had already moved away. He waited until he had got round the
+table and then repeated in a falsetto voice:
+
+“And now we’re going to ki-kill little Bercail”; then, taking out of
+his pocket a large pistol, with which the _Argonauts_ had often
+seen him playing about, he raised it to his shoulder.
+
+Jarry had acquired the reputation of being a good shot. Protests were
+heard. In the drunken state in which he now was, people were not very
+sure that he would confine himself to play-acting. But little Bercail
+was determined to show he was not afraid; he got on to a chair, and
+with his arms folded behind his back, took up a Napoleonic attitude. He
+was just a little ridiculous and some tittering was heard, but it was
+at once drowned by applause.
+
+Passavant said to Sarah very quickly:
+
+“It may end unpleasantly. He’s completely drunk. Get under the table.”
+
+Des Brousses tried to catch hold of Jarry, but he shook him off and
+got on to a chair in his turn (Bernard noticed he was wearing patent
+leather pumps). Standing there straight opposite Bercail, he stretched
+out his arm and took aim.
+
+“Put the light out! Put the light out!” cried des Brousses.
+
+Edouard, who was still standing by the door, turned the switch.
+
+Sarah had risen in obedience to Passavant’s injunction; and as soon
+as it was dark, she pressed up against Bernard, to pull him under the
+table with her.
+
+The shot went off. The pistol was only loaded with a blank cartridge.
+But a cry of pain was heard. It came from Justinien, who had been hit
+in the eye by the wad.
+
+And, when the light was turned on again, there, to everyone’s
+admiration, stood Bercail, still on his chair in the same attitude,
+motionless and barely a shade paler.
+
+In the mean time the President’s lady was indulging in a fit of
+hysterics. Her friends crowded round her.
+
+“Idiotic to give people such a turn.”
+
+As there was no water on the table, Jarry, who had climbed down from
+his pedestal, dipped a handkerchief in brandy to rub her temples with,
+by way of apology.
+
+Bernard had stayed only a second under the table, just long enough to
+feel Sarah’s two burning lips crushed voluptuously against his. Olivier
+had followed them; out of friendship, out of jealousy.... That horrible
+feeling which he knew so well, of being out of it, was exacerbated by
+his being drunk. When, in his turn, he came out from underneath the
+table, his head was swimming. He heard Dhurmer exclaim:
+
+“Look at Molinier! He’s as funky as a girl!”
+
+It was too much. Olivier, hardly knowing what he was doing, darted
+towards Dhurmer with his hand raised. He seemed to be moving in a
+dream. Dhurmer dodged the blow. As in a dream, Olivier’s hand met
+nothing but empty air.
+
+The confusion became general, and while some of the guests were
+fussing over the President’s lady, who was still gesticulating wildly
+and uttering shrill little yelps as she did so, others crowded round
+Dhurmer, who called out: “He didn’t touch me! He didn’t touch me!” ...
+and others round Olivier, who, with a scarlet face, wanted to rush at
+him again, and was with great difficulty restrained.
+
+Touched or not, Dhurmer must consider that he had had his ears boxed;
+so Justinien, as he dabbed his eye, endeavoured to make him understand.
+It was a question of dignity. But Dhurmer was not in the least inclined
+to receive lessons in dignity from Justinien. He kept on repeating
+obstinately:
+
+“Didn’t touch me!... Didn’t touch me!”
+
+“Can’t you leave him alone?” said des Brousses. “One can’t force a
+fellow to fight if he doesn’t want to.”
+
+Olivier, however, declared in a loud voice, that if Dhurmer wasn’t
+satisfied, he was ready to box his ears again; and, determined to force
+a duel, asked Bernard and Bercail to be his seconds. Neither of them
+knew anything about so-called “affairs of honour”; but Olivier didn’t
+dare apply to Edouard. His neck-tie had come undone; his hair had
+fallen over his forehead, which was dank with sweat; his hands trembled
+convulsively.
+
+Edouard took him by the arm:
+
+“Come and bathe your face a little. You look like a lunatic.”
+
+He led him away to a lavatory.
+
+As soon as he was out of the room, Olivier understood how drunk he was.
+When he had felt Edouard’s hand laid upon his arm, he thought he was
+going to faint, and let himself be led away unresisting. Of all that
+Edouard had said to him, he only understood that he had called him
+“thou.” As a storm-cloud bursts into rain, he felt his heart suddenly
+dissolve in tears. A damp towel which Edouard put to his forehead
+brought him finally to his sober senses again. What had happened? He
+was vaguely conscious of having behaved like a child, like a brute. He
+felt himself ridiculous, abject.... Then, quivering with distress and
+tenderness, he flung himself towards Edouard, pressed up against him
+and sobbed out:
+
+“Take me away!”
+
+Edouard was extremely moved himself:
+
+“Your parents?” he asked.
+
+“They don’t know I’m back.”
+
+As they were going through the café downstairs on the way out, Olivier
+said to his companion that he had a line to write.
+
+“If I post it to-night it’ll get there to-morrow morning.”
+
+Seated at a table in the café he wrote as follows:
+
+My dear George,
+
+ Yes, this letter is from me, and it’s to ask you to do something for
+ me. I don’t suppose it’s news to you to hear I am back in Paris, for
+ I think you saw me this morning near the Sorbonne. I was staying
+ with the Comte de Passavant (Rue de Babylone); my things are still
+ there. For reasons it would be too long to explain and which wouldn’t
+ interest you, I prefer not to go back to him. You are the only person
+ I can ask to go and fetch them away--my things, I mean. You’ll do this
+ for me, won’t you? I’ll remember it when it’s your turn. There’s a
+ locked trunk. As for the things in the room, put them yourself into
+ my suit-case, and bring the lot to Uncle Edouard’s. I’ll pay for the
+ taxi. To-morrow’s Sunday fortunately; you’ll be able to do it as soon
+ as you get this line. I can count upon you, can’t I?
+
+                       Your affectionate brother
+                                                                OLIVIER
+
+ P.S.--I know you’re sharp enough and you’ll be able to manage all
+ right. But mind, that if you have any direct dealings with Passavant,
+ you are to be very distant with him.
+
+Those who had not heard Dhurmer’s insulting words could not understand
+the reason of Olivier’s sudden assault. He seemed to have lost his
+head. If he had kept cool, Bernard would have approved him; he didn’t
+like Dhurmer; but he had to admit that Olivier had behaved like a
+madman and put himself entirely in the wrong. It pained Bernard to hear
+him judged severely. He went up to Bercail and made an appointment with
+him. However absurd the affair was, they were both anxious to conduct
+it correctly. They agreed to go and call on their client at nine
+o’clock the next morning.
+
+When his two friends had gone, Bernard had neither reason nor
+inclination to stay. He looked round the room in search of Sarah and
+his heart swelled with a kind of rage to see her sitting on Passavant’s
+knee. They both seemed drunk; Sarah, however, rose when she saw Bernard
+coming up.
+
+“Let’s go,” she said, taking his arm.
+
+She wanted to walk home. It was not far. They spoke not a word on the
+way. At the pension all the lights were out. Fearful of attracting
+attention, they groped their way to the backstairs, and there struck
+matches. Armand was waiting for them. When he heard them coming
+upstairs, he went out on to the landing with a lamp in his hand.
+
+“Take the lamp,” said he to Bernard. “Light Sarah; there’s no candle
+in her room ... and give me your matches so that I can light mine.”
+Bernard accompanied Sarah into the inner room. They were no sooner
+inside than Armand, leaning over from behind them, blew the lamp out at
+a single breath, then, with a chuckle:
+
+“Good-night!” said he. “But don’t make a row. The parents are sleeping
+next door.”
+
+Then, suddenly stepping back, he shut the door on them; and bolted it.
+
+
+
+
+                                  IX
+
+                          OLIVIER AND EDOUARD
+
+
+ARMAND has lain down in his clothes. He knows he will not be able to
+sleep. He waits for the night to come to an end. He meditates. He
+listens. The house is resting, the town, the whole of nature; not a
+sound.
+
+As soon as a faint light, cast down by the reflector from the narrow
+strip of sky above, enables him to distinguish once more the hideous
+squalor of his room, he rises. He goes towards the door which he bolted
+the night before; opens it gently....
+
+The curtains of Sarah’s room are not drawn. The rising dawn whitens the
+window pane. Armand goes up to the bed where his sister and Bernard
+are resting. A sheet half hides them as they lie with limbs entwined.
+How beautiful they are! Armand gazes at them and gazes. He would like
+to be their sleep, their kisses. At first he smiles, then, at the foot
+of the bed, among the coverings they have flung aside, he suddenly
+kneels down. To what god can he be praying thus with folded hands? An
+unspeakable emotion shakes him. His lips are trembling ... he rises....
+
+But on the threshold of the door, he turns. He wants to wake Bernard so
+that he may gain his own room before anyone in the house is awake. At
+the slight noise Armand makes, Bernard opens his eyes. Armand hurries
+away, leaving the door open. He leaves his room, goes downstairs; he
+will hide no matter where; his presence would embarrass Bernard; he
+does not want to meet him.
+
+From a window in the class-room a few minutes later, he sees him go by,
+skirting the walls like a thief....
+
+Bernard has not slept much. But that night he has tasted a
+forgetfulness more restful than sleep--the exaltation at once and the
+annihilation of self. Strange to himself, ethereal, buoyant, calm and
+tense as a god, he glides into another day. He has left Sarah still
+asleep--disengaged himself furtively from her arms. What! without one
+more kiss? without a last lover’s look? without a supreme embrace?
+Is it through insensibility that he leaves her in this way? I cannot
+tell. He cannot tell himself. He tries not to think; it is a difficult
+task to incorporate this unprecedented night with all the preceding
+nights of his history. No; it is an appendix, an annex, which can find
+no place in the body of the book--a book where the story of his life
+will continue, surely, will take up the thread again, as if nothing had
+happened.
+
+He goes upstairs to the room he shares with little Boris. What a child!
+He is fast asleep. Bernard undoes his bed, rumples the bed-clothes,
+so as to give it the look of having been slept in. He sluices himself
+with water. But the sight of Boris takes him back to Saas-Fée. He
+recalls what Laura once said to him there: “I can only accept from
+you the devotion which you offer me. The rest will have its exigences
+and will have to be satisfied elsewhere.” This sentence had revolted
+him. He seems to hear it again. He had ceased to think of it, but this
+morning his memory is extraordinarily active. His mind works in spite
+of himself with marvellous alacrity. Bernard thrusts aside Laura’s
+image, tries to smother these recollections; and, to prevent himself
+from thinking, he seizes a lesson book and forces himself to read for
+his examination. But the room is stifling. He goes down to work in the
+garden. He would like to go out into the street, walk, run, get into
+the open, breathe the fresh air. He watches the street door; as soon as
+the porter opens it, he makes off.
+
+He reaches the Luxembourg with his book, and sits down on a bench.
+He spins his thoughts like silk; but how fragile! If he pulls it,
+the thread breaks. As soon as he tries to work, indiscreet memories
+wander obtrusively between his book and him; and not the memories
+of the keenest moments of his joy, but ridiculous, trifling little
+details--so many thorns, which catch and scratch and mortify his
+vanity. Another time he will show himself less of a novice.
+
+About nine o’clock, he gets up to go and fetch Lucien Bercail. Together
+they make their way to Edouard’s.
+
+
+Edouard lived at Passy on the top floor of an apartment house. His room
+opened on to a vast studio. When, in the early dawn, Olivier had risen,
+Edouard at first had felt no anxiety.
+
+“I’m going to lie down a little on the sofa,” Olivier had said. And
+as Edouard was afraid he might catch cold, he had told Olivier to
+take some blankets with him. A little later, Edouard in his turn had
+risen. He had certainly been asleep without being aware of it, for he
+was astonished to find that it was now broad daylight. He wanted to
+see whether Olivier was comfortable; he wanted to see him again; and
+perhaps an obscure presentiment guided him....
+
+The studio was empty. The blankets were lying at the foot of the couch
+unfolded. A horrible smell of gas gave him the alarm. Opening out of
+the studio, there was a little room which served as a bath-room. The
+smell no doubt came from there. He ran to the door; but at first was
+unable to push it open; there was some obstacle--it was Olivier’s body,
+sunk in a heap beside the bath, undressed, icy, livid and horribly
+soiled with vomiting.
+
+Edouard turned off the gas which was coming from the jet. What had
+happened? An accident? A stroke?... He could not believe it. The bath
+was empty. He took the dying boy in his arms, carried him into the
+studio, laid him on the carpet, in front of the wide open window. On
+his knees, stooping tenderly, he put his ear to his chest. Olivier
+was still breathing, but faintly. Then Edouard, desperately, set all
+his ingenuity to work to rekindle the little spark of life so near
+extinction; he moved the limp arms rhythmically up and down, pressed
+the flanks, rubbed the thorax, tried everything he had heard should
+be done in a case of suffocation, in despair that he could not do
+everything at once. Olivier’s eyes remained shut. Edouard raised his
+eyelids with his fingers, but they dropped at once over lifeless eyes.
+But yet his heart was beating. He searched in vain for brandy, for
+smelling salts. He heated some water, washed the upper part of the body
+and the face. Then he laid this inanimate body on the couch and covered
+it with blankets. He wanted to send for a doctor, but was afraid to
+absent himself. A charwoman was in the habit of coming every morning
+to do the house-work; but not before nine o’clock. As soon as he heard
+her, he sent her off at once to fetch the nearest doctor; then he
+called her back, fearing he might be exposed to an enquiry.
+
+Olivier, in the mean time, was slowly coming back to life. Edouard sat
+beside his couch. He gazed at the shut book of his face, baffled by
+its riddle. Why? Why? One may act thoughtlessly at night in the heat
+of intoxication, but the resolutions of early morning carry with them
+their full weight of virtue. He gave up trying to understand, until at
+last the moment should come when Olivier would be able to speak. Until
+that moment came he would not leave him. He had taken one of his hands
+in his and concentrated his interrogation, his thoughts, his whole life
+into that contact. At last it seemed to him that he felt Olivier’s hand
+responding feebly to his clasp.... Then he bent down, and set his lips
+on the forehead, where an immense and mysterious suffering had drawn
+its lines.
+
+A ring was heard at the door. Edouard rose to open it. It was Bernard
+and Lucien Bercail. Edouard kept them in the hall and told them what
+had happened; then, taking Bernard aside, he asked if he knew whether
+Olivier was subject to attacks of giddiness, to fits of any kind?...
+Bernard suddenly remembered their conversation of the day before, and,
+in particular, some words of Olivier’s which he had hardly listened to
+at the time, but which came back to him now, as distinctly as if he
+heard them over again.
+
+“It was I who began to speak of suicide,” said he to Edouard. “I asked
+him if he understood a person’s killing himself out of mere excess of
+life, ‘out of enthusiasm,’ as Dmitri Karamazof says. I was absorbed in
+my thought and at the time I paid no attention to anything but my own
+words; but I remember now what he answered.”
+
+“What did he answer?” insisted Edouard, for Bernard stopped as though
+he were reluctant to say anything more.
+
+“That he understood killing oneself, but only after having reached such
+heights of joy, that anything afterwards must be a descent.”
+
+They both looked at each other and added nothing further. Light was
+beginning to dawn on them. Edouard at last turned away his eyes; and
+Bernard was angry with himself for having spoken. They went up to
+Bercail.
+
+“The tiresome thing is,” said he, “that people may think he has tried
+to kill himself in order to avoid fighting.”
+
+Edouard had forgotten all about the duel.
+
+“Behave as if nothing had happened,” said he. “Go and find Dhurmer, and
+ask him to tell you who his seconds are. It is to them that you must
+explain matters, if the idiotic business doesn’t settle itself. Dhurmer
+didn’t seem particularly keen.”
+
+“We will tell him nothing,” said Lucien, “and leave him all the shame
+of retreating. For he will shuffle out of it, I’m certain.”
+
+Bernard asked if he might see Olivier. But Edouard thought he had
+better be kept quiet.
+
+Bernard and Lucien were just leaving, when young George arrived.
+He came from Passavant’s, but had not been able to get hold of his
+brother’s things.
+
+“Monsieur le Comte is not at home,” he had been told. “He has left no
+orders.”
+
+And the servant had shut the door in his face.
+
+A certain gravity in Edouard’s tone, in the bearing of the two others,
+alarmed George. He scented something out of the way--made enquiries.
+Edouard was obliged to tell him.
+
+“But say nothing about it to your parents.”
+
+George was delighted to be let into a secret.
+
+“A fellow can hold his tongue,” said he. And as he had nothing to do
+that morning, he proposed to accompany Bernard and Lucien on their way
+to Dhurmer’s.
+
+
+After his three visitors had left him, Edouard called the charwoman.
+Next to his own room was a spare room, which he told her to get ready,
+so that Olivier might be put into it. Then he went noiselessly back to
+the studio. Olivier was resting. Edouard sat down again beside him. He
+had taken a book, but he soon threw it aside without having opened it,
+and watched his friend sleeping.
+
+
+
+
+                                   X
+
+                        OLIVIER’S CONVALESCENCE
+
+      _Rien n’est simple de ce qui s’offre à l’âme; et l’âme ne s’offre
+                                          jamais simple à aucun sujet_.
+
+                                                                 PASCAL
+
+
+“I THINK he will be glad to see you,” said Edouard to Bernard next
+morning. “He asked me this morning if you hadn’t come yesterday.
+He must have heard your voice, at the time when I thought he was
+unconscious.... He keeps his eyes shut, but he doesn’t sleep. He
+doesn’t speak. He often puts his hand to his forehead, as if it were
+aching. Whenever I speak to him he frowns; but if I go away, he calls
+me back and makes me sit beside him.... No, he isn’t in the studio.
+I have put him in the spare room next to mine, so that I can receive
+visitors without disturbing him.”
+
+They went into it.
+
+“I’ve come to enquire after you,” said Bernard very softly.
+
+Olivier’s features brightened at the sound of his friend’s voice. It
+was almost a smile already.
+
+“I was expecting you.”
+
+“I’ll go away if I tire you.”
+
+“Stay.”
+
+But as he said the word, Olivier put his finger on his lips. He didn’t
+want to be spoken to. Bernard, who was going up for his _viva
+voce_ in three days’ time, never moved without carrying in his
+pocket one of those manuals which contain a concentrated elixir of the
+bitter stuff which is the subject matter of examinations. He sat down
+beside his bed and plunged into his reading. Olivier, his face turned
+to the wall, seemed to be asleep. Edouard had gone to his own room,
+which communicated with Olivier’s; the door between them had been left
+open, and from time to time he appeared at it. Every two hours he made
+Olivier drink a glass of milk, but only since that morning. During the
+whole of the preceding day, the patient had been unable to take any
+food.
+
+A long time went by. Bernard rose to go. Olivier turned round, held out
+his hand, and with an attempt at a smile:
+
+“You’ll come back to-morrow?”
+
+At the last moment he called him back, signed to him to stoop down, as
+if he were afraid of not making himself heard, and whispered:
+
+“Did you ever know such an idiot?”
+
+Then, as though to forestall Bernard’s protest, put his finger again to
+his lips.
+
+“No, no; I’ll explain later.”
+
+
+The next morning Edouard received a letter from Laura, when Bernard
+came, he gave it to him to read:
+
+My dear friend,
+
+ I am writing to you in a great hurry to try and prevent an absurd
+ disaster. You will help me, I am sure, if only this letter reaches you
+ in time.
+
+ Felix has just left for Paris, with the intention of going to see you.
+ His idea is to get from you the explanation which I refuse to give
+ him; he wants you to tell him the name of the person, whom he wishes
+ to challenge. I have done all I can to stop him, but nothing has any
+ effect and all I say merely serves to make him more determined. You
+ are the only person who will perhaps be able to dissuade him. He has
+ confidence in you and will, I hope, listen to you. Remember that he
+ has never in his life held a pistol or a foil in his hands. The idea
+ that he may risk his life for my sake is intolerable to me; but--I
+ hardly dare own it--I am really more afraid of his covering himself
+ with ridicule.
+
+ Since I got back, Felix has been all that is attentive and tender and
+ kind; but I cannot bring myself to show more love for him than I feel.
+ He suffers from this; and I believe it is his desire to force my
+ esteem, my admiration, that is making him take this step, which will
+ no doubt appear to you unconsidered, but of which he thinks day and
+ night, and which, since my return, has become an _idée fixe_ with
+ him. He has certainly forgiven me; but he bears ... a mortal grudge.
+
+ Please, I beg of you, welcome him as affectionately as you would
+ welcome myself; no proof of your friendship could touch me more.
+ Forgive me for not having written to you sooner to tell you once more
+ how grateful I am for all the care and kindness you lavished on me
+ during our stay in Switzerland. The recollection of that time keeps me
+ warm and helps me to bear my life.
+
+Your ever anxious and ever confident friend
+
+                                                                  LAURA
+
+“What do you mean to do?” asked Bernard, as he gave the letter back.
+
+“What _can_ I do?” replied Edouard, slightly irritated, not so
+much by Bernard’s question, as by the fact that he had already put
+it to himself. “If he comes, I will receive him to the best of my
+abilities. If he asks my advice, I will give him the best I can; and
+try to persuade him that the most sensible thing he can do is to keep
+quiet. People like poor Douviers are always wrong to put themselves
+forward. You’d think the same if you knew him, believe me. Laura, on
+the other hand, was cut out for a leading rôle. Each of us assumes the
+drama that suits his measure, and is allotted his share of tragedy.
+What can we do about it? Laura’s drama is to have married a super.
+There’s no help for that.”
+
+“And Douviers’ drama is to have married someone who will always be his
+superior, do what he may,” rejoined Bernard.
+
+“Do what he may ...” echoed Edouard, “--and do what Laura may. The
+admirable thing is that Laura, out of regret for her fault, out of
+repentance, wanted to humble herself before him; but he immediately
+prostrated himself lower still; so that all that each of them did
+merely served to make _him_ smaller and _her_ greater.”
+
+“I pity him very much,” said Bernard. “But why won’t you allow that he
+too may become greater by prostrating himself?”
+
+“Because he lacks the lyrical spirit,” said Edouard irrefutably.
+
+“What _do_ you mean?”
+
+“He never forgets himself in what he feels, so that he never feels
+anything great. Don’t push me too hard. I have my own ideas; but they
+don’t lend themselves to the yard measure, and I don’t care to measure
+them. Paul-Ambroise is in the habit of saying that he refuses to take
+count of anything that can’t be put down in figures; I think he is
+playing on the words ‘take count’; for if that were the case, we should
+be obliged to leave God out of ‘the account.’ That of course is where
+he is tending and what he desires.... Well, for instance, I think I
+call _lyrical_ the state of the man who consents to be vanquished
+by God.”
+
+“Isn’t that exactly what the word _enthusiasm_ means?”
+
+“And perhaps the word _inspiration_. Yes, that is just what I
+mean: Douviers is a being who is incapable of inspiration. I admit that
+Paul-Ambroise is right when he considers inspiration as one of the most
+harmful things in art; and I am willing to believe that one can only be
+an artist on condition of mastering the lyrical state; but in order to
+master it, one must first of all experience it.”
+
+“Don’t you think that this state of divine visitation can be
+physiologically explained by....”
+
+“Much good that will do!” interrupted Edouard. “Such considerations
+as that, even if they are true, only embarrass fools. No doubt there
+is no mystical movement that has not its corresponding material
+manifestation. What then? Mind, in order to bear its witness, cannot do
+without matter. Hence the mystery of the incarnation.”
+
+“On the other hand, matter does admirably without mind.”
+
+“Oh, ho! we don’t know about that!” said Edouard, laughing.
+
+Bernard was very much amused to hear him talk in this way. As a
+rule Edouard was more reserved. The mood he was in to-day came from
+Olivier’s presence. Bernard understood it.
+
+“He is talking to me as he would like already to be talking to him,”
+thought he. “It is Olivier who ought to be his secretary. As soon as
+Olivier is well again, I shall retire. My place is not here.”
+
+He thought this without bitterness, entirely taken up as he now was by
+Sarah, with whom he had spent the preceding night and whom he was to
+see that night too.
+
+“We’ve left Douviers a long way behind,” he said, laughing in his turn.
+“Will you tell him about Vincent?”
+
+“Goodness no! What for?”
+
+“Don’t you think it’s poisoning Douviers’ life not to know whom to
+suspect?”
+
+“Perhaps you are right. But you must say that to Laura. I couldn’t tell
+him without betraying her.... Besides I don’t even know where he is.”
+
+“Vincent?... Passavant must know.”
+
+A ring at the door interrupted them. Madame Molinier had come to
+enquire for her son. Edouard joined her in the studio.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XI
+
+                      EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: PAULINE
+
+
+VISIT from Pauline. I was a little puzzled how to let her know, and yet
+I could not keep her in ignorance of her son’s illness. I thought it
+useless to say anything about the incomprehensible attempt at suicide
+and spoke simply of a violent liver attack, which, as a matter of fact,
+remains the clearest result of the proceedings.
+
+“I am reassured already by knowing Olivier is with you,” said Pauline.
+“I shouldn’t nurse him better myself, for I feel that you love him as
+much as I do.”
+
+As she said these last words, she looked at me with an odd insistence.
+Did I imagine the meaning she seemed to put in her look? I was feeling
+what one is accustomed to call “a bad conscience” as regards Pauline,
+and was only able to stammer out something incoherent. I must also say
+that, sur-saturated as I have been with emotion for the last two days,
+I had entirely lost command of myself; my confusion must have been very
+apparent, for she added:
+
+“Your blush is eloquent!... My poor dear friend, don’t expect
+reproaches from me. I should reproach you if you didn’t love him....
+Can I see him?”
+
+I took her in to Olivier. Bernard had left the room as he heard us
+coming.
+
+“How beautiful he is!” she murmured, bending over the bed. Then,
+turning towards me: “You will kiss him from me. I am afraid of waking
+him.”
+
+Pauline is decidedly an extraordinary woman. And to-day is not the
+first time that I have begun to think so. But I could not have hoped
+that she would push comprehension so far. And yet it seemed to me that
+behind the cordiality of her words and the pleasantness she put into
+her voice, I could distinguish a touch of constraint (perhaps because
+of the effort I myself made to hide my embarrassment); and I remembered
+a sentence of our last conversation--a sentence which seemed to me
+full of wisdom even then, when I was not interested in finding it so:
+“I prefer granting with a good grace what I know I shan’t be able to
+prevent.” Evidently Pauline was striving after good grace; and, as if
+in response to my secret thoughts, she went on again, as soon as we
+were back in the studio:
+
+“By not being shocked just now, I am afraid it is I who have shocked
+you. There are certain liberties of thought of which men would like to
+keep the monopoly. And yet I can’t pretend to have more reprobation
+for you than I feel. Life has not left me ignorant. I know what a
+precarious thing boys’ purity is, even when it has the appearance of
+being most intact. And besides, I don’t think that the youths who are
+chastest turn into the best husbands--nor even, unfortunately, the most
+faithful!” she added, smiling sadly. “And then their father’s example
+made me wish other virtues for my sons. But I am afraid of their taking
+to debauchery or to degrading liaisons. Olivier is easily led astray.
+You will have it at heart to keep him straight. I think you will be
+able to do him good. It only rests with you....”
+
+These words filled me with confusion.
+
+“You make me out better than I am.”
+
+That is all I could find to say, in the stupidest, stiffest way. She
+went on with exquisite delicacy:
+
+“It is Olivier who will make you better. With love’s help what can one
+not obtain from oneself?”
+
+“Does Oscar know he is with me?” I asked, to put a little air between
+us.
+
+“He does not even know he is in Paris. I told you that he pays very
+little attention to his sons. That is why I counted on you to speak to
+George. Have you done so?”
+
+“No--not yet.”
+
+Pauline’s brow grew suddenly sombre.
+
+“I am becoming more and more anxious. He has an air of assurance, which
+seems to me a combination of recklessness, cynicism, presumption. He
+works well. His masters are pleased with him; my anxiety has nothing to
+lay hold of....”
+
+Then all of a sudden, throwing aside her calm and speaking with an
+excitement such that I barely recognized her:
+
+“Do you realize what my life is?” she exclaimed. “I have restricted my
+happiness; year by year, I have been obliged to narrow it down; one by
+one, I have curtailed my hopes. I have given in; I have tolerated; I
+have pretended not to understand, not to see.... But all the same, one
+clings to something, however small; and when even that fails one!... In
+the evening he comes and works beside me under the lamp; when sometimes
+he raises his head from his book, it isn’t affection that I see in his
+look--it’s defiance. I haven’t deserved it.... Sometimes it seems to me
+suddenly that all my love for him is turned to hatred; and I wish that
+I had never had any children.”
+
+Her voice trembled. I took her hand.
+
+“Olivier will repay you, I vouch for it.”
+
+She made an effort to recover herself.
+
+“Yes, I am mad to speak so; as if I hadn’t three sons. When I think of
+one, I forget the others.... You’ll think me very unreasonable, but
+there are really moments when reason isn’t enough.”
+
+“And yet what I admire most about you is your reasonableness,” said I
+baldly, in the hopes of calming her. “The other day, you talked about
+Oscar so wisely....”
+
+Pauline drew herself up abruptly. She looked at me and shrugged her
+shoulders.
+
+“It’s always when a woman appears most resigned that she seems the most
+reasonable,” she cried, almost vindictively.
+
+This reflection irritated me, by reason of its very justice. In order
+not to show it, I asked:
+
+“Anything new about the letters?”
+
+“New? New?... What on earth that’s new can happen between Oscar and me?”
+
+“He was expecting an explanation.”
+
+“So was I. I was expecting an explanation. All one’s life long one
+expects explanations.”
+
+“Well, but,” I continued, rather annoyed, “Oscar felt that he was in a
+false situation.”
+
+“But, my dear friend, you know well enough that nothing lasts more
+eternally than a false situation. It’s the business of you novelists
+to try to solve them. In real life nothing is solved; everything
+continues. We remain in our uncertainty; and we _shall_ remain to
+the very end without knowing what to make of things. In the mean time
+life goes on and on, the same as ever. And one gets resigned to that
+too; as one does to everything else ... as one does to everything.
+Well, well, good-bye.”
+
+I was painfully affected by a new note in the sound of her voice, which
+I had never heard before; a kind of aggressiveness, which forced me
+to think (not at the actual moment, perhaps, but when I recalled our
+conversation) that Pauline accepted my relations with Olivier much less
+easily than she said; less easily than all the rest. I am willing to
+believe that she does not exactly reprobate them, that from some points
+of view she is glad of them, as she lets me understand; but, perhaps
+without owning it to herself, she is none the less jealous of them.
+
+This is the only explanation I can discover for her sudden outburst of
+revolt, so soon after, and on a subject which, on the whole, she had
+much less at heart. It was as though by granting me at first what cost
+her more, she had exhausted her whole stock of benignity and suddenly
+found herself with none left. Hence her intemperate, her almost
+extravagant language, which must have astonished her herself, when she
+came to recall it, and in which her jealousy unconsciously betrayed
+itself.
+
+In reality, I ask myself, what can be the state of mind of a woman who
+is not resigned? An “honest woman,” I mean.... As if what is called
+“honesty” in woman did not always imply resignation!
+
+
+This evening Olivier is perceptibly better. But returning life brings
+anxiety along with it. I reassure him by every device in my power.
+
+“His duel?”--Dhurmer has run away into the country. One really can’t
+run after him.
+
+“The review?”--Bercail is in charge of it.
+
+“The things he had left at Passavant’s?”--This is the thorniest point.
+I had to admit that George had been unable to get possession of them;
+but I have promised to go and fetch them myself to-morrow. He is
+afraid, from what I can gather, that Passavant may keep them as a
+hostage; inadmissable for a single moment!
+
+
+Yesterday, I was sitting up late in the studio, after having written
+this, when I heard Olivier call me. In a moment I was by his side.
+
+“I should have come myself, only I was too weak,” he said. “I tried
+to get up, but when I stand, my head turns round and I was afraid of
+falling. No, no, I’m not feeling worse; on the contrary. But I had to
+speak to you.
+
+“You must promise me something.... Never to try and find out why I
+wanted to kill myself the other night. I don’t think I know myself.
+I can’t remember. Even if I tried to tell you, upon my honour, I
+shouldn’t be able to.... But you mustn’t think that it’s because of
+anything mysterious in my life, anything you don’t know about.” Then,
+in a whisper: “And don’t imagine either that it was because I was
+ashamed....”
+
+Although we were in the dark, he hid his face in my shoulder.
+
+“Or if I am ashamed, it is of the dinner the other evening; of being
+drunk, of losing my temper, of crying; and of this summer ... and of
+having waited for you so badly.”
+
+Then he protested that none of all that was part of him any more; that
+it was all that that he had wanted to kill--that he had killed--that he
+had wiped out of his life.
+
+I felt, in his very agitation, how weak he still was, and rocked him in
+my arms, like a child, without saying anything. He was in need of rest;
+his silence made me hope he was asleep; but at last I heard him murmur:
+
+“When I am with you, I am too happy to sleep.”
+
+He did not let me leave him till morning.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XII
+
+             EDOUARD AND THEN STROUVILHOU VISIT PASSAVANT
+
+
+BERNARD arrived early that morning. Olivier was still asleep. As on the
+preceding days, Bernard settled himself down at his friend’s bedside
+with a book, which allowed Edouard to go off guard, in order to call on
+the Comte de Passavant, as he had promised. At such an early hour he
+was sure to be in.
+
+The sun was shining; a keen air was scouring the trees of their last
+leaves; everything seemed limpid, bathed in azure. Edouard had not been
+out for three days. His heart was dilated by an immense joy; and even
+his whole being, like an opened, empty wrapping, seemed floating on a
+shoreless sea, a divine ocean of loving-kindness. Love and fine weather
+have this power of boundlessly enlarging our contours.
+
+Edouard knew that he would want a taxi to bring back Olivier’s things;
+but he was in no hurry to take one; he enjoyed walking. The state of
+benevolence in which he felt himself towards the whole world, was no
+good preparation for facing Passavant. He told himself that he ought
+to execrate him; he went over in his mind all his grievances--but
+they had ceased to sting. This rival, whom only yesterday he had so
+detested, he could detest no longer--he had ousted him too completely.
+At any rate he could not detest him that morning. And as, on the other
+hand, he thought it prudent that no trace of this reversal of feeling
+should appear, for fear of its betraying his happiness, he would
+have gladly evaded the interview. And indeed, why the dickens was he
+going to it? He! Edouard! Going to the Rue de Babylone, to ask for
+Olivier’s things--on what pretext? He had undertaken the commission
+very thoughtlessly, he told himself, as he walked along; it would imply
+that Olivier had chosen to take up his abode with him--exactly what he
+wanted to conceal.... Too late, however, to draw back; Olivier had his
+promise. At any rate, he must be very cold with Passavant, very firm. A
+taxi went by and he hailed it.
+
+Edouard knew Passavant ill. He was ignorant of one of the chief traits
+of his character. No one had ever succeeded in catching Passavant out;
+it was unbearable to him to be worsted. In order not to acknowledge his
+defeats to himself, he always affected to have desired his fate, and
+whatever happened to him, he pretended that that was what he wished. As
+soon as he understood that Olivier was escaping him, his one care was
+to dissemble his rage. Far from attempting to run after him, and risk
+being ridiculous, he forced himself to keep a stiff lip and shrug his
+shoulders. His emotions were never too violent to keep under control.
+Some people congratulate themselves on this, and refuse to acknowledge
+that they owe their mastery over themselves less to their force of
+character than to a certain poverty of temperament. I don’t allow
+myself to generalize; let us suppose that what I have said applies only
+to Passavant. He did not therefore find much difficulty in persuading
+himself that he had had enough of Olivier; that during these two summer
+months he had exhausted the charm of an adventure which ran the risk of
+encumbering his life; that, for the rest, he had exaggerated the boy’s
+beauty, his grace and his intellectual resources; that, indeed, it was
+high time he should open his eyes to the inconveniences of confiding
+the management of a review to anyone so young and inexperienced. Taking
+everything into consideration, Strouvilhou would serve his purpose far
+better (as regards the review, that is). He had written to him and
+appointed him to come and see him that very morning.
+
+Let us add too that Passavant was mistaken as to the cause of Olivier’s
+desertion. He thought he had made him jealous by his attentions to
+Sarah; he was pleased with this idea which flattered his self-conceit;
+his vexation was soothed by it.
+
+He was expecting Strouvilhou; and as he had given orders that he was to
+be let in at once, Edouard benefited by the instructions and was shown
+in to Passavant without being announced.
+
+Passavant gave no signs of his surprise. Fortunately for him, the part
+he had to play was suited to his temperament and he was easily able to
+switch his mind on to it. As soon as Edouard had explained the motive
+of his visit:
+
+“I’m delighted to hear what you say. Then really? You’re willing to
+look after him? It doesn’t put you out too much?... Olivier is a
+charming boy, but he was beginning to be terribly in my way here. I
+didn’t like to let him feel it--he’s so nice.... And I knew he didn’t
+want to go back to his parents.... Once one has left one’s parents,
+you know--.... Oh! but now I come to think of it, his mother is a
+half-sister of yours, isn’t she?... Or something of that kind? Olivier
+must have told me so, I expect. Then, nothing could be more natural
+than that he should stay with you. No one can possibly smile at it”
+(though he himself didn’t fail to do so as he said the words). “With
+me, you understand, it was rather more shady. In fact, that was one of
+the reasons that made me anxious for him to go.... Though I am by no
+means in the habit of minding public opinion. No; it was in his own
+interest rather....”
+
+The conversation had not begun badly; but Passavant could not resist
+the pleasure of pouring a few drops of his poisonous perfidy on
+Edouard’s happiness. He always kept a supply on hand; one never knows
+what may happen.
+
+Edouard felt his patience giving way. But he suddenly thought of
+Vincent; Passavant would probably have news of him. He had indeed
+determined not to answer Douviers, should he question him; but he
+thought it would be a good thing to be himself acquainted with the
+facts, in order the better to avoid his enquiries. It would strengthen
+his resistance. He seized this pretext as a diversion.
+
+“Vincent has not written to me,” said Passavant; “but I have had a
+letter from Lady Griffith--you know--the successor--in which she speaks
+of him at length. See, here it is.... After all, I don’t know why you
+shouldn’t read it.”
+
+He handed him the letter, and Edouard read:
+
+25th August
+
+My dear,[7]
+
+ The prince’s yacht is leaving Dakar without us. Who knows where we
+ shall be when you get this letter which it is taking with it? Perhaps
+ on the banks of the Casamance, where Vincent wants to botanize, and
+ I to shoot. I don’t exactly know whether it is I who am carrying him
+ off, or he me; or whether it isn’t rather that we have both of us
+ fallen into the clutches of the demon of adventure. He was introduced
+ to us by the demon of boredom, whose acquaintance we made on board
+ ship.... _Ah, cher!_ one must live on a yacht to know what
+ boredom is. In rough weather life is just bearable; one has one’s
+ share of the vessel’s agitation. But after Teneriffe, not a breath;
+ not a wrinkle on the sea.
+
+    _“... grand miroir_
+    _De mon désespoir.”_
+
+ And do you know what I have been engaged in doing ever since? In
+ hating Vincent. Yes, my dear, love seemed too tasteless, so we have
+ gone in for hating each other. In reality it began long before;
+ really, as soon as we got on board; at first it was only irritation,
+ a smouldering animosity, which didn’t prevent closer encounters. With
+ the fine weather, it became ferocious. Oh! I know now what it is to
+ feel passion for someone....
+
+The letter went on for some time longer.
+
+“I don’t need to read any further,” said Edouard, giving it back to
+Passavant. “When is he coming back?”
+
+“Lady Griffith doesn’t speak of returning.”
+
+Passavant was mortified that Edouard showed so little appetite for this
+letter. Since he had allowed him to read it, such a lack of curiosity
+must be considered as an affront. He enjoyed rejecting other people’s
+offers, but could not endure to have his own disdained. Lilian’s
+letter had filled him with delight. He had a certain affection for her
+and Vincent; and had even proved to his own satisfaction that he was
+capable of being kind to them and helpful; but as soon as one got on
+without it, his affection dwindled. That his two friends should not
+have set sail for perfect bliss when they left him, tempted him to
+think: “Serves them right!”
+
+As for Edouard, his early morning felicity was too genuine for him not
+to be made uncomfortable by the picture of such outrageous feelings. It
+was quite unaffectedly that he gave the letter back.
+
+Passavant felt it essential to recover the lead at once:
+
+“Oh! I wanted to say too--you know that I had thought of making Olivier
+editor of a review. Of course there’s no further question of that.”
+
+“Of course not,” rejoined Edouard, whom Passavant had unwittingly
+relieved of a considerable anxiety. He understood by Edouard’s tone
+that he had played into his hand, and without even giving himself the
+time to bite his lips:
+
+“Olivier’s things are in the room he was occupying. You have a taxi, I
+suppose? I’ll have them brought down to you. By the bye, how is he?”
+
+“Very well.”
+
+Passavant had risen. Edouard did the same. They parted with the coldest
+of bows.
+
+
+The Comte de Passavant had been terribly put out by Edouard’s visit. He
+heaved a sigh of relief when Strouvilhou came into the room.
+
+Although Strouvilhou, on his side, was perfectly able to hold his own,
+Passavant felt at ease with him--or, to be more accurate, treated
+him in a free and easy manner. No doubt his opponent was by no means
+despicable, but he considered himself his match, and piqued himself on
+proving it.
+
+“My dear Strouvilhou, take a seat,” said he, pushing an arm-chair
+towards him. “I am really glad to see you again.”
+
+“Monsieur le Comte sent for me. Here I am entirely at his service.”
+
+Strouvilhou liked affecting a kind of flunkey’s insolence with
+Passavant, but Passavant knew him of old.
+
+“Let’s get to the point; it’s time to come out into the open. You’ve
+already tried your hand at a good many trades.... I thought to-day of
+proposing you an actual dictatorship--only in the realms of literature,
+let us hasten to add.”
+
+“A pity!” Then, as Passavant held out his cigarette case: “If you’ll
+allow me, I prefer....”
+
+“I’ll allow nothing of the kind. Your horrid contraband cigars make the
+room stink. I can’t understand how anyone can smoke such stuff.”
+
+“Oh! I don’t pretend that I rave about them. But they’re a nuisance to
+one’s neighbours.”
+
+“Playful as ever?”
+
+“Not altogether an idiot, you know.”
+
+And without replying directly to Passavant’s proposal, Strouvilhou
+thought proper to establish his positions; afterwards he would see. He
+went on:
+
+“Philanthropy was never one of my strong points.”
+
+“I know, I know,” said Passavant.
+
+“Nor egoism either. That’s what you don’t know.... People want to
+make us believe that man’s single escape from egoism is a still more
+disgusting altruism! As for me, I maintain that if there’s anything
+more contemptible and more abject than a man, it’s a lot of men. No
+reasoning will ever persuade me that the addition of a number of sordid
+units can result in an enchanting total. I never happen to get into a
+tram or a train without hoping that a good old accident will reduce
+the whole pack of living garbage to a pulp; yes, good Lord! and myself
+into the bargain. I never enter a theatre without praying that the
+chandelier may come crashing down, or that a bomb may go off; and even
+if I had to be blown up too, I’d be only too glad to bring it along in
+my coat pocket--if I weren’t reserving myself for something better. You
+were saying?...”
+
+“No, nothing; go on, I’m listening. You’re not one of those orators who
+need the stimulus of contradiction to keep them going.”
+
+“The fact is, I thought I heard you offer me some of your incomparable
+port.”
+
+Passavant smiled.
+
+“Keep the bottle beside you,” he said, as he passed it to him. “Empty
+it if you like, but talk.”
+
+Strouvilhou filled his glass, sat comfortably back in his big arm-chair
+and began:
+
+“I don’t know if I’ve got what people call a hard heart; in my opinion,
+I’ve got too much indignation, too much disgust in my composition--not
+that I care. It is true that for a long time past I have repressed
+in that particular organ of mine everything which ran the risk of
+softening it. But I am not incapable of admiration, and of a sort of
+absurd devotion; for, in so far as I am a man, I despise and hate
+myself as much as I do my neighbours. I hear it repeated everywhere and
+constantly that literature, art and science work together in the long
+run for the good of mankind; and that’s enough to make me loathe them.
+But there’s nothing to prevent me from turning the proposition round,
+and then I breathe again. Yes, what for my part I like to imagine is,
+on the contrary, a servile humanity working towards the production of
+some cruel master-piece; a Bernard Palissy (how they have deaved us
+with that fellow!) burning his wife and children to get a varnish for
+a fine plate. I like turning problems round; I can’t help it, my mind
+is so constructed that they keep steadier when they are standing on
+their heads. And if I can’t endure the thought of a Christ sacrificing
+himself for the thankless salvation of all the frightful people I
+knock up against daily, I imagine with some satisfaction, and indeed
+a kind of serenity, the rotting of that vile mob in order to produce
+a Christ ... though, in reality, I should prefer something else; for
+all His teaching has only served to plunge us deeper into the mire.
+The trouble comes from the selfishness of the ferocious. Imagine what
+magnificent things an unselfish ferocity would produce! When we take
+care of the poor, the feeble, the rickety, the injured, we are making
+a great mistake; and that is why I hate religion--because it teaches
+us to. That deep peace, which philanthropists themselves pretend they
+derive from the contemplation of nature, and its fauna and flora, comes
+from this--that in the savage state, it is only robust creatures that
+flourish; all the rest is refuse and serves as manure. But people won’t
+see it; won’t admit it.”
+
+“Yes, yes; I admit it willingly. Go on.”
+
+“And tell me whether it isn’t shameful, wretched ... that men have
+done so much to get superb breeds of horses, cattle, poultry, cereals,
+flowers, and that they themselves are still seeking a relief for
+their sufferings in medicine, a palliative in charity, a consolation
+in religion, and oblivion in drink. What we ought to work at is the
+amelioration of the breed. But all selection implies the suppression
+of failures, and this is what our fool of a Christianized society
+cannot consent to. It will not even take upon itself to castrate
+degenerates--and those are the most prolific. What we want is not
+hospitals, but stud farms.”
+
+“Upon my soul, Strouvilhou, I like you when you talk so.”
+
+“I am afraid, Monsieur le Comte, that you have misunderstood me. You
+thought me a sceptic, and in reality I am an idealist, a mystic.
+Scepticism has never been any good. One knows for that matter where it
+leads--to tolerance! I consider sceptics people without imagination,
+without ideals--fools.... And I am not ignorant of all the delicacies,
+the sentimental subtleties which would be suppressed by the production
+of this robust humanity; but no one would be there to regret the
+delicacies, since the people capable of appreciating them would be
+suppressed too. Don’t make any mistake--I am not without what is
+called culture, and I know that certain among the Greeks had caught a
+glimpse of my ideal; at any rate, I like imagining it, and remembering
+that Coré, daughter of Ceres, went down to Hades full of pity for the
+shades; but that after she had become queen, and Pluto’s wife, Homer
+never calls her anything but ‘implacable Proserpine.’ See Odyssey,
+Bk. VI. ‘_Implacable_’--that’s what every man who pretends to be
+virtuous owes it to himself to be.”
+
+“Glad to see you come back to literature--that is, if we may be said
+ever to have left it. Well then, virtuous Strouvilhou, I want to know
+whether you’ll consent to become the implacable editor of a review?”
+
+“To tell the truth, my dear count, I must own that of all nauseating
+human emanations, literature is one of those which disgust me most.
+I can see nothing in it but compromise and flattery. And I go so far
+as to doubt whether it can be anything else--at any rate until it has
+made a clean sweep of the past. We live upon nothing but feelings which
+have been taken for granted once for all and which the reader imagines
+he experiences, because he believes everything he sees in print; the
+author builds on this as he does on the conventions which he believes
+to be the foundations of his art. These feelings ring as false as
+counters, but they pass current. And as everyone knows that ‘bad money
+drives out good,’ a man who should offer the public real coins would
+seem to be defrauding us. In a world in which everyone cheats, it’s
+the honest man who passes for a charlatan. I give you fair warning--if
+I edit a review, it will be in order to prick bladders--in order to
+demonetize fine feelings, and those promissory notes which go by the
+name of _words_.”
+
+“Upon my soul, I should very much like to know how you’ll set about it.”
+
+“Let me alone and you’ll soon see.... I have often thought it over.”
+
+“No one will understand what you’re after; no one will follow you.”
+
+“Oh, come now! The cleverest young men of the present day are already
+on their guard against poetical inflation. They perfectly recognize
+a gas bag when they see one--even in the disguise of scientifically
+elaborate metre, and trimmed up with all the hackneyed effusions of
+high-sounding lyrical verse. One can always find hands for a work of
+destruction. Shall we found a school with no other object but to pull
+things down?... Would you be afraid?”
+
+“No.... So long as my garden isn’t trampled on.”
+
+“There’s enough to be done elsewhere ... _en attendant_. The
+moment is propitious. I know many a young man who is only waiting for
+the rallying cry; quite young ones.... Oh, yes, I know! That’s what you
+like; but I warn you they aren’t taking any.... I have often wondered
+by what miracle painting has gone so far ahead, and how it happens
+that literature has let itself be outdistanced. In painting to-day,
+just see how the ‘_motif_,’ as it used to be called, has fallen
+into discredit. _A fine subject!_ It makes one laugh. Painters
+don’t even dare venture on a portrait unless they can be sure of
+avoiding every trace of resemblance. If we manage our affairs well, and
+leave me alone for that, I don’t ask for more than two years before a
+future poet will think himself dishonoured if anyone can understand
+a word of what he says. Yes, Monsieur le Comte, will you wager? All
+sense, all meaning will be considered anti-poetical. Illogicality
+shall be our guiding star. What a fine title for a review--_The
+Scavengers!_”
+
+Passavant had listened without turning a hair.
+
+“Do you count your young nephew among your acolytes?” he asked after a
+pause.
+
+“Young Léon is one of the elect; he doesn’t let the flies settle on
+him, either. Really, it’s a pleasure teaching him. Last term he thought
+it would be a joke to cut out the swotters in his form and carry off
+all the prizes. Since he came back from the holidays he has let his
+work go to the deuce; I haven’t the least idea what he’s hatching; but
+I have every confidence in him, and I wouldn’t for the world interfere.”
+
+“Will you bring him to see me?”
+
+“Monsieur le Comte is joking, no doubt.... Well, then, this review?”
+
+“We’ll see about it later. I must have time to let your plans mature in
+my mind. In the mean time, you might really find me a secretary. I’m
+not satisfied with the one I had.”
+
+“I’ll send you little Cob-Lafleur to-morrow. I shall be seeing him this
+afternoon, and I make no doubt he’ll suit you.”
+
+“Scavenger style?”
+
+“A little.”
+
+“_Ex uno_...”
+
+“Oh, no; don’t judge them all from him. He is one of the moderate ones.
+Just right for you.”
+
+Strouvilhou rose.
+
+“A propos,” said Passavant, “I haven’t given you my book, I think. I’m
+sorry not to have a first edition left....”
+
+“As I don’t mean to sell it, it isn’t of the slightest importance.”
+
+“It’s only because the print’s better.”
+
+“Oh! as I don’t mean to read it either.... _Au revoir._ And if the
+spirit moves you, I’m at your service. I wish you good morning.”
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[Footnote 7: In English in the original.]
+
+
+
+
+                                 XIII
+
+               EDOUARD’S JOURNAL: DOUVIERS’ PROFITENDIEU
+
+
+BROUGHT back Olivier’s things from Passavant’s. As soon as I got home,
+set to work on _The Counterfeiters_. My exaltation is calm and
+lucid. My joy is such as I have never known before. Wrote thirty pages
+without hesitation, without a single erasure. The whole drama, like
+a nocturnal landscape suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightning,
+emerges out of the darkness, very different from what I had been trying
+to invent. The books which I have hitherto written seem to me like the
+ornamental pools in public gardens--their contours are defined--perfect
+perhaps, but the water they contain is captive and lifeless. I wish it
+now to run freely, according to its bent, sometimes swift, sometimes
+slow; I choose not to foresee its windings.
+
+X. maintains that a good novelist, before he begins to write his book,
+ought to know how it is going to finish. As for me, who let mine flow
+where it will, I consider that life never presents us with anything
+which may not be looked upon as a fresh starting point, no less than as
+a termination. “Might be continued”--these are the words with which I
+should like to finish my _Counterfeiters_.
+
+
+Visit from Douviers. He is certainly an excellent fellow.
+
+As I exaggerated my sympathy for him, I was obliged to submit to his
+effusions, which were rather embarrassing. All the time I was talking
+to him, I kept repeating to myself La Rochefoucauld’s words: “I am
+very little susceptible to pity; and should like not to be so at
+all.... I consider that one ought to content oneself with showing it
+and carefully refrain from feeling it.” And yet my sympathy was real,
+undeniable, and I was moved to tears. Truth to tell, my tears seemed
+to console him better than my words. I almost believe that he gave up
+being unhappy as soon as he saw me cry.
+
+I was firmly resolved not to tell him the name of the seducer; but to
+my surprise he did not ask it. I think his jealousy dies down as soon
+as he no longer feels Laura’s eyes upon him. In any case, its energy
+had been somewhat diminished by the act of coming to see me.
+
+There is something illogical in his case; he is indignant that the
+other man should have deserted Laura. I pointed out that if it had not
+been for his desertion, Laura would not have come back to him. He is
+resolved to love the child as if it were his own. Who knows whether he
+would ever have tasted the joys of paternity without the seducer? I
+took good care not to point this out to him, for at the recollection
+of his insufficiencies, his jealousy becomes more acute. But then it
+belongs to the domain of vanity and ceases to interest me.
+
+That an Othello should be jealous is comprehensible; the image of his
+wife’s pleasure obsesses him. But when a Douviers becomes jealous it
+can only be because he imagines he ought to be.
+
+And no doubt he nurses this passion from a secret need to give body to
+his somewhat unsubstantial personage. Happiness would be natural to
+him; but he has to admire himself and he esteems only what is acquired,
+not what is natural. I did all I could therefore to persuade him that
+simple happiness was more meritorious than torments and very difficult
+to attain. I did not let him go till he was calm again.
+
+
+Inconsistency. Characters in a novel or a play who act all the way
+through exactly as one expects them to.... This consistency of theirs,
+which is held up to our admiration, is on the contrary the very thing
+which makes us recognize that they are artificially composed.
+
+Not that I pretend that inconsistency is a sure indication of
+naturalness, for one often meets, especially among women, affected
+inconsistencies; and on the other hand, in some few instances,
+there is reason to admire what is known as _esprit de suite_;
+but, as a rule, such consecutiveness is obtained only by vain and
+obstinate perseverance, and at the expense of all naturalness. The
+more fundamentally generous an individual is, and the more fertile in
+possibilities, the more liable he is to change, and the less willing to
+allow his future to be decided by his past. The “_justum et tenacem
+propositi virum_,” who is held up to us as a model, more often than
+not offers a stony soil and is refractory to culture.
+
+I have known some of yet another sort: these assiduously fabricate for
+themselves a self-conscious originality, and after having made a choice
+of certain practices, their principal preoccupation is never to depart
+from them, to remain for ever on their guard and allow themselves not
+a moment’s relaxation. (I remember X., who refused to let me fill
+his glass with Montrachet 1904, saying: “I don’t like anything but
+Bordeaux.” As soon as I pretended it was a Bordeaux, he thought the
+Montrachet delectable.)
+
+When I was younger, I used to make resolutions, which I imagined were
+virtuous. I was less anxious to be what I was, than to become what I
+wished to be. Now, I am not far from thinking that in irresolution lies
+the secret of not growing old.
+
+
+Olivier has asked me what I am working at. I let myself be carried away
+into talking of my book, and even--he seemed so much interested--into
+reading him the pages I had just written. I was afraid of what he
+would say, knowing how sweeping young people’s judgments are and how
+difficult they find it to admit another point of view from their own.
+But the few remarks which he diffidently offered, seemed to me most
+judicious, and I immediately turned them to account.
+
+My breath, my life comes to me from him--through him.
+
+He is still anxious about the review he was going to edit, and
+particularly about the story which he wrote at Passavant’s request and
+which he now repudiates. I told him that Passavant’s new arrangements
+will necessitate the re-casting of the first number; he will be able to
+get his MS. back.
+
+Just received a very unexpected visit from _M. le juge
+d’instruction_ Profitendieu. He was mopping his forehead and
+breathing heavily, not so much, it seemed to me, from having come up my
+six flights of stairs, as from embarrassment. He kept his hat in his
+hand and did not sit down till I pressed him to. He is a handsome man,
+with a fine figure and considerable presence.
+
+“I think you are President Molinier’s brother-in-law,” he said. “It is
+about his son George that I have taken the liberty of coming to see
+you. I feel sure you will excuse a step which at first sight may seem
+indiscreet, but which the affection and esteem I have for my colleague
+will, I hope, sufficiently explain.”
+
+He paused. I got up and went to let down a portière, for fear the
+charwoman, who is very inquisitive, and who was, I knew, in the next
+room, should overhear. Profitendieu approved me with a smile.
+
+“In my capacity as _juge d’instruction_, I have an affair on my
+hands which is causing me extreme embarrassment. Your young nephew has
+already been mixed up in a most compromising manner in a ... this is
+quite between ourselves, I beg ... in a somewhat scandalous adventure.
+I am willing to believe, considering his extreme youth, that he was
+taken by surprise, owing to his simplicity--his innocence; but I
+may say that it has required some skill on my part to ... ahem ...
+circumscribe this affair, without injuring the interests of justice.
+In the face of a second breach--of quite another kind, I hasten to
+add--I cannot answer for it that young George will get off so easily.
+I even doubt whether it is in the boy’s own interest to _try_ to
+get him off, notwithstanding all my desire as a friend to spare your
+brother-in-law such a scandal. Nevertheless I _will_ try; but
+I have officers, you understand, who are zealous, and whom I am not
+always able to restrain. Or, if you prefer it, I am still able to keep
+them in hand to-day, but to-morrow I shall be unable to. And I thought
+you might speak to your young nephew and warn him of the risk he is
+running.”
+
+Profitendieu’s visit (I might as well admit it) had at first alarmed
+me horribly; but as soon as I understood that he had come neither as an
+enemy nor as a judge, I began to be amused. I was a great deal more so
+when he went on:
+
+“For some time past a certain number of counterfeit coins have been put
+into circulation. So far I am informed. But I have not yet succeeded
+in discovering their origin. I know, however, that young George--quite
+innocently, I am willing to believe--is one of those who circulate
+them. A few young boys of your nephew’s age are lending themselves to
+this shameful traffic. I don’t doubt that their simplicity is being
+abused and that these foolish children are tools in the hands of one
+or two unscrupulous elders. We should have had no difficulty in taking
+up the younger delinquents and making them confess the origin of the
+coins; but I am only too well aware that after a certain point a case
+escapes our control, so to speak; that is to say, we cannot go back on
+the police court proceedings, and we sometimes find ourselves forced
+to become acquainted with things we should prefer to ignore. Upon this
+occasion, I have no doubt I shall discover the real culprits without
+having recourse to the minors’ evidence. I have given orders therefore
+not to alarm them. But my orders are only provisional. I don’t want
+your nephew to force me to countermand them. He had better be told that
+the authorities’ eyes are open. It wouldn’t be a bad thing indeed to
+frighten him a little; he is on a downward course....”
+
+I declared I would do my best to warn him, but Profitendieu seemed
+not to hear me. His eyes became vague. He repeated twice: “on what is
+called a downward course,” and then was silent.
+
+I do not know how long his silence lasted. Without his having to
+formulate his thoughts, I seemed to see them forming in his mind, and
+before he spoke, I already heard his words:
+
+“I am a father myself, sir....”
+
+Everything he had been saying disappeared; there was nothing left
+between us but Bernard. The rest was only a pretext; it was to talk of
+him that he had come.
+
+If effusions make me feel uncomfortable, if exaggerated feelings
+irritate me, nothing, on the contrary, could have been more calculated
+to touch me than this restrained emotion. He kept it back as best he
+could, but with so great an effort that his lips and hands trembled. He
+was unable to continue. He suddenly hid his face in his hands, and the
+upper part of his body was shaken with sobs:
+
+“You see,” he stammered, “you see how miserable a child can make us.”
+
+What was the good of pretending? Extremely moved myself, “If Bernard
+were to see you,” I cried, “his heart would melt; I can vouch for it.”
+
+At the same time I felt in rather an awkward situation. Bernard had
+hardly ever mentioned his father to me. I had morally accepted his
+having left his family, ready as I am to consider such desertions
+natural, and disposed to see in them nothing but what will be to the
+child’s greatest advantage. In Bernard’s case, there was the additional
+factor of his bastardy.... But here was his false father discovering
+feelings which were all the stronger, no doubt, that they were beyond
+control, and all the more sincere that they were in no way obligatory.
+In the face of this love, this grief, I was forced to ask myself
+whether Bernard had done right to leave. I had no longer the heart to
+approve him.
+
+“Make use of me, if you think I can be of any use,” I said, “if you
+think that I ought to speak to him. He has a good heart.”
+
+“I know. I know.... Yes, you can do a great deal. I know he was with
+you this summer. My police work is well done.... I know too that he is
+going up for his _viva voce_ this very day. I chose the moment I
+knew he would be at the Sorbonne to come and see you. I was afraid of
+meeting him.”
+
+For some minutes, my emotion had been dwindling, for I had just
+noticed that the verb “to know” figured in nearly all his sentences. I
+immediately became less interested in what he was saying than in this
+trick of speech, which was perhaps professional.
+
+He told me also that he “knew” that Bernard had passed his written
+examination brilliantly. An obliging examiner, who happened to be a
+friend of his, had enabled him to see his son’s French essay, which
+it appears was most remarkable. He spoke of Bernard with a kind of
+restrained admiration, which made me wonder whether after all he did
+not believe he was really his father.
+
+“Heavens!” added he, “whatever you do, don’t tell him what I have just
+been saying. He is so proud by nature, so easily offended!... If he
+suspected that ever since he left I have never ceased thinking of him,
+following him.... But all the same, you can tell him that you have
+seen me.” (He breathed painfully after each sentence.) “You can tell
+him, what no one else can, that I am not angry with him”; then with
+a voice that grew fainter: “that I have never ceased to love him ...
+like a son. Yes, I know that you know.... You can tell him too ...” and
+without looking at me, with difficulty, in a state of extreme confusion
+“that his mother left me ... yes, for good, this summer; and that if he
+... would come back, I....”
+
+He was unable to finish.
+
+When a big, strong, matter-of-fact man, who has made his way in life
+and is firmly established in his career, suddenly throws aside all
+decorum and pours out his heart before a stranger, he affords him (in
+this case it was I) a most singular spectacle. I was able once more to
+verify, as I have often done before, that I am more easily moved by
+the effusions of an outsider than by those of a familiar acquaintance.
+(Will examine into the reason of this another time.)
+
+Profitendieu did not conceal that he had at first been prejudiced
+against me, not having understood, and still not understanding, why
+Bernard had left his home to join me. This was what had prevented him
+from coming to see me in the first place. I did not dare tell him the
+story of the suit-case, and merely spoke of his son’s friendship for
+Olivier, which had quickly led to our becoming intimate in our turn.
+
+“These young men,” went on Profitendieu, “start off in life without
+knowing to what they are exposed. No doubt their ignorance of danger
+makes their strength. But we who know, we, their fathers, tremble for
+them. Our solicitude irritates them, and the best thing is to let
+them see it as little as possible. I know that it is sometimes very
+troublesome and clumsy. Rather than incessantly repeat to a child that
+fire burns, let us consent to his burning his fingers. Experience is a
+better instructor than advice. I always allowed Bernard the greatest
+possible liberty--so much so, that he fancied, I grieve to say, that I
+was indifferent to him. I am afraid that was his mistake and the reason
+of his running away. Even then, I thought it was better to let him
+be; though I kept a watch on him all the time without his suspecting
+it. Thank God, I had the means!” (Evidently the organization of his
+police was Profitendieu’s special pride--this was the third time he
+had alluded to it.) “I thought I must take care not to belittle the
+risks of his initiative in the boy’s eyes. Shall I own to you that his
+rebellious conduct, notwithstanding the pain it gave me, has only made
+me fonder of him than ever? It seemed to me a proof of courage, of
+valour....”
+
+Now that he felt himself on confidential terms, the worthy man would
+have gone on for ever. I tried to bring the conversation back to what
+interested me more and, cutting him short, asked him if he had ever
+seen one of the counterfeit coins of which he had spoken. I was curious
+to know whether they were like the little glass piece which Bernard had
+shown us. I had no sooner mentioned this, than Profitendieu’s whole
+countenance changed; his eyelids half closed and a curious light burned
+in his eyes; crow’s feet appeared upon his temples, his lips tightened,
+his features were all drawn upwards in his effort at attention. There
+was no further question of anything that had passed before. The judge
+ousted the father and nothing existed for him but his profession. He
+pressed me with questions, took notes and spoke of sending a police
+officer to Saas-Fée to take the names of the visitors in the hotel
+books.
+
+“Though in all likelihood,” he added, “the coin you saw was given to
+the grocer by an adventurer who was merely passing through the place.”
+
+To which I replied that Saas-Fée was at the further end of an
+_impasse_ and that it was not easy to go there and back from it
+in the same day. He appeared particularly pleased with this piece of
+information, and after having thanked me warmly, left me, with an
+absorbed, delighted look on his face, and without having once recurred
+either to George or to Bernard.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIV
+
+                         BERNARD AND THE ANGEL
+
+
+BERNARD was to experience that morning that for a nature as generous as
+his, there is no greater joy than to rejoice another being. This joy
+was denied him. He had just heard that he had passed his examination
+with honours, but finding no one near to whom he could communicate
+it, the news lost all its savour. Bernard knew well enough that the
+person who would have been most pleased to hear it, was his father.
+He even hesitated a moment whether he would not go there and then
+and tell him; but pride held him back. Edouard? Olivier? It was
+really giving too much importance to a certificate. He had passed his
+_baccalauréat_. Nothing to make a fuss about! It was now that the
+difficulties would begin.
+
+In the Sorbonne quadrangle, he saw one of his schoolfellows, who had
+also been successful; but he had drawn apart from the others and was
+crying. The poor boy was in mourning. Bernard knew that he had just
+lost his mother. A great wave of sympathy drove him towards the orphan;
+then a feeling of absurd shyness made him pass on. The other boy, who
+had seen him come up and then go by, was ashamed of his tears; he
+esteemed Bernard and was hurt by what he took for contempt.
+
+Bernard went into the Luxembourg gardens. He sat down on a bench in
+the same part of the gardens where he had gone to meet Olivier the
+evening he had sought shelter with him. The air was almost warm and the
+blue sky laughed down at him through the branches of the great trees,
+already stripped of their leaves. One could not believe that winter
+was really on the way; the cooing birds themselves were deceived. But
+Bernard did not look at the gardens; he saw the ocean of life spread
+out before him. People say there are paths on the sea, but they are
+not traced and Bernard did not know which one was his.
+
+He had been meditating for some moments, when he saw coming towards
+him--gliding on so light a foot that one felt it might have rested on
+the waves--an angel. Bernard had never seen any angels, but he had not
+a moment’s doubt, and when the angel said: “Come!” he rose obediently
+and followed him. He was not more astonished than he would have been
+in a dream. He tried to remember afterwards if the angel had taken him
+by the hand; but in reality they did not touch each other and even
+kept a little apart. They returned together to the quadrangle where
+Bernard had left the orphan, firmly resolved to speak to him; but the
+quadrangle was empty.
+
+Bernard walked, with the angel by his side, towards the church of
+the Sorbonne, into which the angel passed first--into which Bernard
+had never been before. Other angels were going to and fro in this
+place; but Bernard had not the eyes that were needed to see them. An
+unfamiliar peace enfolded him. The angel went up to the high altar,
+and Bernard, when he saw him kneel down, knelt down beside him. He did
+not believe in any god, so that he could not pray, but his heart was
+filled with a lover’s longing for dedication, for sacrifice; he offered
+himself. His emotion was so confused that no word could have expressed
+it; but suddenly the organ’s song arose.
+
+“You offered yourself in the same way to Laura,” said the angel; and
+Bernard felt the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Come, follow me.”
+
+As the angel drew him along, Bernard almost knocked up against one of
+his old schoolfellows, who had also just passed his _viva voce_.
+Bernard considered him a dunce and was astonished that he had got
+through. The dunce did not notice Bernard, who saw him slip some money
+for a candle into the beadle’s hand. Bernard shrugged his shoulders and
+went out.
+
+When he found himself in the street again, he saw that the angel had
+left him. He went into a tobacco shop--the very same in which George,
+a week before, had risked his first false coin. He had passed a great
+many more since then. Bernard bought a packet of cigarettes and smoked.
+Why had the angel gone? Had Bernard and he then nothing to say to each
+other?... Noon struck. Bernard was hungry. Should he go back to the
+pension? Should he join Olivier and share with him Edouard’s lunch?...
+He made sure that he had enough money in his pocket and went into a
+restaurant. As he was finishing his lunch, a soft voice murmured in his
+ear:
+
+“The time has come to do your accounts.”
+
+Bernard turned his head. The angel was again beside him.
+
+“You will have to make up your mind,” he said. “You have been living at
+haphazard. Do you mean to let chance dispose of your life? You want to
+be of service--but what do you wish to serve? That is the question.”
+
+“Teach me; guide me,” said Bernard.
+
+The angel led Bernard into a hall full of people. At the bottom of the
+hall was a platform and on the platform a table covered with a dark red
+cloth. A man, who was still young, was seated behind the table and was
+speaking.
+
+“It is a very great folly,” he was saying, “to imagine that there is
+anything we can discover. What have we that we have not received? It is
+the duty of each one of us to understand while we are still young, that
+we derive from the past, that we are bound to this past by every kind
+of obligation, and that the whole of our future is marked out by it.”
+
+When he had finished developing this theme, another orator took his
+place; he began by approving the former and then raised his voice
+against the presumption of the man who thinks he can live without a
+doctrine, or guide himself by his own lights.
+
+“A doctrine has been bequeathed us,” he said. “It has already traversed
+many centuries. It is assuredly the best--the only one. The duty of
+each one of us is to prove this truth. It has been handed down to us by
+our masters. It is our country’s and every time she repudiates it, she
+has to pay for her error dearly. No one can be a good Frenchman without
+holding it, nor succeed in anything good without conforming to it.”
+
+To this second orator succeeded a third, who thanked the other two for
+having so ably traced what he called the theory of their programme;
+then he set forth that this programme consisted in nothing less than
+the regeneration of France, which was to be brought about by the united
+efforts of each single member of their party. He himself, he declared,
+was a man of action; he affirmed that the end and proof of every theory
+is in its practice, and that the duty of every good Frenchman is to be
+a combatant.
+
+“But, alas!” he added, “how many isolated efforts are wasted!
+Our country would be far greater, our activity would be far more
+wide-spread, all that is best in us would be brought forward, if every
+effort were co-ordinated, if every act contributed to the glory of law
+and order, if everyone were willing to serve in the ranks.”
+
+And while he was speaking, a number of young men went round the
+audience, distributing printed forms of membership, which had only to
+be signed.
+
+“You wanted to offer yourself,” said the angel then. “What are you
+waiting for?”
+
+Bernard took one of the papers which were handed him; it began with
+these words: “I solemnly pledge myself to....” He read it, then looked
+at the angel and saw that he was smiling; then he looked at the meeting
+and recognized among the young men present, the schoolfellow whom he
+had seen just before in the church, burning a candle in gratitude
+for having passed his examination; and suddenly, further on, he
+caught sight of his eldest brother, whom he had not seen since he had
+left home. Bernard did not like him and was a little jealous of the
+consideration with which their father seemed to treat him. He crumpled
+the paper nervously in his hand.
+
+“Do you think I ought to sign?”
+
+“Yes,” said the angel, “certainly--if you have doubts of yourself.”
+
+“I doubt no longer,” said Bernard, flinging the paper from him.
+
+In the mean time the orator was still speaking. When Bernard began to
+listen to him again, he was teaching an infallible method for never
+making a mistake, which was to give up ever forming a judgment for
+oneself and always to defer to the judgments of one’s superiors.
+
+“And who are these superiors?” asked Bernard; and suddenly a great
+indignation seized him.
+
+“If you went on to the platform,” he said to the angel, “and grappled
+with him, you would be sure to throw him....”
+
+“It is with _you_ I will wrestle. This evening. Do you agree...?”
+
+“Yes,” said Bernard.
+
+They went out. They reached the boulevards. The crowds that were
+thronging them seemed entirely composed of rich people; each of them
+seemed sure of himself, indifferent to the others, but anxious.
+
+“Is that the image of happiness?” asked Bernard, who felt the tears
+rising in his heart.
+
+Then the angel took Bernard into the poor quarters of the town, whose
+wretchedness Bernard had never suspected. Evening was falling. They
+wandered for a long time among tall, sordid houses, inhabited by
+disease, prostitution, shame, crime and hunger. It was only then that
+Bernard took the angel’s hand, and the angel turned aside to weep.
+
+
+Bernard did not dine that evening; and when he went back to the pension
+he did not attempt to join Sarah, as he had done the other evenings,
+but went straight upstairs to the room he shared with Boris.
+
+Boris was already in bed but not asleep. He was re-reading, by the
+light of his candle, the letter he had received that very morning from
+Bronja.
+
+“I am afraid,” wrote his friend, “that I shall never see you again. I
+caught cold when we got back to Poland. I have a cough; and though the
+doctor hides it from me, I feel I cannot live much longer.”
+
+When he heard Bernard coming up, Boris hid the letter under his pillow,
+and blew the candle out hurriedly.
+
+Bernard came in in the dark. The angel was with him, but, although the
+night was not very dark, Boris saw only Bernard.
+
+“Are you asleep?” asked Bernard in a whisper. And as Boris did not
+answer, he concluded he was sleeping.
+
+“Then, now,” said Bernard to the angel, “we’ll have it out.”
+
+And all that night, until the breaking of the day, they wrestled.
+
+Boris dimly perceived that Bernard was struggling. He thought it was
+his way of praying and took care not to disturb him. And yet he would
+have liked to speak to him, for his unhappiness was very great. He got
+up and knelt down at the foot of his bed. He would have liked to pray,
+but he could only sob:
+
+“Oh, Bronja! You who can see angels, you who were to have opened my
+eyes, you are leaving me! Without you, Bronja, what will become of me?
+What will become of me?”
+
+Bernard and the angel were too busy to hear him. They wrestled together
+till daybreak. The angel departed without either of them having
+vanquished the other.
+
+When, a little later, Bernard himself left the room, he met Rachel in
+the passage.
+
+“I want to speak to you,” she said. Her voice was so sad that Bernard
+understood at once what it was she had to say to him. He answered
+nothing, bowed his head, and in his great pity for Rachel suddenly
+began to hate Sarah and to loathe the pleasure he took with her.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XV
+
+                        BERNARD VISITS EDOUARD
+
+
+ABOUT ten o’clock, Bernard turned up at Edouard’s with a hand bag which
+was sufficient to contain the few clothes and books that he possessed.
+He had taken leave of Azaïs and of Madame Vedel, but had not attempted
+to see Sarah.
+
+Bernard was grave. His struggle with the angel had matured him. He no
+longer resembled the careless youth who had stolen the suit-case and
+who thought that all that is needed in this world is to be daring. He
+was beginning to understand that boldness is often achieved at the
+expense of other people’s happiness.
+
+“I have come to ask for shelter,” said he to Edouard. “Here I am again
+without a roof.”
+
+“Why are you leaving the Vedels’?”
+
+“For private reasons ... forgive me for not telling you.”
+
+Edouard had observed Bernard and Sarah on the evening of the dinner
+enough to guess at the meaning of this silence.
+
+“All right,” he said smiling. “The couch in my studio is at your
+service. But I must first tell you that your father came to see me
+yesterday.” And he repeated the part of their conversation which he
+thought likely to touch him. “It is not in my house that you ought to
+spend the night, but in his. He is expecting you.”
+
+Bernard, however, kept silent.
+
+“I will think about it,” he said at last. “Allow me in the mean time to
+leave my things here. May I see Olivier?”
+
+“The weather is so fine, that I advised him to go out. I wanted to go
+with him, for he is still very weak, but he wouldn’t let me. But it’s
+more than an hour since he left and he will be back soon. You had
+better wait for him.... But I’ve just thought.... Your examination?”
+
+“I’ve passed; but it’s of no importance; the important thing is to know
+what I’m to do now. Do you know the chief reason that prevents me from
+going back to my father’s? It’s because I don’t want to take his money.
+You’ll think me absurd to fling away such an opportunity; but I made a
+vow that I would make my way without it. I feel I must prove to myself
+that I am a man of my word--someone I can count on.”
+
+“It strikes me as pride more than anything else.”
+
+“Call it by any name you please--pride, presumption, conceit ... it’s a
+feeling you won’t succeed in cheapening in my eyes. But at the present
+moment, what I should like to know is this--is it necessary to fix
+one’s eyes on a goal in order to guide oneself in life?”
+
+“Explain.”
+
+“I wrestled over it all last night. What am I to do with the strength
+I feel I possess? To what use am I to put it? How am I to get out of
+myself the best that’s in me? Is it by aiming at a goal? But how choose
+such a goal? How know what it is before reaching it?”
+
+“To live without a goal, is to give oneself up to chance.”
+
+“I am afraid you don’t understand. When Columbus discovered America did
+he know towards what he was sailing? His goal was to go ahead, straight
+in front of him. Himself was his goal, impelling him to go ahead....”
+
+“I have often thought,” interrupted Edouard, “that in art, and
+particularly in literature, the only people who count are those who
+launch out on to unknown seas. One doesn’t discover new lands without
+consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. But our
+writers are afraid of the open; they are mere coasters.”
+
+“Yesterday, when I came out from my examination,” Bernard said, without
+hearing him, “some demon or other urged me into a hall where there was
+a public meeting going on. The talk was all about national honour,
+devotion to one’s country, and a whole lot of things that made my heart
+beat. I came within an ace of signing a paper by which I pledged
+myself on my honour to devote my energies to the service of a cause,
+which certainly seemed to me a fine and noble one.”
+
+“I am glad you didn’t sign, but what prevented you?”
+
+“No doubt some secret instinct....” Bernard reflected a few moments,
+and then added, laughing: “I think it was chiefly the looks of the
+audience--starting with my brother, whom I recognized among them.
+It seemed to me all the young men I saw there, were animated by the
+best of sentiments, and that they were doing quite right to abdicate
+their initiative (for it wouldn’t have led them far) and their
+judgment (for it was inadequate) and their independence of mind (for
+it was still-born). I said to myself too, that it was a good thing
+for the country to count among its citizens a large number of these
+well-intentioned individuals with subservient wills, but that my will
+would never be of that kind. It was then that I began to ask myself how
+to establish a rule, since I did not accept life without a rule and yet
+would not accept a rule from anyone else.”
+
+“The answer seems to me simple: to find the rule in oneself; to have
+for goal the development of oneself.”
+
+“Yes ... that, as a matter of fact, is what I said to myself. But I
+wasn’t much further on. If I were certain of preferring what is best
+in myself, I might develop that rather than the rest. But I can’t even
+find out what _is_ best in myself.... I wrestled over it all
+night, I tell you. Towards morning I was so tired that I thought of
+enlisting--before I was called up.”
+
+“Running away from the question doesn’t solve it.”
+
+“That’s what I said to myself, and that even if I put the question off
+now, it would come up again more seriously than ever after my service.
+So I came to ask you your advice.”
+
+“I have none to give you. You can only find counsel in yourself; you
+can only learn how you ought to live by living.”
+
+“And if I live badly, whilst I’m waiting to decide how to live?”
+
+“That in itself will teach you. It’s a good thing to follow one’s
+inclination, provided it leads up hill.”
+
+“Are you joking?... No; I think I understand you, and I accept your
+formula. But while I am developing myself, as you say, I shall have to
+earn my living. What do you say to an alluring advertisement in the
+papers: “Young man of great promise requires a job. Could be employed
+in any capacity?”
+
+Edouard laughed.
+
+“No job is so difficult to find as any job. Better be a little more
+explicit.”
+
+“Perhaps one of the innumerable little wheels in the organization
+of a big newspaper would do? Oh! I’d accept any post however
+subordinate--proof-reader--printer’s devil--anything. I need so little.”
+
+He spoke with hesitation. In reality, it was a secretaryship he
+wanted; but he did not dare say so to Edouard, because of their
+mutual dissatisfaction with each other on this score. After all, it
+wasn’t his, Bernard’s, fault, that this trial of theirs had failed so
+lamentably.
+
+“I might perhaps,” said Edouard, “get you into the _Grand
+Journal_; I know the editor....”
+
+
+While Bernard and Edouard were conversing in this manner, Sarah was
+having an extremely painful explanation with Rachel. Sarah had suddenly
+understood that Rachel’s remonstrances were the cause of Bernard’s
+abrupt departure; and she was indignant with her sister, who, she said,
+was a kill-joy. She had no right to impose upon others a virtue which
+her example was enough to render odious.
+
+Rachel, who was terribly upset by these accusations, for she had always
+sacrificed herself, turned very white, and protested with trembling
+lips:
+
+“I can’t let you go to perdition.”
+
+But Sarah sobbed and cried out:
+
+“I don’t believe in your heaven. I don’t want to be saved.”
+
+She decided on the spot to return to England, where she would go and
+stay with her friend. For, after all, she was free and claimed the
+right to live in any way she pleased. This melancholy quarrel left
+Rachel shattered.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XVI
+
+                         EDOUARD WARNS GEORGE
+
+
+EDOUARD took care to arrive at the pension before the boys came in. He
+had not seen La Pérouse since the beginning of the term and it was to
+him that he wanted to speak first. The old music master carried out his
+new duties as well as he could--that is to say, very badly. He had at
+first tried to make himself liked, but he had no authority; the boys
+took advantage of him; his indulgence passed for weakness, and they
+began to take strange liberties. La Pérouse tried to be severe, but too
+late; his exhortations, his threats, his reprimands finally set the
+boys against him. If he raised his voice, they laughed; if he thumped
+his fist resoundingly on his desk, they shrieked in pretended terror;
+they mimicked him; they called him by absurd nicknames; caricatures
+of him circulated from bench to bench; he--so kind and courteous--was
+portrayed armed with a pistol (the pistol which Ghéridanisol,
+George and Phiphi had found one day in the course of an indiscreet
+investigation of his room), ferociously massacring the boys; or else on
+his knees before them, with hands clasped, imploring, as he had done at
+first, for “a little quiet, for pity’s sake.” He was like a poor old
+stag at bay among a savage pack of hounds. Edouard knew nothing of all
+this.
+
+
+                           EDOUARD’S JOURNAL
+
+La Pérouse received me in a small class-room on the ground floor,
+which I recognized as the most uncomfortable one in the school. Its
+only furniture consisted of four benches attached to four desks, a
+blackboard and a straw chair, on which La Pérouse forced me to sit
+down, while he screwed himself up slantwise on to one of the benches,
+after vain endeavours to get his long legs under the desk.
+
+“No, no. I’m perfectly comfortable, I assure you,” he declared, while
+the tone of his voice and the expression of his face said:
+
+“I am horribly uncomfortable, and I hope it’s obvious; but I prefer
+to be so; and the more uncomfortable I am, the less you will hear me
+complain.”
+
+I tried to make a joke, but could not succeed in getting him to smile.
+His manner was ceremonious and stiff, as if he wished to keep me at a
+distance and imply: “I owe it to you that I am here.”
+
+At the same time he declared himself perfectly satisfied with
+everything, though all the while eluding my questions and seeming vexed
+at my insisting. I asked him, however, where his room was.
+
+“Rather too far from the kitchen,” he suddenly exclaimed; and as
+I expressed my astonishment: “Sometimes during the night, I want
+something to eat ... when I can’t sleep.”
+
+I was near him; I came nearer still and put my hand gently on his arm.
+He went on in a more natural tone:
+
+“I must tell you that I sleep very badly. When I do go to sleep, I
+never lose the feeling that I am asleep. That’s not proper sleep, is
+it? A person who is properly asleep, doesn’t feel that he is asleep.
+When he wakes up, he just knows that he has been asleep.”
+
+Then, leaning towards me, he went on with a kind of finicky insistence:
+
+“Sometimes I’m inclined to think that it’s an illusion and that, all
+the same, I _am_ properly asleep, when I think I’m not asleep. But
+the proof that I’m not properly asleep is that if I want to open my
+eyes, I open them. As a rule, I don’t want to. You understand, don’t
+you, that there’s no object in it? What’s the use of proving to myself
+that I’m not asleep? I always go on hoping that I shall go to sleep by
+persuading myself that I’m asleep already....”
+
+He bent still nearer and went on in a whisper:
+
+“And then there’s something that disturbs me. Don’t tell anyone.... I
+haven’t complained, because there’s nothing to do about it; and if a
+thing can’t be altered, there’s no good complaining, is there?... Well,
+just imagine, in the wall, right against my bed and exactly on a level
+with my head, there’s something that makes a noise.”
+
+He had grown excited as he spoke. I suggested that he should take me to
+his room.
+
+“Yes! Yes!” he said getting up suddenly. “You might be able to tell me
+what it is ... I can’t succeed in making out. Come along.”
+
+We went up two stories and then down a longish passage. I had never
+been into that part of the house before.
+
+La Pérouse’s room looked on to the street. It was small but decent. On
+the bedside table, I noticed, next a prayer book, the case of pistols,
+which he had insisted on taking with him. He seized me by the arm, and
+pushing aside the bed a little:
+
+“There! Now!... Put your ear to the wall.... Can you hear it?”
+
+I listened for a long time with the greatest attention. But
+notwithstanding the best will in the world, I could not succeed in
+hearing anything. La Pérouse grew vexed. Just then a van drove by,
+shaking the house and making the windows rattle.
+
+“At this time of day,” I said, in the hopes of pacifying him, “the
+little noise that irritates you is drowned by the noise of the
+street....”
+
+“Drowned for you, because you can’t distinguish it from the other
+noises,” he exclaimed with vehemence. “As for me, I hear it all the
+same. In spite of everything, I go on hearing it. Sometimes I am so
+exasperated by it that I make up my mind to speak to Azaïs or to the
+landlord.... Oh, I don’t suppose I shall get it to stop.... But, at any
+rate, I should like to know what it is.”
+
+He seemed to reflect for a few moments, then went on: “It sounds
+something like a nibbling. I’ve done everything I can think of not to
+hear it. I pull my bed away from the wall. I put cotton wool in my
+ears. I hang my watch (you see, I’ve put a little nail there) just
+at the place where the pipe (I suppose) passes, so that its ticking
+may prevent my hearing the other noise.... But then it’s even more
+fatiguing, because I have to make an effort to distinguish it. Absurd,
+isn’t it? But I really prefer to hear it without any disguise, since I
+know it’s there all the same.... Oh! I oughtn’t to talk to you in this
+way. You see, I’m nothing but an old man now.”
+
+He sat down on the edge of the bed, and stayed for some time, as though
+sunk in a kind of dull misery. The sinister degradation of age is not
+so much attacking La Pérouse’s intelligence as the innermost depths of
+his nature. The worm lodges itself in the fruit’s core, I thought, as I
+saw him give way to his childish despair, and remembered him as he used
+to be, so firm--so proud. I tried to rouse him by speaking of Boris.
+
+“Yes, his room is near mine,” said he, raising his head. “I’ll show it
+to you. Come along.”
+
+He preceded me along the passage and opened a neighbouring door.
+
+“The other bed you see there is young Bernard Profitendieu’s.” (I
+judged it useless to tell him that Bernard had left that very day, and
+would not be coming back to sleep in it.) He went on: “Boris likes
+having him as a companion and I think he gets on with him. But, you
+know, he doesn’t talk to me much. He’s very reserved.... I am afraid
+the child is rather unfeeling.”
+
+He said this so sadly that I took upon myself to protest and to say
+that I could answer for his grandson’s warmheartedness.
+
+“In that case, he might show it a little more,” went on La Pérouse.
+
+“For instance, in the mornings, when he goes off to the _lycée_
+with the others, I lean out of my window to see him go by. He knows I
+do.... Well, he never turns round.”
+
+I wanted to explain to him that no doubt Boris was afraid of making a
+spectacle of himself before his schoolfellows and dreaded being laughed
+at; but at that moment a clamour arose from the courtyard below.
+
+La Pérouse seized me by the arm and, in an altered, agitated voice:
+
+“Listen! Listen!” he cried, “they are coming in.”
+
+I looked at him. He had begun to tremble all over.
+
+“Do the little wretches frighten you?” I asked.
+
+“No, no,” he said in some confusion; “how could you think such a
+thing?...” Then, very quickly: “I must go down. Recreation only lasts a
+few minutes and you know I take preparation. Good-bye. Good-bye.”
+
+He darted into the passage, without even shaking my hand. A moment
+later I heard him stumbling downstairs. I stayed for a few moments
+to listen, as I had no wish to go past the boys. I could hear them
+shouting, laughing and singing. Then a bell rang and silence was
+abruptly restored.
+
+I went to see Azaïs and obtained permission for George to leave school
+in order to come and speak to me. He soon joined me in the same small
+room in which La Pérouse had received me a little while before.
+
+
+As soon as he was in my presence, George thought fit to assume a
+jocular air. It was his way of concealing his embarrassment. But I
+wouldn’t swear that he was the more embarrassed of the two. He was on
+the defensive; for no doubt he expected to be sermonized. He seemed
+trying as hastily as possible to lay hold of anything he could use as a
+weapon against me, for, before I had opened my mouth, he enquired after
+Olivier, in such a bantering tone of voice, that I should have had the
+greatest pleasure in boxing his ears. He was in a position to score off
+me. His ironical eyes, the mocking curl of his lips all seemed to say:
+“I’m not afraid of you, you know.” I at once lost all my self-assurance
+and my one anxiety was to conceal the fact. The speech I had prepared
+suddenly struck me as inappropriate. I had not the prestige necessary
+to play the censor. At bottom, George amused me too much.
+
+“I have not come to scold you,” I said at last; “I only want to warn
+you.” (And, in spite of myself, my whole face was smiling.)
+
+“Tell me first whether it’s Mamma who has sent you?”
+
+“Yes and no. I have spoken about you to your mother; but that was some
+days ago. Yesterday I had a very important conversation about you with
+a very important person, whom you don’t know. He came to see me on
+purpose to talk about you. A _juge d’instruction_. It’s from him
+I’ve come. Do you know what a _juge d’instruction_ is?”
+
+George had turned suddenly pale, and no doubt his heart had stopped
+beating for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders, it is true, but his
+voice trembled a little:
+
+“Oh! all right! Out with it! What did old Profitendieu say?”
+
+The youngster’s coolness took me aback. No doubt it would have been
+simpler to go straight to the point; but going straight to the point is
+a thing particularly foreign to my nature, whose irresistible bent is
+towards moving obliquely. In order to explain my conduct, which, though
+it afterwards appeared absurd to me, was quite spontaneous at the time,
+I must say that my last conversation with Pauline had greatly exercised
+me. I had immediately inserted the reflections it had suggested to me
+into my novel, putting them into the form of a dialogue, which exactly
+fitted in with certain of my characters. It very rarely happens that I
+make direct use of what occurs to me in real life, but for once I was
+able to take advantage of this affair of George’s; it was as though my
+book had been waiting for it, it came in so pat; I hardly had to alter
+one or two details.
+
+But I did not give a direct account of this affair (I mean his
+stealing). I merely showed it--with its consequences--by glimpses,
+in the course of conversations. I had put down some of these in a
+note-book, which I had at that very moment in my pocket. On the
+contrary, the story of the false coins, as related by Profitendieu, did
+not seem to me capable of being turned to account. And no doubt that is
+why, instead of making immediately for this particular point, which was
+the main object of my visit, I tacked about.
+
+“I first want you to read these few lines,” I said. “You will see why.”
+And I held him out my note-book, which I had opened at the page I
+thought might interest him.
+
+I repeat it--this behaviour of mine now seems to me absurd. But in my
+novel, it is precisely by a similar reading that I thought of giving
+the youngest of my heroes a warning. I wanted to know what George’s
+reaction would be; I hoped it might instruct me ... and even as to the
+value of what I had written.
+
+I transcribe the passage in question:
+
+ There was a whole obscure region in the boy’s character which
+ attracted Audibert’s affectionate curiosity. It was not enough for
+ him to know that young Eudolfe had committed thefts; he would have
+ liked Eudolfe to tell him what had made him begin, and what he had
+ felt on the occasion of his first theft. But the boy, even if he had
+ been willing to confide in him, would no doubt have been incapable
+ of explaining. And Audibert did not dare question him, for fear of
+ inducing him to tell lies in self-defence.
+
+ One evening when Audibert was dining with Hildebrant, he spoke to him
+ about Eudolfe--without naming him and altering the circumstances so
+ that Hildebrant should not recognize him.
+
+ “Have you ever observed,” said Hildebrant, “that the most decisive
+ actions of our life--I mean those that are most likely to decide the
+ whole course of our future--are, more often than not, unconsidered?”
+
+ “I easily believe it,” replied Audibert. “Like a train into which one
+ jumps without thinking, and without asking oneself where it is going.
+ And more often than not, one does not even realize that the train is
+ carrying one off, till it is too late to get down.”
+
+ “But perhaps the boy you are talking of has no wish to get down?”
+
+ “Not so far, doubtless. For the moment he is being carried along
+ unresisting. The scenery amuses him, and he cares very little where he
+ is going.”
+
+ “Do you mean to talk morals to him?”
+
+ “No indeed! It would be useless. He has been overdosed with morals
+ till he is sick.”
+
+ “Why did he steal?”
+
+ “I don’t exactly know. Certainly not from real need. But to
+ get certain advantages--not to be outdone by his wealthier
+ companions--Heaven knows what all! Innate propensity--sheer pleasure
+ of stealing.”
+
+ “That’s the worst.”
+
+ “Of course! Because he’ll begin again.”
+
+ “Is he intelligent?”
+
+ “I thought for a long time that he was less so than his brothers. But
+ I wonder now whether I wasn’t mistaken, and whether my unfavourable
+ impression was not caused by the fact that he does not as yet
+ understand what his capabilities are. His curiosity has gone off the
+ tracks--or rather, it is still in the embryonic state--still at the
+ stage of indiscretion.”
+
+ “Will you speak to him?”
+
+ “I propose making him put in the scales, on the one hand the little
+ profit his thefts bring him, and on the other what his dishonesty
+ loses him: the confidence of his friends and relations, their esteem,
+ mine amongst others ... things which can’t be measured and the value
+ of which can be calculated only by the enormousness of the effort
+ needed later to regain them. There are men who have spent their
+ whole lives over it. I shall tell him, what he is still too young to
+ realize--that henceforth if anything doubtful or unpleasant happens
+ in his neighbourhood, it will always be laid to his door. He may find
+ himself accused wrongfully of serious misdeeds and be unable to defend
+ himself. His past actions point to him. He is marked. And lastly what
+ I should like to say.... But I am afraid of his protestations.”
+
+ “You would like to say?...”
+
+ “That what he has done has created a precedent, and that if some
+ resolution is required for a first theft, for the ensuing ones nothing
+ is needed but to drift with the current. All that follows is mere
+ _laisser aller_.... What I should like to say is, that a first
+ movement, which one makes almost without thinking, often begins to
+ trace a line which irrevocably draws our figure, and which our after
+ effort will never be able to efface. I should like ... but no, I
+ shan’t know how to speak to him.”
+
+ “Why don’t you write down our conversation of this evening? You could
+ give it him to read.”
+
+ “That’s an idea,” said Audibert. “Why not?”
+
+I did not take my eyes off George while he was reading; but his face
+showed no signs of what he was thinking.
+
+“Am I to go on?” he asked, preparing to turn the page.
+
+“There’s no need. The conversation ends there.”
+
+“A great pity.”
+
+He gave me back the note-book, and in a tone of voice that was almost
+playful:
+
+“I should have liked to know what Eudolfe says when he has read the
+note-book.”
+
+“Exactly. I want to know myself.”
+
+“Eudolfe is a ridiculous name. Couldn’t you have christened him
+something else?”
+
+“It’s of no importance.”
+
+“Nor what he answers either. And what becomes of him afterwards?”
+
+“I don’t know yet. It depends upon you. We shall see.”
+
+“Then if I understand right, _I_ am to help you go on with your
+book. No, really, you must admit that....”
+
+He stopped as if he had some difficulty in expressing his ideas.
+
+“That what?” I said to encourage him.
+
+“You must admit that you’d be pretty well sold,” he went on, “if
+Eudolfe....”
+
+He stopped again. I thought I understood what he meant and finished his
+sentence for him:
+
+“If he became an honest boy?... No, my dear.” And suddenly the tears
+rose to my eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. But he shook it off:
+
+“For after all, if he hadn’t been a thief, you wouldn’t have written
+all that.”
+
+It was only then that I understood my mistake. In reality, George
+was flattered at having occupied my thoughts for so long. He felt
+interesting. I had forgotten Profitendieu; it was George who reminded
+me of him.
+
+“And what did your _juge d’instruction_ say to you?”
+
+“He commissioned me to warn you that he knew you were circulating false
+coins....”
+
+George changed colour again. He understood denials would be useless,
+but he muttered indistinctly:
+
+“I’m not the only one.”
+
+“... and that if you and your pals don’t stop your traffickings at
+once, he’ll be obliged to arrest you.”
+
+George had begun by turning very pale. Now his cheeks were burning.
+He stared fixedly in front of him and his knitted brows drew two deep
+wrinkles on his forehead.
+
+“Good-bye,” I said, holding out my hand. “I advise you to warn your
+companions as well. As for you, you won’t be offered a second chance.”
+
+He shook my hand silently and left the room without looking round.
+
+
+On re-reading the pages of _The Counterfeiters_ which I showed
+George, I thought them on the whole rather bad. I transcribe them as
+George read them, but all this chapter must be rewritten. It would be
+better decidedly to speak to the child. I must discover how to touch
+him. Certainly, at the point he has reached, it would be difficult to
+bring Eudolfe (George is right; I must change his name) back into the
+path of honesty. But I mean to bring him back; and whatever George may
+think, this is what is most interesting, because it is most difficult.
+(Here am I reasoning like Douviers!) Let us leave realistic novelists
+to deal with the stories of those who drift.
+
+
+As soon as he got back to the class-room, George told his two friends
+of Edouard’s warnings. Everything his uncle had said about his
+pilferings slipped off the child’s mind, without causing him the
+slightest emotion; but, when it came to the false coins, which ran the
+risk of getting them into trouble, he saw the importance of getting rid
+of them as quickly as possible. Each of the three boys had on him a
+certain number which he intended disposing of the next free afternoon.
+Ghéridanisol collected them and hurried off to throw them down the
+drains. That same evening he warned Strouvilhou, who immediately took
+his precautions.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XVII
+
+                          ARMAND AND OLIVIER
+
+
+THAT same evening, while Edouard was talking to his nephew George,
+Olivier, after Bernard had left him, received a visit from Armand.
+
+Armand Vedel was unrecognizable; shaved, smiling, carrying his head
+high; he was dressed in a new suit, which was rather too smart and
+looked perhaps a trifle ridiculous; he felt it and showed that he felt
+it.
+
+“I should have come to see you before, but I’ve had so much to do
+lately!... Do you know that I’ve actually become Passavant’s secretary?
+or, if you prefer it, the editor of his new review. I won’t ask you
+to contribute, because Passavant seems rather worked up against you.
+Besides the review is decidedly going more and more to the left. That’s
+the reason it has begun by dropping Bercail and his pastorals....”
+
+“I’m sorry for the review,” said Olivier.
+
+“And that’s why, on the other hand, it has accepted my _Nocturnal
+Vase_, which, by the bye, is, without your permission, to be
+dedicated to you.”
+
+“I’m sorry for me.”
+
+“Passavant even wished my work of genius to open the first number; but
+my natural modesty, which was severely tried by his encomiums, was
+opposed to this. If I were not afraid of fatiguing a convalescent’s
+ears, I would give you an account of my first interview with the
+illustrious author of _The Horizontal Bar_, whom I had only known
+up till then through you.”
+
+“I have nothing better to do than to listen.”
+
+“You don’t mind smoke?”
+
+“I’ll smoke myself to show you.”
+
+“I must tell you,” began Armand, lighting a cigarette, “that your
+desertion left our beloved Count somewhat in a fix. Let it be said,
+without flattery, that it isn’t easy to replace such a bundle of gifts,
+virtues, qualities as are united in your....”
+
+“Get on,” interrupted Olivier, exasperated by this heavy-footed irony.
+
+“Well, to get on, Passavant wanted a secretary. He happened to know a
+certain Strouvilhou, whom I happen to know myself, because he is the
+uncle of a certain individual in the school, who happened to know Jean
+Cob-Lafleur, whom you know.”
+
+“Whom I don’t know,” said Olivier.
+
+“Well, my boy, you ought to know him. He’s an extraordinary fellow;
+a kind of faded, wrinkled, painted baby, who lives on cocktails
+and writes charming verses when he’s drunk. You’ll see some in our
+first number. So Strouvilhou had the brilliant idea of sending him
+to Passavant, to take your place. You can imagine his entry into the
+Rue de Babylone mansion. I must tell you that Cob-Lafleur’s clothes
+are covered with stains; that he has flowing flaxen locks, which fall
+upon his shoulders; and that he looks as if he hadn’t washed for a
+week. Passavant, who always wants to be master of the situation,
+declares that he took a great fancy to Cob-Lafleur. Cob-Lafleur has
+a gentle, smiling, timid way with him. When he chooses he can look
+like Banville’s Gringoire. In a word, Passavant was taken by him and
+was on the point of engaging him. I must tell you that Lafleur hasn’t
+got a penny piece.... So he gets up to take leave:--‘Before leaving,
+Monsieur le Comte, I think it’s only right to inform you that I have
+a few faults.’--‘Which of us has not?’--‘And a few vices. I smoke
+opium.’--‘Is that all?’ says Passavant, who isn’t to be put off by a
+little thing of that kind; ‘I’ve got some excellent stuff to offer
+you.’--‘Yes, but when I smoke it, I completely lose every notion of
+spelling.’ Passavant took this for a joke, forced a laugh and held
+out his hand. Lafleur goes on:--‘And then I take hasheesh.’--‘I have
+sometimes taken it myself,’ says Passavant.--‘Yes, but when I am under
+the influence of hasheesh, I can’t keep from stealing.’ Passavant began
+to see then that he was being made a fool of; and Lafleur, who was set
+going by now, rattled on, impulsively:--‘And besides, I drink ether;
+and then I tear everything to bits--I smash everything I can lay my
+hands on,’ and he seizes a glass vase and makes as if he were going to
+throw it into the fire. Passavant just had time to snatch it out of his
+hands.--‘Much obliged to you for warning me.’”
+
+“And he chucked him out?”
+
+“Yes; and watched out of the window to see Lafleur didn’t drop a bomb
+into the cellar as he left.”
+
+“But why did Lafleur behave so? From what you say, he was really in
+need of the place.”
+
+“All the same, my dear fellow, you must admit that there are people who
+feel impelled to act against their interest. And then, if you want to
+know, Lafleur ... well, Passavant’s luxury disgusted him--his elegance,
+his amiable manners, his condescension, his affectation of superiority.
+Yes; it turned his stomach. And I add that I perfectly understand
+him.... At bottom, your Passavant makes one’s gorge rise.”
+
+“Why do you say ‘your Passavant’? You know quite well that I’ve given
+him up. And then why have you accepted his place, if you think him so
+disgusting?”
+
+“For the very reason that I like things that disgust me ... to start
+with my own delightful--or disgusting--self. And then, in reality,
+Cob-Lafleur suffers from shyness; he wouldn’t have said any of all that
+if he hadn’t felt ill at ease.”
+
+“Oh! come now!”
+
+“Certainly. He was ill at ease, and he was furious at being made to
+feel ill at ease by someone he really despises. It was to conceal his
+shyness that he bluffed.”
+
+“I call it stupid.”
+
+“My dear fellow, everyone can’t be as intelligent as you are.”
+
+“You said that last time, too.”
+
+“What a memory!”
+
+Olivier was determined to hold his ground.
+
+“I try,” said he, “to forget your jokes. But last time you did at last
+talk to me seriously. You said things I can’t forget.”
+
+Armand’s eyes grew troubled. He went off into a forced laugh.
+
+“Oh, old fellow, last time I talked to you as you wanted to be talked
+to. You called for something in a minor key, so, in order to please
+you, I played my lament, with a soul like a corkscrew and anguish à
+la Pascal.... It can’t be helped, you know. I’m only sincere when I’m
+cracking jokes.”
+
+“You’ll never make me believe that you weren’t sincere when you talked
+to me as you did that day. It’s now that you are playing a part.”
+
+“Oh, simplicity! What a pure angelic soul you possess! As if we weren’t
+all playing parts more or less sincerely and consciously. Life, my dear
+fellow, is nothing but a comedy. But the difference between you and me
+is that I know I am playing a part, whilst....”
+
+“Whilst ...” repeated Olivier aggressively.
+
+“Whilst my father, for instance, not to speak of you, is completely
+taken in when he plays at being a pastor. Whatever I say or do, there’s
+always one part of myself which stays behind, and watches the other
+part compromise itself, which laughs at and hisses it, or applauds it.
+When one is divided in that way, how is it possible to be sincere? I
+have got to the point of ceasing to understand what the word means. It
+can’t be helped; when I’m sad, I seem so grotesque to myself that it
+makes me laugh; when I’m cheerful, I make such idiotic jokes that I
+feel inclined to cry.”
+
+“You make me feel inclined to cry too, my dear boy. I didn’t think you
+were in such a bad way.”
+
+Armand shrugged his shoulders and went on in a totally different tone
+of voice:
+
+“To console you, should you like to know the contents of our
+first number? Well, there’s my _Nocturnal Vase_; four songs
+by Cob-Lafleur; a dialogue by Jarry; some prose poems by young
+Ghéridanisol, one of our boarders; and then _The Flat Iron_, a
+vast essay in general criticism, in which the tendencies of the review
+will be more or less definitely laid down. Several of us have combined
+together to produce this _chef-d’œuvre_.”
+
+Olivier, not knowing what to say, objected clumsily:
+
+“No _chef-d’œuvre_ was ever produced by several people together.”
+
+Armand burst out laughing:
+
+“But, my dear fellow, I said it was a _chef-d’œuvre_ as a joke.
+It isn’t a _chef-d’œuvre_; it isn’t anything at all. And, for
+that matter, what does one mean by _chef-d’œuvre_? That’s just
+what _The Flat Iron_ tries to get to the bottom of. There are
+heaps of works one admires on faith, just because everyone else does,
+and because no one so far has thought of saying--or dared to say--that
+they were stupid. For instance, on the first page of this number, we
+are going to give a reproduction of the _Monna Lisa_, with a pair
+of moustaches stuck on to her face. You’ll see! The effect is simply
+staggering.”
+
+“Does that mean you consider the _Monna Lisa_ a stupidity?”
+
+“Not at all, my dear fellow. (Though I don’t think it as marvellous as
+all that.) You don’t understand me. The thing that’s stupid is people’s
+admiration for it. It’s the habit they have got of speaking of what are
+called _chefs-d’œuvre_ with bated breath. The object of _The
+Flat Iron_ (it’s to be the name of the review too) is to make this
+reverence appear grotesque--to discredit it.... Another good plan is
+to hold up to the reader’s admiration something absolutely idiotic (my
+_Nocturnal Vase_ for instance) by an author who is absolutely
+senseless.”
+
+“Does Passavant approve of all this?”
+
+“He’s very much amused by it.”
+
+“I see I did well to retire.”
+
+“Retire!... Sooner or later, old man, willynilly, one always has to end
+by retiring. This wise reflection naturally leads me to take my leave.”
+
+“Stop a moment, you old clown.... What made you say just now that your
+father played the part of pastor? Don’t you think he is in earnest?”
+
+“My revered father has so arranged his life that he hasn’t the right
+now--or even the power--not to be in earnest. Yes, it’s his profession
+to be in earnest. He’s a professor of earnestness. He inculcates faith;
+it’s his _raison d’être_; it’s the rôle he has chosen and he must
+go through with it to the very end. But as for knowing what goes on in
+what he calls his ‘inner consciousness’ ... it would be indiscreet to
+enquire. And I don’t think he ever enquires himself. He manages in
+such a way that he never has time to. He has crammed his life full of
+a lot of obligations which would lose all meaning if his conviction
+failed; so that in a manner they necessitate his conviction and at the
+same time keep it going. He imagines he believes, because he continues
+to act as if he did. If his faith failed, my dear fellow, why, it
+would be a catastrophic collapse! And reflect, that at the same time
+my family would cease to have anything to live on. That’s a fact that
+must be taken into consideration, old boy. Papa’s faith is our means of
+subsistence. So that to come and ask me if Papa’s faith is genuine, is
+not, you must admit, a very tactful proceeding on your part.”
+
+“I thought you lived chiefly on what the school brings in.”
+
+“Yes; there’s some truth in that. But that’s not very tactful
+either--to cut me short in my lyrical flights.”
+
+“And you then? Don’t you believe in anything?” asked Olivier sadly, for
+he was fond of Armand, and his ugliness pained him.
+
+“_Jubes renovare dolorem_.... You seem to forget, my dear friend,
+that my parents wanted to make a pastor of me. They nourished me on
+pious precepts--fed me up with them, if I may say so.... But finally
+they were obliged to recognize that I hadn’t the vocation. It’s a pity.
+I might have made a first-class preacher. But my vocation was to write
+_The Nocturnal Vase_.”
+
+“You poor old thing! If you knew how sorry I am for you!”
+
+“You have always had what my father calls ‘a heart of gold’ .... I
+won’t trespass on it any longer.”
+
+He took up his hat. He had almost left the room, when he suddenly
+turned round:
+
+“You haven’t asked after Sarah?”
+
+“Because you could tell me nothing that I haven’t heard from Bernard.”
+
+“Did he tell you that he had left the pension?”
+
+“He told me that your sister Rachel had requested him to leave.”
+
+Armand had one hand on the door handle; with his walking-stick in the
+other, he pushed up the portière. The stick went into a hole in the
+portière and made it bigger.
+
+“Account for it how you will,” said he, and his face became very grave.
+“Rachel is, I believe, the only person in the world I love and respect.
+I respect her because she is virtuous. And I always behave in such
+a way as to offend her virtue. As for Bernard and Sarah, she had no
+suspicions. It was I who told her the whole thing.... And the oculist
+said she wasn’t to cry! It’s comic!”
+
+“Am I to think you sincere now?”
+
+“Yes, I think the most sincere thing about me is a horror--a hatred of
+everything people call Virtue. Don’t try to understand. You have no
+idea what a Puritan bringing-up can do to one. It leaves one with an
+incurable resentment in one’s heart ... to judge by myself,” he added,
+with a jarring laugh.
+
+He put down his hat and went up to the window. “Just look here; on the
+inside of my lip?”
+
+He stooped towards Olivier and lifted up his lip with his finger.
+
+“I can’t see anything.”
+
+“Yes, you can; there; in the corner.”
+
+Olivier saw a whitish spot near the corner. A little uneasily: “It’s a
+gum-boil,” he said to reassure Armand.
+
+But Armand shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“Don’t talk nonsense--such a serious fellow as you! A gum-boil’s soft
+and it goes away. This is hard and gets larger every week. And it gives
+me a kind of bad taste in my mouth.”
+
+“Have you had it long?”
+
+“It’s more than a month since I first noticed it. But as the
+_chef-d’œuvre_ says: ‘_Mon mal vient de plus loin_....’”
+
+“Well, old boy, if you’re anxious about it, you had better consult a
+doctor.”
+
+“You don’t suppose I needed your advice for that.”
+
+“What did he say?”
+
+“I didn’t need your advice to say to myself that I ought to consult a
+doctor. But all the same, I didn’t consult one, because if it’s what I
+think, I prefer not to know it.”
+
+“It’s idiotic.”
+
+“Isn’t it stupid? But so human, my friend, so human....”
+
+“The idiotic thing is not to be treated for it.”
+
+“So that when one _is_ treated, one can always say: ‘Too late!’
+That’s what Cob-Lafleur expresses so well in one of his poems which
+you’ll see in the review:
+
+    _‘Il faut se rendre à l’évidence;_
+    _Car, dans ce bas monde, la danse_
+    _Précède souvent la chanson.’”_
+
+“One can make literature out of anything.”
+
+“Just so; out of anything. But, dear friend, it’s not so easy as all
+that. Well, good-bye.... Oh! there’s one thing more I wanted to tell
+you. I’ve heard from Alexandre.... Yes, you know--my eldest brother,
+who ran away to Africa. He began by coming to grief over his business
+and running through all the money Rachel sent him. He’s settled now on
+the banks of the Casamance; and he has written to say that things are
+doing well and that he’ll soon be able to pay everything back.”
+
+“What kind of a business?”
+
+“Heaven knows! Rubber, ivory, Negroes perhaps ... a lot of odds and
+ends.... He has asked me to go out to him.”
+
+“Will you go?”
+
+“I would to-morrow, if it weren’t for my military service. Alexandre is
+a kind of donkey, something in my style. I think I should get on with
+him very well.... Here! would you like to see? I’ve got his letter with
+me.”
+
+He took an envelope out of his pocket, and several sheets of note-paper
+out of the envelope; he chose one, and held it out to Olivier.
+
+“There’s no need to read it all. Begin here.”
+
+Olivier read:
+
+ “For the last fortnight, I have been living in company with a singular
+ individual whom I have taken into my hut. The sun of these parts seems
+ to have touched him in the upper story. I thought at first it was
+ delirium, but there’s no doubt it’s just plain madness. This curious
+ young man is about thirty years old, tall, strong, good-looking, and
+ certainly ‘a gentleman,’ to judge from his manners, his language, and
+ his hands, which are too delicate ever to have done any rough work.
+ The strange thing about him is that he thinks himself possessed by the
+ devil--or rather, as far as I can make out, he thinks he _is_ the
+ devil. He must have had some odd adventure or other, for when he is
+ dreaming or half dozing, a state into which he often falls (and then
+ he talks to himself as if I weren’t there) he continually speaks of
+ hands being cut off, and as at those times he gets extremely excited
+ and rolls his eyes in an alarming manner, I take care that there shall
+ be no weapons within reach. The rest of the time, he is a good fellow
+ and an agreeable companion--which I appreciate, as you can imagine,
+ after months of solitude. Besides which, he is of great assistance
+ to me in my work. He never speaks of his past life, so that I can’t
+ succeed in discovering who he can be. He is particularly interested
+ in plants and insects, and sometimes in his talk shows signs of being
+ remarkably well educated. He seems to like staying with me and doesn’t
+ speak of leaving; I have decided to let him stay as long as he likes.
+ I was wanting a help; all things considered, he has come just in the
+ nick of time.
+
+ “A hideous Negro who came up the Casamance with him, and to whom I
+ have talked a little, speaks of a woman who was with him, and who,
+ I gather, must have been drowned in the river one day when their
+ boat upset. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that my companion had
+ had a finger in the accident. In this country, if one wants to get
+ rid of anyone, there is a great choice of means, and no one ever
+ asks a question. If one day I learn anything more, I’ll write it to
+ you--or rather I’ll tell you about it when you come out. Yes, I know,
+ there’s your service.... Well, I’ll wait. For you may be sure that
+ if ever you want to see me again, you will have to make up your mind
+ to come out. As for me, I want to come back less and less. I lead
+ a life here which I like and which suits me down to the ground. My
+ business is flourishing, and that badge of civilization--the starched
+ collar--appears to me a straight waistcoat which I shall never be able
+ to endure again.
+
+ “I enclose a money order which you can do what you like with. The last
+ was for Rachel. Keep this for yourself....”
+
+“The rest isn’t interesting,” said Armand.
+
+Olivier gave the letter back without saying anything. It never occurred
+to him that the murderer it spoke of was his brother. Vincent had given
+no news of himself for a long time; his parents thought he was in
+America. To tell the truth, Olivier did not trouble much about him.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XVIII
+
+                           “THE STRONG MEN”
+
+
+IT WAS only a month later that Boris heard of Bronja’s death from
+Madame Sophroniska, who came to see him at the pension. Since his
+friend’s last sad letter, Boris had been without news. Madame
+Sophroniska came into Madame Vedel’s drawing-room one day when he was
+sitting there, as was his habit during recreation hour, and as she was
+in deep mourning, he understood everything before she said a word. They
+were alone in the room. Sophroniska took Boris in her arms and they
+cried together. She could only repeat: “My poor little thing.... My
+poor little thing ...” as if Boris was the person to be pitied, and as
+though she had forgotten her own maternal grief in the presence of the
+immense grief of the little boy.
+
+Madame Vedel, who had been told of Madame Sophroniska’s arrival, came
+in, and Boris, still convulsed with sobs, drew aside to let the two
+ladies talk to each other. He would have liked them not to speak of
+Bronja. Madame Vedel, who had not known her, spoke of her as she would
+of any ordinary child. Even the questions which she asked seemed to
+Boris tactless and commonplace. He would have liked Sophroniska not to
+answer them and it hurt him to see her exhibiting her grief. He folded
+his away and hid it like a treasure.
+
+It was certainly of him that Bronja was thinking when, a few days
+before her death, she said to her mother:
+
+“Do tell me, Mamma.... What is meant exactly by an _idyll_?”
+
+These words pierced Boris’s heart and he would have liked to be the
+only one to hear them.
+
+Madame Vedel offered her guest tea. There was some for Boris, too;
+he swallowed it hastily as recreation was finishing; then he said
+good-bye to Sophroniska, who was leaving next day for Poland on
+business.
+
+The whole world seemed a desert to him. His mother was too far away
+and always absent; his grandfather too old; even Bernard, with whom
+he was beginning to feel at home, had gone away.... His was a tender
+soul; he had need of someone at whose feet he could lay his nobility,
+his purity, as an offering. He was not proud enough to take pleasure
+in pride. He had loved Bronja too much to be able to hope that he
+would ever again find that reason for loving which he had lost in her.
+Without her, how could he believe in the angels he longed to see?
+Heaven itself was emptied.
+
+Boris went back to the schoolroom as one might cast oneself into
+hell. No doubt he might have made a friend of Gontran de Passavant;
+Gontran is a good, kind boy, and they are both exactly the same age;
+but nothing distracts him from his work. There is not much harm
+in Philippe Adamanti either; he would be quite willing to be fond
+of Boris; but he is under Ghéridanisol’s thumb to such an extent
+that he does not dare have a single feeling of his own; he follows
+Ghéridanisol’s lead, and Ghéridanisol is always quickening his pace;
+and Ghéridanisol cannot endure Boris. His musical voice, his grace, his
+girlish look--everything about him exasperates him. The very sight of
+Boris seems to inspire him with that instinctive aversion which, in a
+herd, makes the strong fall ruthlessly upon the weak. It may be that he
+has listened to his cousin’s teaching and that his hatred is somewhat
+theoretical, for in his mind it assumes the shape of reprobation. He
+finds reasons for being proud of his hatred. He realizes and is amused
+by Boris’s sensitiveness to this contempt of his, and pretends to be
+plotting with George and Phiphi, merely in order to see Boris’s eyes
+grow wide with a kind of anxious interrogation.
+
+“Oh, how inquisitive the fellow is!” says George then. “Shall we tell
+him?”
+
+“Not worth while. He wouldn’t understand.”
+
+“He wouldn’t understand.” “He wouldn’t dare.” “He wouldn’t know how.”
+They are constantly casting these phrases at him. He suffers horribly
+from being kept out of things. He cannot understand, indeed, why they
+give him the humiliating nick-name of “Wanting”; and is indignant when
+he understands. What would not he give to be able to prove that he is
+not such a coward as they think.
+
+“I cannot endure Boris,” said Ghéridanisol one day to Strouvilhou. “Why
+did you tell me to let him alone? He doesn’t want to be let alone as
+much as all that. He is always looking in my direction.... The other
+day he made us all split with laughter because he thought that a woman
+togged out in her bearskin meant wearing her furs. George jeered at
+him, and when at last Boris took it in I thought he was going to howl.”
+
+Then Ghéridanisol pressed his cousin with questions and finally
+Strouvilhou gave him Boris’s _talisman_ and explained its use.
+
+A few days later, when Boris went into the schoolroom, he saw this
+paper, whose existence he had almost forgotten, lying on his desk. He
+had put it out of his mind with everything else that related to the
+“magic” of his early childhood, of which he was now ashamed. He did not
+at first recognize it, for Ghéridanisol had taken pains to frame the
+words of the incantation
+
+              “GAS ... TELEPHONE ... ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND
+                               ROUBLES.”
+
+with a large red and black border adorned with obscene little imps,
+who, it must be owned, were not at all badly drawn. This decoration
+gave the paper a fantastic--an infernal appearance, thought
+Ghéridanisol--which he calculated would be likely to upset Boris.
+
+Perhaps it was done in play, but it succeeded beyond all expectation.
+Boris blushed crimson, said nothing, looked right and left, and
+failed to see Ghéridanisol, who was watching him from behind the
+door. Boris had no reason to suspect him, and could not understand
+how the talisman came to be there; it was as though it had fallen
+from heaven--or rather, risen up from hell. Boris was old enough to
+shrug his shoulders, no doubt, at these schoolboy bedevilments; but
+they stirred troubled waters. Boris took the talisman and slipped it
+into his pocket. All the rest of the day, the recollection of his
+“magic” practices haunted him. He struggled until evening with unholy
+solicitations and then, as there was no longer anything to support him
+in his struggle, he fell.
+
+He felt that he was going to his ruin, sinking further and further away
+from Heaven; but he took pleasure in so falling--found in his very fall
+itself the stuff of his enjoyment.
+
+And yet, in spite of his misery, in the depths of his dereliction,
+he kept such stores of tenderness, his companions’ contempt caused
+him suffering so keen, that he would have dared anything, however
+dangerous, however foolhardy, for the sake of a little consideration.
+
+An opportunity soon offered.
+
+After they had been obliged to give up their traffic in false coins,
+Ghéridanisol, George and Phiphi did not long remain unoccupied. The
+ridiculous pranks with which they amused themselves for the first few
+days were merely stop-gaps. Ghéridanisol’s imagination soon invented
+something with more stuff to it.
+
+The chief point about _The Brotherhood of Strong Men_ at
+first consisted in the pleasure of keeping Boris out of it. But it
+soon occurred to Ghéridanisol that it would be far more perversely
+effective to let him in; he could be brought in this way to enter
+into engagements, by means of which he might gradually be led on to
+the performance of some monstrous act. From that moment Ghéridanisol
+was possessed by this idea; and as often happens in all kinds of
+enterprises, he thought much less of the object itself, than of how to
+bring it about; this seems trifling, but is perhaps the explanation
+of a considerable number of crimes. For that matter Ghéridanisol was
+ferocious; but he felt it prudent to hide his ferocity, at any rate
+from Phiphi. There was nothing cruel about Phiphi; he was convinced up
+to the last minute that the whole thing was nothing but a joke.
+
+Every brotherhood must have its motto. Ghéridanisol, who had his idea,
+proposed: “_The strong man cares nothing for life._” The motto
+was adopted and attributed to Cicero. George proposed that, as a sign
+of fellowship, they should tattoo it on their right arms; but Phiphi,
+who was afraid of being hurt, declared that good tattooers could only
+be found in sea-ports. Besides which, Ghéridanisol objected that
+tattooing would leave an indelible mark which might be inconvenient
+later on. After all, the sign of fellowship was not an absolute
+necessity; the members would content themselves with taking a solemn
+vow.
+
+At the moment of starting the traffic in false coins, there had been
+talk of pledges, and it was on this occasion that George had produced
+his father’s letters. But this idea had dropped. Such children as
+these, very fortunately, have not much consistency. As a matter of
+fact, they settled practically nothing, either as to “conditions of
+membership” or as to “necessary qualifications.” What was the use, when
+it was taken for granted that all three of them were “in it,” and that
+Boris was “out of it”? On the other hand they decreed that “the person
+who flinched should be considered as a traitor, and forever excluded
+from the brotherhood.” Ghéridanisol, who had determined to make Boris
+come in, laid great stress upon this point.
+
+It had to be admitted that without Boris the game would have been dull
+and the virtue of the brotherhood without an object. George was better
+qualified to circumvent him than Ghéridanisol, who risked arousing his
+suspicions; as for Phiphi, he was not artful enough and had a dislike
+to compromising himself.
+
+And in all this abominable story, what perhaps seems to me the most
+monstrous, is this comedy of friendship which George went through.
+He pretended to be seized with a sudden affection for Boris; until
+then, he had seemed never so much as to have set eyes on him. And I
+even wonder whether he was not himself influenced by his own acting,
+and whether the feelings he feigned were not on the point of becoming
+sincere--whether they did not actually become sincere as soon as
+Boris responded to them. George drew near him with an appearance of
+tenderness; in obedience to Ghéridanisol, he began to talk to him....
+And, at the first words, Boris, who was panting for a little esteem and
+love, was conquered.
+
+Then Ghéridanisol elaborated his plan, and disclosed it to Phiphi and
+George. His idea was to invent a “test” to which the member on whom
+the lot fell should be submitted; and in order to set Phiphi at ease,
+he let it be understood that things would be arranged in such a manner
+that the lot would be sure to fall on Boris. The object of the test
+would be to put his courage to the proof.
+
+The exact nature of the test, Ghéridanisol did not at once divulge. He
+was afraid that Phiphi would offer some resistance.
+
+And, in fact, when Ghéridanisol a little later began to insinuate that
+old La Pérouse’s pistol would come in handy, “No, no!” he cried, “I
+won’t agree to that.”
+
+“What an ass you are! It’s only a joke,” retorted George, who was
+already persuaded.
+
+“And then, you know,” added Ghéri, “if you want to play the fool, you
+have only got to say so. Nobody wants you.”
+
+Ghéridanisol knew that this argument always told with Phiphi; and as he
+had prepared the paper on which each member of the brotherhood was to
+sign his name, he went on: “Only you must say so at once; because once
+you’ve signed, it’ll be too late.”
+
+“All right. Don’t be in a rage,” said Phiphi. “Pass me the paper.” And
+he signed.
+
+“As for me, old chap, I’d be delighted,” said George, with his arm
+fondly wound round Boris’s neck; “it’s Ghéridanisol who won’t have you.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because he’s afraid. He says you’ll funk.”
+
+“What does he know about it?”
+
+“That you’ll wriggle out of it at the first test.”
+
+“We shall see.”
+
+“Would you really dare to draw lots?”
+
+“Wouldn’t I!”
+
+“But do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
+
+Boris didn’t know, but he wanted to. Then George explained. “_The
+strong man cares nothing for life._” It remained to be seen.
+
+Boris felt a great swimming in his head; but he nerved himself and,
+hiding his agitation, “Is it true you’ve signed?” he asked.
+
+“Here! You can see for yourself.” And George held out the paper, so
+that Boris could read the three names on it.
+
+“Have you ...” he began timidly.
+
+“Have we what?...” interrupted George, so brutally that Boris did not
+dare go on. What he wanted to ask, as George perfectly understood, was
+whether the others had bound themselves likewise, and whether one could
+be sure that they wouldn’t funk either.
+
+“No, nothing,” said he; but from that moment he began to doubt them;
+he began to suspect they were saving themselves and not playing fair.
+“Well and good!” thought he then; “what do I care if they funk? I’ll
+show them that I’ve got more pluck than they have.” Then, looking
+George straight in the eyes: “Tell Ghéri he can count on me.”
+
+“Then you’ll sign?”
+
+Oh! there was no need now--he had given his word. He said simply: “As
+you please.” And, in a large painstaking hand, he inscribed his name on
+the accursed paper, underneath the signatures of the three Strong Men.
+
+George brought the paper back in triumph to the two others. They agreed
+that Boris had behaved very pluckily. They took counsel together.
+
+Of course, the pistol wouldn’t be loaded! For that matter there were no
+cartridges. Phiphi still had fears, because he had heard it said that
+sometimes a too violent emotion is sufficient in itself to cause death.
+His father, he declared, knew of a case when a pretence execution....
+But George shut him up:
+
+“Your father’s a dago!”
+
+No, Ghéridanisol would not load the pistol. There was no need to. The
+cartridge which La Pérouse had one day put into it, La Pérouse had not
+taken out. This is what Ghéridanisol had made sure of, though he took
+good care not to tell the others.
+
+
+They put the names in a hat; four little pieces of paper all alike, and
+folded in the same manner. Ghéridanisol, who was “to draw,” had taken
+care to write Boris’s name a second time on a fifth, which he kept in
+his hand; and, as though by chance, his was the name to come out. Boris
+suspected they were cheating; but he said nothing. What was the use of
+protesting? He knew that he was lost. He would not have lifted a finger
+to defend himself; and even if the lot had fallen on one of the others,
+he would have offered to take his place--so great was his despair.
+
+“Poor old boy! you’ve no luck,” George thought it his duty to say. The
+tone of his voice rang so false, that Boris looked at him sadly.
+
+“It was bound to happen,” he said.
+
+After that, it was agreed there should be a rehearsal. But as there was
+a risk of being caught, they settled not to make use of the pistol.
+They would only take it out of its case at the last moment, for the
+_real_ performance. Every care must be taken not to give the alarm.
+
+On that day, therefore, they contented themselves with fixing the hour,
+and the place, which they marked on the floor with a bit of chalk. It
+was in the class-room, on the right hand of the master’s desk, in a
+recess, formed by a disused door, which had formerly opened on to the
+entrance hall. As for the hour, it was to be during preparation. It was
+to take place in front of all the other boys; it would make them sit up.
+
+They went through the rehearsal when the room was empty, the three
+conspirators being the only witnesses. But in reality there was not
+much point in this rehearsal. They simply established the fact that,
+from Boris’s seat to the spot marked with chalk, there were exactly
+twelve paces.
+
+“If you aren’t in a panic, you’ll not take one more,” said George.
+
+“I shan’t be in a panic,” said Boris, who was outraged by this
+incessant doubt. The little boy’s firmness began to impress the other
+three. Phiphi considered they ought to stop at that. But Ghéridanisol
+was determined to carry on the joke to the very end.
+
+“Well! to-morrow,” he said, with a peculiar smile, which just curled
+the corner of his lip.
+
+“Suppose we kissed him!” cried Phiphi, enthusiastically. He was
+thinking of the accolade of the knights of old; and he suddenly flung
+his arms round Boris’s neck. It was all Boris could do to keep back his
+tears when Phiphi planted two hearty, childish kisses on his cheeks.
+Neither George nor Ghéri followed Phiphi’s example; George thought his
+behaviour rather unmanly. As for Ghéri, what the devil did he care!...
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIX
+
+                                 BORIS
+
+
+THE next afternoon, the bell assembled all the boys in the class-room.
+
+Boris, Ghéridanisol, George and Philippe were seated on the same
+bench. Ghéridanisol pulled out his watch and put it down between Boris
+and him. The hands marked five thirty-five. Preparation began at
+five o’clock and lasted till six. Five minutes to six was the moment
+fixed upon for Boris to put an end to himself, just before the boys
+dispersed; it was better so; it would be easier to escape immediately
+after. And soon Ghéridanisol said to Boris, in a half whisper, and
+without looking at him, which gave his words, he considered, a more
+fatal ring:
+
+“Old boy, you’ve only got a quarter of an hour more.”
+
+Boris remembered a story-book he had read long ago, in which, when the
+robbers were on the point of putting a woman to death, they told her
+to say her prayers, so as to convince her she must get ready to die.
+As a foreigner who, on arriving at the frontier of the country he is
+leaving, prepares his papers, so Boris searched his heart and head
+for prayers, and could find none; but he was at once so tired and so
+over-strung, that he did not trouble much. He tried to think, but could
+not. The pistol weighed in his pocket; he had no need to put his hand
+on it to feel it there.
+
+“Only ten minutes more.”
+
+George, sitting on Ghéridanisol’s left, watched the scene out of the
+corner of his eye, pretending all the while not to see. He was working
+feverishly. The class had never been so quiet. La Pérouse hardly knew
+his young rascals and for the first time was able to breathe. Philippe,
+however, was not at ease; Ghéridanisol frightened him; he was not very
+confident the game mightn’t turn out badly; his heart was bursting; it
+hurt him, and every now and then he heard himself heave a deep sigh.
+At last, he could bear it no longer, and tearing a half sheet of paper
+out of his copy-book (he was preparing an examination, but the lines
+danced before his eyes, and the facts and dates in his head) scribbled
+on it very quickly: “Are you quite sure the pistol isn’t loaded?”; then
+gave the note to George, who passed it to Ghéri. But Ghéri, after he
+had read it, raised his shoulders, without even glancing at Phiphi;
+then, screwing the note up into a ball, sent it rolling with a flick
+of his finger till it landed on the very spot which had been marked
+with chalk. After which, satisfied with the excellence of his aim, he
+smiled. This smile, which began by being deliberate, remained fixed
+till the end of the scene; it seemed to have been imprinted on his
+features.
+
+“Five minutes more.”
+
+He said it almost aloud. Even Philippe heard. He was overwhelmed by a
+sickening and intolerable anxiety, and though the hour was just coming
+to an end, he feigned an urgent need to leave the room--or was perhaps
+seized with perfectly genuine colic. He raised his hand and snapped
+his fingers, as boys do when they want to ask permission from the
+master; then, without waiting for La Pérouse to answer, he darted from
+his bench. In order to reach the door he had to pass in front of the
+master’s desk; he almost ran, tottering as he did so.
+
+Almost immediately after Philippe had left the room, Boris rose in his
+turn. Young Passavant, who was sitting behind him, working diligently,
+raised his eyes. He told Séraphine afterwards that Boris was
+frightfully pale; but that is what is always said on these occasions.
+As a matter of fact, he stopped looking almost at once and plunged
+again into his work. He reproached himself for it bitterly later. If he
+had understood what was going on, he would certainly have been able to
+prevent it; so he said afterwards, weeping. But he had no suspicions.
+
+So Boris stepped forward to the appointed place; he walked slowly, like
+an automaton--or rather like a somnambulist. He had grasped the pistol
+in his right hand, but still kept it in the pocket of his coat; he
+took it out only at the last moment. The fatal place was, as I have
+said, in the recess made by a disused door on the right of the master’s
+desk, so that the master could only see it by leaning forward.
+
+La Pérouse leant forward. And at first he did not understand what his
+grandson was doing, though the strange solemnity of his actions was of
+a nature to alarm him. Speaking as loudly and as authoritatively as he
+could, he began:
+
+“Master Boris, kindly return at once to your....”
+
+But he suddenly recognized the pistol: Boris had just raised it to his
+temple. La Pérouse understood and immediately turned icy cold as if
+the blood were freezing in his veins. He tried to rise and run towards
+Boris--stop him--call to him.... A kind of hoarse rattle came from his
+throat; he remained rooted to the spot, paralytic, shaken by a violent
+trembling.
+
+The shot went off. Boris did not drop at once. The body stayed upright
+for a moment, as though caught in the corner of the recess; then the
+head, falling on to the shoulder, bore it down; it collapsed.
+
+
+When the police made their enquiry a little later, they were astonished
+not to find the pistol near Boris’s body--near the place, I mean, where
+he fell, for the little corpse was carried away almost immediately and
+laid upon a bed. In the confusion which followed, while Ghéridanisol
+had remained in his place, George had leapt over his bench and
+succeeded in making away with the weapon, without anyone’s noticing
+him; while the others were bending over Boris, he had first of all
+pushed it backwards with his foot, seized it with a rapid movement,
+hidden it under his coat, and then surreptitiously passed it to
+Ghéridanisol. Everyone’s attention being fixed on a single point, no
+one noticed Ghéridanisol either, and he was able to run unperceived
+to La Pérouse’s room and put the pistol back in the place from which
+he had taken it. When, in the course of a later investigation, the
+police discovered the pistol in its case, it might have seemed
+doubtful whether it had ever left it, or whether Boris had used it,
+had Ghéridanisol only remembered to remove the empty cartridge. He
+certainly lost his head a little--a passing weakness, for which, I
+regret to say, he reproached himself far more than for the crime
+itself. And yet it was this weakness which saved him. For when he came
+down and mixed with the others, at the sight of Boris’s dead body
+being carried away, he was seized with a fit of trembling, which was
+obvious to everyone--a kind of nervous attack--which Madame Vedel and
+Rachel, who had hurried to the spot, mistook for a sign of excessive
+emotion. One prefers to suppose anything, rather than the inhumanity
+of so young a creature; and when Ghéridanisol protested his innocence,
+he was believed. Phiphi’s little note, which George had passed him and
+which he had flicked away with his finger, was found later under a
+bench and also contributed to help him. True, he remained guilty, as
+did George and Phiphi, of having lent himself to a cruel game, but he
+would not have done so, he declared, if he had thought the weapon was
+loaded. George was the only one who remained convinced of his entire
+responsibility.
+
+George was not so corrupted but that his admiration for Ghéridanisol
+yielded at last to horror. When he reached home that evening, he flung
+himself into his mother’s arms; and Pauline had a burst of gratitude to
+God, who by means of this dreadful tragedy had brought her son back to
+her.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XX
+
+                           EDOUARD’S JOURNAL
+
+
+WITHOUT exactly pretending to explain anything, I should not like to
+put forward any fact which was not accounted for by a sufficiency of
+motive. And for that reason I shall not make use of little Boris’s
+suicide for my _Counterfeiters_; I have too much difficulty in
+understanding it. And then, I dislike police court items. There is
+something peremptory, irrefutable, brutal, outrageously real about
+them.... I accept reality coming as a proof in support of my thought,
+but not as preceding it. It displeases me to be surprised. Boris’s
+suicide seems to me an _indecency_, for I was not expecting it.
+
+A little cowardice enters into every suicide, notwithstanding La
+Pérouse, who no doubt thinks his grandson was more courageous than he.
+If the child could have foreseen the disaster which his dreadful action
+has brought upon the Vedels, there would be no excuse for him. Azaïs
+has been obliged to break up the school--for the time being, he says;
+but Rachel is afraid of ruin. Four families have already removed their
+children. I have not been able to dissuade Pauline from taking George
+away, so that she may keep him at home with her; especially as the
+boy has been profoundly shaken by his schoolfellow’s death, and seems
+inclined to reform. What repercussions this calamity has had! Even
+Olivier is touched by it. Armand, notwithstanding his cynical airs,
+feels such anxiety at the ruin which is threatening his family, that he
+has offered to devote the time that Passavant leaves him, to working in
+the school, for old La Pérouse has become manifestly incapable of doing
+what is required of him.
+
+I dreaded seeing him again. It was in his little bedroom on the second
+floor of the pension, that he received me. He took me by the arm at
+once, and with a mysterious, almost a smiling air, which greatly
+surprised me, for I was expecting tears:
+
+“That noise,” he said, “you know ... the noise I told you about the
+other day....”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“It has stopped--finished. I don’t hear it any more, however much I
+listen.”
+
+As one humours a child, “I wager,” said I, “that now you regret it.”
+
+“Oh! no; no.... It’s such a rest. I am so much in need of silence. Do
+you know what I’ve been thinking? That in this life we can’t know what
+real silence is. Even our blood makes a kind of continual noise; we
+don’t notice it, because we have become accustomed to it ever since
+our childhood.... But I think there are things in life which we can’t
+succeed in hearing--harmonies ... because this noise drowns them. Yes,
+I think it’s only after our death that we shall really be able to hear.”
+
+“You told me you didn’t believe....”
+
+“In the immortality of the soul? Did I tell you that?... Yes; I suppose
+I did. But I don’t believe the contrary either, you know.”
+
+And as I was silent, he went on, nodding his head and with a
+sententious air:
+
+“Have you noticed that in this world God always keeps silent? It’s
+only the devil who speaks. Or at least, at least ...” he went on, “...
+however carefully we listen, it’s only the devil we can succeed in
+hearing. We have not the ears to hear the voice of God. The word of
+God! Have you ever wondered what it is like?... Oh! I don’t mean the
+word that has been transferred into human language.... You remember the
+Gospel: ‘In the beginning was the Word.’ I have often thought that the
+word of God was the whole of creation. But the devil seized hold of it.
+His noise drowns the voice of God. Oh! tell me, don’t you think that
+all the same it’s God who will end by having the last word?... And if,
+after death, time no longer exists, if we enter at once into Eternity,
+do you think we shall be able to hear God then ... directly?”
+
+A kind of transport began to shake him, as if he were going to fall
+down in convulsions, and he was suddenly seized by a fit of sobbing.
+
+“No, no!” he cried, confusedly; “the devil and God are one and the
+same; they work together. We try to believe that everything bad on
+earth comes from the devil, but it’s because, if we didn’t, we should
+never find strength to forgive God. He plays with us like a cat,
+tormenting a mouse.... And then afterwards he wants us to be grateful
+to him as well. Grateful for what? for what?...”
+
+Then, leaning towards me:
+
+“Do you know the most horrible thing of all that he has done?...
+Sacrificed his own son to save us. His son! his son!... Cruelty! that’s
+the principal attribute of God.”
+
+He flung himself on his bed and turned his face to the wall. For a few
+moments a spasmodic shudder ran through him; then, as he seemed to have
+fallen asleep, I left him.
+
+He had not said a word to me about Boris; but I thought that in this
+mystical despair was to be seen the expression of a grief too blinding
+to be looked at steadfastly.
+
+
+I hear from Olivier that Bernard has gone back to his father’s; and,
+indeed, it was the best thing he could do. When he learnt, from a
+chance meeting with Caloub, that the old judge was not well, Bernard
+followed the impulse of his heart. We shall meet to-morrow evening, for
+Profitendieu has invited me to dinner with Molinier, Pauline and the
+two boys. I feel very curious to know Caloub.
+
+
+
+
+                         A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN
+                        WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET
+
+
+_This book is set_ (_on the Linotype_) _in Elzevir No. 3, a
+French Old Style. For the modern revival of this excellent face we are
+indebted to Gustave Mayeur of Paris, who reproduced it in 1878, basing
+his designs, he says, on types used in a book which was printed by the
+Elzevirs at Leyden in 1634. The Elzevir family held a distinguished
+position as printers and publishers for more than a century, their
+best work appearing between about 1590 and 1680. Although the Elzevirs
+were not themselves type founders, they utilized the services of
+the best type designers of their time, notably Van Dijk, Garamond,
+and Sanlecque. Many of their books were small, or, as we should say
+now, “pocket” editions, of the classics, and for these volumes they
+developed a type face which is open and readable but relatively narrow
+in body, although in no sense condensed, thus permitting a large amount
+of copy to be set in limited space without impairing legibility._
+
+
+
+
+                   SET UP, ELECTROTYPED, PRINTED AND
+                    BOUND BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS,
+                    INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · PAPER
+                      MANUFACTURED BY TICONDEROGA
+                          PULP AND PAPER CO.,
+                        TICONDEROGA, N. Y. AND
+                          FURNISHED BY W. F.
+                          ETHERINGTON & CO.,
+                               NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+                         =TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES=
+
+Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced
+quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and
+otherwise left unbalanced.
+
+Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
+predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
+were not changed.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76965 ***