“No, not at all. It was the Marquis de Farandal.”
And the painter, in a fidget, answered, “It does not surprise me, from him.”
There was silence. The countess resumed her work. Then Olivier continued in a calm voice, “I have good reason to know that it is false.”
He knew nothing of the kind, having just heard the story for the first time.
Musadieu was preparing to retreat, finding the position dangerous, and he was already suggesting his departure, to pay a call on the Corbelles, when the Count de Guilleroy, who had dined in town, appeared.
Bertin sat down again, overwhelmed, now despairing of getting rid of the husband.
“You do not know the great scandal of the evening,” said the count. As no one answered, he continued, “It seems that Rocdiane has surprised his wife under compromising circumstances and is making her pay for the indiscretion very dearly.”
Then Bertin, looking distressed, with grief in his voice and gestures, laying his hand upon Guilleroy’s knee, repeated in gentle, friendly terms what he had just seemed to fling into Musadieu’s face.
And the count, half convinced, sorry to have lightly repeated a doubtful and possibly compromising tale, pleaded his ignorance and innocence. Indeed, people repeated so many false and wicked things.
Suddenly all were agreed upon this: that people accuse, suspect, and slander with deplorable facility, and for five minutes the entire party seemed convinced that all whispered gossip is false, that women never have the lovers they are supposed to have, that men never do the infamous things of which they are accused—in brief, that surface is much worse than the depths.
Bertin, who was no longer incensed by Musadieu since Guilleroy’s arrival, said some complimentary things to him, started him on his favorite topic, opened the floodgate of his eloquence, and the count seemed pleased, like a man who carries conciliation and cordiality with him everywhere.
Two servants, whose steps were muffled in the carpet, entered bearing a tea table on which water was boiling in a handsome apparatus over the bluish flame of an alcohol lamp.
The countess stood up, poured the hot beverage with all the precautions the Russians have taught us, then offered a cup to Musadieu, another to Bertin, and returned with plates of sandwiches avec foie gras and delicate Austrian and English pastry.
The count, having approached the wheeled table on which were also lined up syrups, liqueurs, and glasses, concocted a grog, and then discreetly slipped into the next room and disappeared.
Again Bertin found himself face-to-face with Musadieu, and again he was violently possessed with the desire to get rid of this bore, whose vivacity made his perorations and anecdotes intolerable, and whose witticisms satisfied only himself. The painter continuously studied the clock, whose long hand was approaching midnight; the countess saw his glance, understood that he wanted to speak to her, and with the tact of skillful society women in changing, by imperceptible stages, the tone of a conversation or the atmosphere of a drawing room, in making one understand, without a word, that he is to remain or to leave, she threw around herself by her attitude, by the expression of her face and the weariness of her eyes a sort of chill, as though she had just opened the window.
Musadieu felt this draught congealing his thoughts, and without asking himself why, he felt a disposition to rise and withdraw.
Bertin courteously followed his example. The two men withdrew together, crossing the two drawing rooms accompanied by the countess who kept chatting with the painter. She detained him on the threshold of the antechamber for a casual explanation while Musadieu, assisted by a footman, was putting on his overcoat. As Madame de Guilleroy continued talking with Bertin, the commissioner of fine arts waiting a few seconds before the door of the stairway, held open a few seconds by the other servant, finally decided to go out alone, in order not to remain standing before the valet.
The door was quietly closed upon him, and the countess carelessly asked the artist, “Why, after all, must you leave so early? It’s not midnight. Do stay a little while longer.”
And they reentered the little salon together.
As soon as they were seated, Bertin said, “Heavens, how exasperating that dunce was!”
“And why was that?”
“He was taking a little of yourself from me.”
“Oh! Not much.”
“That’s possible, but he annoyed me.”
“Are you jealous?”
“To find a man an encumbrance is not an exhibition of jealousy.” He had resumed his little armchair, and quite near her now, he fingered the cloth of her dress as he told her of the warm breath that had blown in his heart that day.
She listened, surprised, delighted, and laid a hand on his white hair, gently stroking it as if to thank him.
“I wish so much I could live near you!” he said.
He kept thinking of that husband, reposing, asleep probably in a neighboring room, and continued, “There’s really only marriage to unite two lives.”
“My poor friend”—full of compassion for him, and for herself.
He had laid his cheek on the countess’s knees, and was looking at her fondly, a fondness that was mingled with a little melancholy, a little pain—less burning than a few minutes before, when he was separated from her by her daughter, by her husband, and by Musadieu.
She said, smiling, as she continued to draw her light fingers through his hair, “Dear me, how white you are. Your last black hair has disappeared.”
“Alas! I know it. Time flies.”
She feared to have saddened him. “Oh! But you were gray quite young. I’ve always known you pepper and salt.”
“Yes, that’s true.” To efface completely the shade of regret she had summoned she leaned over and, raising his head between her hands, kissed his forehead slowly and tenderly, with those lingering kisses that it seemed would never end.
Then they looked at each other, seeking in the depths of their eyes the reflection of their love.
“I should very much like,” he said, “to spend a whole day by your side.”
He felt vaguely tormented by an inexpressible need of intimate companionship. He had thought, a moment ago, that the departure of the people who were there would suffice to realize that desire, aroused since morning, and now that he was alone with his love, he felt the warmth of her hands upon his forehead and against his cheek and through her dress the warmth of her body, and he found in himself again the same restlessness, the same incomprehensible and fleeting desire for affection.
And he imagined now that outside of that house, after varnishing day then, this disquietude of his heart would be satisfied and calmed.
She murmured, “What a child you are! And we see each other almost every day.”
He begged her to find means to come and have breakfast with him somewhere in the suburbs of Paris, as they had formerly done occasionally.
This caprice astonished her; it was so difficult to realize it, now that her daughter had returned.
She would try, however, as soon as her husband left for Ronces, but that would not be until varnishing day, which was the following Saturday.
“And between now and then,” said he, “when shall I see you?”
“Tomorrow night at the Corbelles. Besides, come here Thursday at three o’clock, if you are disengaged, and I believe we are to dine together at the duchess’s on Friday.”
“Yes, very well.”
He got up.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, my friend.”
He remained standing, hesitating to leave, for he had found almost nothing of all he had come to say to her, and his mind remained full of unexpressed thoughts, full of vague emotions that were still suppressed.
He repeated “Goodbye” as he took her hands.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
“I love you.”
She gave him one of those smiles in which a woman reveals to a man in an instant all that she has given h
im.
Then he went out.
4
ON THAT day one would have said all the carriages of Paris were making a pilgrimage to the Palace of Industry. Since nine in the morning they had been gathering on every street, avenue, and bridge in the direction of the Hall of Fine Arts where artistic Tout Paris had invited fashionable Tout Paris to attend the simulated varnishing of three thousand four hundred pictures.
A long line of people jostled against the doors and, disdaining sculpture, immediately made its way up to the picture galleries. While climbing the stairs, certain canvases could be examined: the special category of vestibule painters who had sent works of abnormal proportions (works whose refusal could scarcely be ventured). Already a clamorous and confused crowd surged into the Salon Carré. Till evening, the painters could be recognized here by their resounding voices and authoritative gestures; they drew their friends toward their own pictures with waving arms and the exclamation of connoisseurs. Tall, long-haired creatures appeared, wearing soft gray hats of indescribable shapes, round like roofs with sloping brims shading a man’s entire chest; others were small, active, slender, or stout with silk ties, arrayed in short jackets, or encased in the hybrid costumes characteristic of young art students.
There was a clan of the “elegant,” of the dandies, of artists of the boulevard; the clan of academics, correct and decorated with red rosettes, enormous or microscopic according to their conception of bon ton; the clan of bourgeois painters supported by families surrounding the father like a triumphant choir.
On four giant panels hung those paintings admitted to the honor of the Salon Carré, dazzling even at the entrance by the brightness of the tones, the flashiness of the frames, and the crudeness of the new colors heightened by varnish, blinding under the merciless daylight falling from above.
The portrait of the president of the Republic faced the door, while upon another wall a general attired in scarlet breeches, gold lace, and ostrich plumes consorted beneath some willows with woodland nymphs attired in nothing, and a laboring ship was almost engulfed in the waves; a medieval bishop excommunicating a barbarian king, a street of the Orient reeking with pestiferous dead, and the shade of Dante on an excursion to Hades attracted and captured one’s glance by the irresistible violence of expression.
The immense room also afforded a charge of cavalry, some forest skirmishes, a few grazing cows, two lords of the last century engaged in mortal combat on a street corner, a madwoman resting on a curbstone, a priest ministering at a deathbed, a sunset, a moonrise, reapers, rivers, and, finally, examples of all that has been, is now, and ever will be done by painters until the day of doom.
Bertin, in the midst of a group of famous colleagues, members of the institute and of the jury, was exchanging views with them. He felt uneasiness, indeed oppressive concern, about his own picture, regarding the success of which he did not feel assured, despite many eager congratulations. He rushed forward: the Duchess de Mortemain had appeared at the entrance.
She asked, “Has the countess not arrived?”
“I have not seen her.”
“And Monsieur de Musadieu?”
“No.”
“He promised me to be at the head of the staircase at ten o’clock to show me through the rooms.”
“Will you permit me to take his place, duchess?”
“No, no. Your friends need you. We shall meet again presently, for I expect that we shall lunch together.”
Musadieu was arriving in haste; he had been detained a few moments in the Department of Sculpture and was making his excuses, already out of breath, saying, “This way, duchess, this way. We begin at the right.”
They had just disappeared in an eddy of heads when the Countess de Guilleroy came in, holding her daughter by the arm and looking around for Olivier Bertin.
He saw his friends and joined them, saying as he greeted them, “Lord, how pretty they are! Really. Nanette has grown prettier by the hour. She’s changed in eight days.” Bertin watched her with his keen glance, adding, “The lines are softer, they blend more. She’s already much less of a young girl and much more of a Parisienne.” But suddenly he returned to the grand affair of the day. “Let’s begin to the right, we’ll catch up with the duchess.”
The countess, familiar with everything pertaining to painting and as preoccupied as an exhibitor, asked, “What are they saying?”
“Fine salon. The Bonnat is remarkable, two fine Carolus-Durans, an admirable Puvis de Chavannes, an astounding Roll, entirely new, an exquisite Gervex, and a great many other things. Some Bérauds, some Cazins, some Duezs—in short, a heap of good things.”
“And you?”
“They compliment me, but I’m not content.”
“You never are.”
“Yes, sometimes. But today, really, I think I’m right.”
“Why?”
“I’m the last to know.”
“Let’s go and see.”
When they reached his picture—two peasant girls bathing in a brook—they found an admiring group in front of it. The countess was pleased, and said, “Bertin, it’s delightful. It’s a gem. You’ve never done anything better.”
He pressed against her lovingly, grateful for every word that soothed a pain or healed a wound. Various arguments flashed through his mind in the attempt to convince himself that she was right, that she saw correctly with the intelligent eyes of a Parisienne. He forgot, in his effort to reassure himself, that for the last twelve years he had justly reproached her for excessively admiring such refined frolics, such neatly expressed sentiments, such witty versions of fashion yet never art, just art, art untrammeled by ideas, by fashionable tendencies and worldly prejudices.
Guiding them farther he said, “Let’s keep going,” and he walked them from room to room, pointing out canvases, explaining subjects, happy between them, made happy by them.
Suddenly the countess asked, “What time is it?”
“Half past twelve.”
“Oh! We must hurry if we want to get to our luncheon. The duchess is waiting for us at Ledoyen. She asked me to bring you there if we didn’t find her in the galleries.”
The restaurant, in the center of an islet of trees and shrubbery, seemed a humming, overflowing beehive. Around it and from all the windows and wide-open doors came the confused murmur of voices and calls, and the clinking of glass and china. The crowded tables, surrounded by people eating lunch, were scattered in long lines down the neighboring walks, to the right and left of a narrow passage through which waiters were darting, deafened, excited, holding at arm’s length trays loaded with meat, fish, and fruit.
There was such a multitude of men and women under the circular gallery that they looked like vast clumps of animated dough, which laughed, shouted, ate, and drank, made merry by wines and inundated by an excitement that, along with sunlight, falls upon Paris on certain days.
A waiter conducted the countess, Annette, and Bertin to the private room where the duchess was waiting.
As he entered, Bertin perceived the Marquis de Farandal, attentive and smiling beside his aunt, holding out his arms to receive the parasols and wraps of the countess and her daughter. At the sight, Bertin felt such a rush of annoyance that he was almost overcome by the temptation to be disagreeable.
The duchess explained the presence of her nephew and the departure of Monsieur de Musadieu, who had been carried off by the minister of fine arts; and Bertin, at the thought that this foppish marquis was to marry Annette, that he had come for her, that he already looked upon her as destined for his embrace, was as exasperated and disgusted as though someone had mistaken and violated his rights, his mysterious and sacred rights.
As soon as they were seated at the table, the marquis, seated beside the girl, devoted himself to her, with the assured air of men authorized to pay their court.
He gave curious glances that to the painter seemed bold and inquisitive, smiles that were almost tender and satisfied, a familiar and officious gall
antry. Already, in his manner and his words, something decided appeared, something like the announcement of an imminent taking of possession.
The duchess and the countess seemed to protect and approve of this suitorial air, and exchanged what Bertin realized were confederate glances.
Immediately after lunch they returned to the exhibition. The rooms were so crowded that it was almost impossible to enter them.
The atmosphere was sickening and heavy with a living heat as well as a dull personal odor of dresses and coats that had long since lost their freshness. People were no longer gazing at the pictures but rather at the faces and the toilettes, looking for celebrated figures, and occasionally a crush in that thick mass was momentarily half opened to permit the passing of the tall double ladder of the varnishers crying, “Attention, messieurs! Attention, mesdames!”
Within five minutes the countess and Bertin found themselves separated from the others. He wanted to find them, but she said, as she leaned on him, “Isn’t this all right? Let them go, since it’s arranged that if we lose each other, we’re to meet at the buffet at four.”
“True,” he said. But he was absorbed in the thought the marquis was accompanying Annette and besieging her with his irritating and brutal gallantry.
The countess murmured, “You still love me, then?”
He answered absentmindedly, “Why, yes. Of course I do.”
And he endeavored to discover Monsieur de Farandal’s gray hat over people’s heads.
Conscious that he was distracted, and anxious to recall his thoughts to herself, she continued, “If you knew how delighted I am with your picture of this year! It is your masterpiece.”
He smiled, at once forgetting the young people, remembering only his solicitude of the morning.
“You really think so?”
“Yes, I prefer it to any of them.”
“It gave me a lot of trouble.”
With insinuating words she entwined him anew, having long since learned that nothing is more powerful with an artist than loving and unceasing flattery. Captivated, reanimated, cheered by those sweet phrases, he began to chat again, seeing no one but her, listening to her alone in that great floating, tumultuous crowd.
Like Death Page 10
