One would have thought that a beneficent God had changed his soul.
“That same bountiful God,” he thought, “might as well have changed my body at the same time and made me a little younger.” Suddenly he saw Julio hunting in the thicket. He called him, and when the dog had placed his delicate head, adorned with its long, curly ears, under his hand, he sat down in the grass, the more easily to pet him, spoke kindly to him, laid him on his knee, and softening as he caressed him, embraced him after the manner of women whose hearts are moved by trifles.
After dinner, instead of going out as on the day before, they spent the evening in the drawing room en famille.
The countess said abruptly, “We shall have to return soon.”
Olivier exclaimed, “Oh, do not speak of that yet. You did not wish to leave Roncières when I was not here. I come, and you think only of running away.”
“But my dear friend,” said she, “we cannot all three of us remain here indefinitely.”
“It is not a question of indefinite time, but of a few days. How many times have I stayed at your house for whole weeks?”
“Yes, but under different circumstances, when the house was open to everybody.”
Then Annette, in a coaxing tone, said, “Oh, Maman, a few days more, two or three. He teaches me so well how to play tennis. I’m vexed when I lose, and then afterward I’m so glad I’ve improved.”
That very morning the countess was proposing to extend until Sunday this mysterious visit of her friend, and now she wished to go away, without knowing why. That day which she had hoped would be so enjoyable had left an inexpressible and penetrating sadness in her soul, an unreasonable apprehension, tenacious and confused as a presentiment.
When she found herself alone in her room she even tried to find the source of this new access of melancholy.
Had she experienced one of those imperceptible emotions whose touch has been so transient that reason remembers it not, but whose vibrations remain in the most sensitive heartstrings?
Perhaps. Which? She recalled, it is true, some unspeakable vexations in the thousand shades of sentiment through which she had passed, every minute bringing its own. They were really too insignificant to leave her in such despondency. “I have no right to torment myself thus.”
She opened the window to breathe the night air, and rested there on her elbows, looking at the moon.
A light noise made her look down. Olivier was walking before the castle. “Why did he say he was going to his room?” she thought. “Why did he not tell me he was going out again? Ask me to go out with him? He well knows it would have made me happy. What can he be thinking of?”
This thought that he had not wished her presence for the walk, that he had preferred to go out on this beautiful night alone, a cigar in his mouth—for she could see the red spark of fire—alone, when he might have afforded her the joy of taking him with her, this thought that he did not need her continually, did not care for her ceaselessly, poured into her soul a new leaven of bitterness.
She was about to close the window so as to see him no longer, to be no longer tempted to call him, when he looked up and saw her. He cried, “Well, are you stargazing, countess?”
She answered, “So are you, it seems.”
“Oh, I’m simply smoking.”
She could not resist the desire to ask, “How is it that you failed to tell me you were going out?”
“I just wanted to burn a weed. I’m coming in, however.”
“Then good night, my friend.”
“Good night, countess.”
She stepped back as far as her low chair, sat down in it, and wept, and the maid summoned to help her to bed, seeing her red eyes, said to her compassionately, “Ah. Madame is going to make herself a wretched face again for tomorrow.”
The countess slept badly. She was feverish, troubled by nightmares. When she awoke, before ringing she herself opened her window and curtains to see herself in the glass. Her features looked drawn, her eyelids swollen, her complexion yellow, and she felt such violent grief on this account that she was tempted to call herself ill, to stay in bed and not show herself till evening.
Then she was possessed with a sudden, irresistible desire to go away, to leave at once by the first train, to quit the country where one perceived too clearly by the strong light of the fields the indelible traces of sorrow and years. In Paris one lives in the half shadow of apartments, where heavy curtains, even at midday, admit only a mellow light. She would be beautiful again there, with the pallor one needs in that dim, discriminating glimmer. Then Annette’s face passed before her eyes, her hair a little rumpled, when she was playing lawn tennis. She comprehended then the unacknowledged anxiety from which her soul had suffered. She was not jealous of the beauty of her daughter. No, assuredly! But she did feel, she confessed for the first time, that she must never again appear at her side in bright sunlight.
She rang, and before drinking her tea she gave her orders for departure, wrote some dispatches, even ordered that night’s dinner by telegraph, settled her accounts in the countryside, arranged everything in less than an hour, a prey to a feverish and increasing impatience.
When the countess came down, Annette and Olivier, advised of her decision, questioned her with some surprise and, finding that she gave no satisfactory reason for this hurried departure, grumbled a little, until they separated at the station in Paris. Holding out her hand to the painter, the countess said to him, “Will you come to dine tomorrow?”
He answered rather sullenly, “Certainly I’ll come. All the same, it’s not nice, what you’ve done. We were so comfortable down there, we three.”
3
ONCE THE countess was alone with her daughter in the coupé that was bringing her back to her home, she felt suddenly tranquil, appeased, as if she had just passed through a dreadful crisis. She breathed more easily, smiled at the houses, delightedly recognized throughout the city those familiar details that real Parisians seem to bear in their eyes and hearts. At every shop she passed by, she could foresee the ones beyond, in a line along the boulevard, and imagine the face of the tradesman so often seen behind his showcase. She felt saved. From what? Reassured! Why? Confident! Of what?
When the carriage had passed under the arch of the entrance, she descended lightly as though flying into the shadow of the stairway, then into the shadow of her drawing room, then into the shadow of her apartment. She remained standing there a few moments, glad to be in the security of this dim Parisian daylight that allows anyone at home in it to determine what can be seen as well as what may be concealed, for the memory of the resplendent light that had bathed the countryside remained with her like the impression of past suffering.
When she went down to dinner, her husband, who had just come in, embraced her affectionately, and said, smiling, “Ha! Ha! I knew well enough that our friend Bertin would bring you back. It wasn’t a bad idea to send him for you.”
Annette gravely interposed, in that peculiar tone she affected when she jested without a smile, “Oh he had a terrible time! Maman couldn’t decide for herself.”
And the countess, a little confused, said nothing.
At home to no one, there were no visitors that evening. The next day the countess spent shopping for an appropriate wardrobe, selecting or ordering what she needed. From her youth, almost from her infancy, she had relished those long hours in front of the mirrors of the great shops. From the very moment of her entrance she rejoiced at the thought of that minute rehearsal in the wings of Parisian life. She adored the rustle of the saleswomen’s dresses as they hastened forward at her approach, their smiles, their offers, their questions, and the dressmaker, the milliner, or the corset-maker was to her a person of value whom she treated as an artist when she uttered an opinion, seeking advice. She liked still better to feel herself in the skillful hands of the young girls who undressed and redressed her, turning her gently around before her graceful reflection. The shiver that followed the touch of the
ir deft fingers upon her skin, her neck, or in her hair was one of the sweetest and most valued of the delicate trifles that go to make up the life of an elegant woman.
That day, however, it was with a certain anxiety that she passed, unveiled and bareheaded, before all those truthful mirrors.
Her first visit to the milliner reassured her. The three hats she chose became her charmingly; she couldn’t doubt the fact, and when the tradeswoman had said to her, with a positive air, “Oh, madame countess, fair women should never leave off mourning,” she went away quite elated, and entered the other shops with restored confidence.
Then she found at home a note from the duchess who had come to see her, explaining she would return later in the evening; then she wrote some letters; then she fell into a daydream for some time, surprised to find that a simple change of surroundings should have thrust her into a past that seemed already remote from the great misfortune that had crushed her. She could scarcely believe her return from Roncières dated from only the day before, so altered was the condition of her soul since her return to Paris, as though that little change had healed her wounds.
Bertin, arriving at dinnertime, exclaimed when he saw her, “You’re dazzling this evening!” And that cry spread a warm wave of happiness in her heart.
As they were leaving the dinner table, the count, who had a passion for billiards, suggested a game to Bertin, and the two women accompanied them into the billiard room, where the coffee was served.
The men were still playing when the duchess was announced, and they all returned to the drawing room. Madame de Corbelle and her husband appeared at the same moment, their voices full of tears, and for a few moments it seemed from the doleful accents that everyone was about to weep. But after a proper display of sympathy and the usual questions, the entire company glided into a more cheerful vein, the vocal qualities immediately grew clearer, and everyone began to speak more naturally, as though the shadow of sorrow which had momentarily fallen on everyone present had suddenly been dissipated.
Then Bertin stood up, took Annette by the hand, led her under the portrait of her mother beneath the full light of the reflector, and asked, “Isn’t that stupefying?”
The duchess was so surprised that she seemed beside herself, and kept repeating, “Heavens! Is it possible? Heavens! Is it possible? It is one come from the dead! To think I failed to see it when I came in! Oh my darling countess, now I find you again, I who knew you so well in your first mourning as a woman, no, it was your second—you’d already lost your father! Oh! That Annette, in black like that, but it’s her mother brought back to earth. What a miracle! If it weren’t for that portrait, no one would have realized! Your daughter still resembles you very closely, but it’s that painting she resembles even more!”
Musadieu appeared, having heard of Madame de Guilleroy’s return, and insisted on being among the first to offer her “the homage of his sorrowful sympathy,” but interrupted his formality upon perceiving the young girl standing next to the frame of “that painting,” enveloped in the same flood of light, and who appeared the living sister of the portrait. He exclaimed, “Ah! As an example, there is one of the most astonishing things I ever saw!”
And the Corbelles, whose convictions always followed established opinions, marveled in their turn, though of course with more subdued ardor.
The countess’s heart seemed to shrink by degrees, as if these unanimous exclamations contracted and hurt it. Without a word she gazed at her daughter standing beside her own image. A feeling of complete enervation overcame her. She longed to cry out, “Do be quiet! I know well enough that she resembles me.”
Throughout the evening she was disconsolate, losing again the confidence she had gained the day before.
Bertin was talking with her when the Marquis de Farandal was announced. The painter, on seeing him enter and approach the hostess, rose and slipped behind her armchair, murmuring, “Fine, just fine, there comes that blockhead now.” Then, in a circuitous fashion he reached the door and left the house.
The countess, after the newcomer’s salutations, looked about for Olivier, in order to resume the conversation that had interested her. As she did not find him she asked, “What! Has the great man gone?”
Her husband answered, “I believe so, my dear. I just saw him take an English leave.”
She was surprised, reflected a moment, then began to chat with the marquis. Her close friends, however, soon withdrew considerately, for she had only half opened her door so soon after her misfortune. Then, when she found herself stretched upon her couch, all the griefs that had assailed her in the country reappeared; they were stronger, deeper: She felt old!
That evening, for the first time, she understood that in her own salon—where thus far she alone had been admired, complimented, courted, loved—another, her daughter, was taking her place. She had understood that at once, on feeling the homage drifting toward Annette. In that realm, the house of a pretty woman, in that realm where she will suffer no shadow, where she turns aside with cautious and steadfast care all perilous conversation, in that realm where she permits the entrance of her equals only to turn them into vassals, she saw clearly that her daughter was about to become the sovereign. How strange that oppression of her heart had been when all eyes turned toward Annette, whom Bertin held by the hand, standing by the picture. She had suddenly felt as if she had vanished, was dispossessed, dethroned. Everyone looked toward Annette; no one turned to her anymore. She was so accustomed to hear compliments and flattery whenever her portrait was admired, so sure of the eulogistic phrases which she had held so lightly but which pleased her nonetheless, that this desertion, this unexpected defection, this admiration instantly and wholly carried toward her daughter moved, astonished, and struck her more than if it had been a question of rivalry under any circumstances whatever.
But as she had one of those natures that, after the first blow, react, struggle, and find arguments for consolation, she thought once her dear little daughter married, when they should cease to live under the same roof, she should no longer be obliged to stand the constant comparison that was beginning to become too painful for her under the eyes of her friends.
Yet the shock had been great. She was feverish and slept very little.
Next morning she woke tired and stiff, and then there rose within her an irresistible longing to be comforted again, to be succored, to ask for help from someone who might cure her of all her pains, of all these moral and physical troubles.
She felt really so ill at ease, so weak that she thought of consulting a physician. She was perhaps about to fall seriously ill, for it was not natural that she should pass in a few hours through those successive phases and pacifications. She therefore summoned him by telegraph and then waited.
He arrived toward eleven o’clock. He was one of those grave, fashionable physicians whose decorations and titles are a guarantee of capacity, whose tact signifies a kind of knowledge, and who have, when dealing with women, words that are surer than drugs.
He entered, bowed, looked at his patient, and with a smile said, “Come now, this isn’t serious. With eyes like yours one is never very ill.”
She was immediately grateful to him for this beginning and told him of her ailments, her despondency, her melancholy, then, without dwelling on the subject, her alarmingly sickly looks. When he had listened to her with an air of attention, refraining from any questions, however, except as to her appetite, as if he knew very well the secret of this feminine malady, he sounded her, examined her, touched the flesh of her shoulder with his fingertips, lifted her arms, having undoubtedly read her thoughts and understood with the shrewdness of a practitioner who lifts all veils, that she had consulted him much more for her beauty than for her health. Then he said, “Yes, we have a little anemia, some nervous difficulty. It’s not surprising since we’ve suffered so much grief. I’ll give you a little prescription to rectify all that. But above all, you must take strengthening food such as beef tea, and drin
k no water, only beer. I’ll give you the name of an excellent brand. Don’t fatigue yourself by keeping late hours, but walk as much as you can. Sleep a lot and get a little stouter. It’s the only advice I can give you, my fair patient.”
She had listened to him with intense interest, endeavoring to guess everything his words implied. She caught the last word. “Yes, I have grown thin. I was a little stout at one time, and I may have become somewhat weaker after beginning to diet.”
“No doubt about it. There’s nothing wrong with staying thin when you’ve always been so, but when you lose weight on principle it’s always at the expense of something else. Which fortunately can be taken care of easily enough. Adieu, madame.”
She felt better already, more alert, and she wanted the beer he named to be bought at its headquarters, so as to be fresh at lunch. She was leaving the table when Bertin was announced.
“Me again. It’s always me. I have something to ask. Can you do something for me, right now?”
“Of course, what is it?”
“And Annette as well?”
“She’ll come too, of course.”
“Can you come to my place around four?”
“Yes, but for what purpose?”
“I’m sketching the face of my Reverie—I mentioned it to you when I asked if your daughter might pose for me for a few moments. She’d be doing me a great service if I had her for just one hour today. . . . Will you?”
The countess hesitated, annoyed, she knew not why. However, she replied, “It’s agreed, my friend, we’ll be at your place at four o’clock.”
“Thank you. The two of you are kindness itself.”
And he went off to prepare his canvas and to study his subject in order not to fatigue his model too much.
Then the countess set off alone, on foot, to complete her purchases. She walked down to the great central thoroughfares, then came up the boulevard Malesherbes, slowly, for she felt as if her legs were broken. As she walked past Saint-Augustin she was seized with a craving to enter the church and rest. She pushed open the padded door, sighed with satisfaction as she breathed the cool air of the vast nave, took a chair, and sat down.
Like Death Page 15
