XII
The Place de la Trinite lay, almost deserted, under a dazzling July sun.An oppressive heat was crushing Paris. It was as though the upper air,scorched and deadened, had fallen upon the city--a thick, burning airthat pained the chests inhaling it. The fountains in front of the churchfell lazily. They seemed weary of flowing, tired out, limp, too; and thewater of the basins, in which leaves and bits of paper were floating,looked greenish, thick and glaucous. A dog having jumped over the stonerim, was bathing in the dubious fluid. A few people, seated on thebenches of the little circular garden skirting the front of the church,watched the animal curiously.
Du Roy pulled out his watch. It was only three o'clock. He was half anhour too soon. He laughed as he thought of this appointment. "Churchesserve for anything as far as she is concerned," said he to himself."They console her for having married a Jew, enable her to assume anattitude of protestation in the world of politics and a respectable onein that of fashion, and serve as a shelter to her gallant rendezvous. Somuch for the habit of making use of religion as an umbrella. If it isfine it is a walking stick; if sunshiny, a parasol; if it rains, ashelter; and if one does not go out, why, one leaves it in the hall. Andthere are hundreds like that who care for God about as much as a cherrystone, but who will not hear him spoken against. If it were suggested tothem to go to a hotel, they would think it infamous, but it seems tothem quite simple to make love at the foot of the altar."
He walked slowly along the edge of the fountain, and then again lookedat the church clock, which was two minutes faster than his watch. It wasfive minutes past three. He thought that he would be more comfortableinside, and entered the church. The coolness of a cellar assailed him,he breathed it with pleasure, and then took a turn round the nave toreconnoiter the place. Other regular footsteps, sometimes halting andthen beginning anew, replied from the further end of the vast pile tothe sound of his own, which rang sonorously beneath the vaulted roof. Acuriosity to know who this other promenader was seized him. It was astout, bald-headed gentleman who was strolling about with his nose inthe air, and his hat behind his back. Here and there an old woman waspraying, her face hidden in her hands. A sensation of solitude and reststole over the mind. The light, softened by the stained-glass windows,was refreshing to the eyes. Du Roy thought that it was "deucedlycomfortable" inside there.
He returned towards the door and again looked at his watch. It was stillonly a quarter-past three. He sat down at the entrance to the mainaisle, regretting that one could not smoke a cigarette. The slowfootsteps of the stout gentleman could still be heard at the further endof the church, near the choir.
Someone came in, and George turned sharply round. It was a poor woman ina woolen skirt, who fell on her knees close to the first chair, andremained motionless, with clasped hands, her eyes turned to heaven, hersoul absorbed in prayer. Du Roy watched her with interest, askinghimself what grief, what pain, what despair could have crushed herheart. She was worn out by poverty, it was plain. She had, perhaps, too,a husband who was beating her to death, or a dying child. He murmuredmentally: "Poor creatures. How some of them do suffer." Anger rose up inhim against pitiless Nature. Then he reflected that these poor wretchesbelieved, at any rate, that they were taken into consideration up above,and that they were duly entered in the registers of heaven with a debtorand creditor balance. Up above! And Du Roy, whom the silence of thechurch inclined to sweeping reflections, judging creation at a bound,muttered contemptuously: "What bosh all that sort of thing is!"
The rustle of a dress made him start. It was she.
He rose, and advanced quickly. She did not hold out her hand, butmurmured in a low voice: "I have only a few moments. I must get backhome. Kneel down near me, so that we may not be noticed." And sheadvanced up the aisle, seeking a safe and suitable spot, like a womanwell acquainted with the place. Her face was hidden by a thick veil, andshe walked with careful footsteps that could scarcely be heard.
When she reached the choir she turned, and muttered, in that mysterioustone of voice we always assume in church: "The side aisles will bebetter. We are too much in view here."
She bowed low to the high altar, turned to the right, and returned alittle way towards the entrance; then, making up her mind, she took achair and knelt down. George took possession of the next one to her, andas soon as they were in an attitude of prayer, began: "Thanks; oh,thanks; I adore you! I should like to be always telling you so, to tellyou how I began to love you, how I was captivated the first time I sawyou. Will you allow me some day to open my heart to tell you all this?"
She listened to him in an attitude of deep meditation, as if she heardnothing. She replied between her fingers: "I am mad to allow you tospeak to me like this, mad to have come here, mad to do what I am doing,mad to let you believe that--that--this adventure can have any issue.Forget all this; you must, and never speak to me again of it."
She paused. He strove to find an answer, decisive and passionate words,but not being able to join action to words, was partially paralyzed. Hereplied: "I expect nothing, I hope for nothing. I love you. Whatever youmay do, I will repeat it to you so often, with such power and ardor,that you will end by understanding it. I want to make my love penetrateyou, to pour it into your soul, word by word, hour by hour, day by day,so that at length it impregnates you like a liquid, falling drop bydrop; softens you, mollifies you, and obliges you later on to reply tome: 'I love you, too.'"
He felt her shoulder trembling against him and her bosom throbbing, andshe stammered, abruptly: "I love you, too!"
He started as though he had received a blow, and sighed: "Good God."
She replied, in panting tones: "Ought I to have told you that? I feel Iam guilty and contemptible. I, who have two daughters, but I cannot helpit, I cannot help it. I could not have believed, I should never havethought--but it is stronger than I. Listen, listen: I have never lovedanyone but you; I swear it. And I have loved you for a year past insecret, in my secret heart. Oh! I have suffered and struggled till I cando so no more. I love you."
She was weeping, with her hands crossed in front of her face, and herwhole frame was quivering, shaken by the violence of her emotion.
George murmured: "Give me your hand, that I may touch it, that I maypress it."
She slowly withdrew her hand from her face. He saw her cheek quite wetand a tear ready to fall on her lashes. He had taken her hand and waspressing it, saying: "Oh, how I should like to drink your tears!"
She said, in a low and broken voice, which resembled a moan: "Do nottake advantage of me; I am lost."
He felt an impulse to smile. How could he take advantage of her in thatplace? He placed the hand he held upon his heart, saying: "Do you feelit beat?" For he had come to the end of his passionate phrases.
For some moments past the regular footsteps of the promenader had beencoming nearer. He had gone the round of the altars, and was now, for thesecond time at least, coming down the little aisle on the right. WhenMadame Walter heard him close to the pillar which hid her, she snatchedher fingers from George's grasp, and again hid her face. And bothremained motionless, kneeling as though they had been addressing ferventsupplications to heaven together. The stout gentleman passed close tothem, cast an indifferent look upon them, and walked away to the lowerend of the church, still holding his hat behind his back.
Du Roy, who was thinking of obtaining an appointment elsewhere than atthe Church of the Trinity, murmured: "Where shall I see you to-morrow?"
She did not answer. She seemed lifeless--turned into a statue of prayer.He went on: "To-morrow, will you let me meet you in the Parc Monseau?"
She turned towards him her again uncovered face, a livid face,contracted by fearful suffering, and in a jerky voice ejaculated: "Leaveme, leave me now; go away, go away, only for five minutes! I suffer toomuch beside you. I want to pray, and I cannot. Go away, let me prayalone for five minutes. I cannot. Let me implore God to pardon me--tosave me. Leave me for five minutes."
Her face was so
upset, so full of pain, that he rose without saying aword, and then, after a little hesitation, asked: "Shall I come backpresently?"
She gave a nod, which meant, "Yes, presently," and he walked awaytowards the choir. Then she strove to pray. She made a superhuman effortto invoke the Deity, and with quivering frame and bewildering soulappealed for mercy to heaven. She closed her eyes with rage, in order nolonger to see him who just left her. She sought to drive him from hermind, she struggled against him, but instead of the celestial apparitionawaited in the distress of her heart, she still perceived the youngfellow's curly moustache. For a year past she had been struggling thusevery day, every night, against the growing possession, against thisimage which haunted her dreams, haunted her flesh, and disturbed hernights. She felt caught like a beast in a net, bound, thrown into thearms of this man, who had vanquished, conquered her, simply by the hairon his lip and the color of his eyes. And now in this church, close toGod, she felt still weaker, more abandoned, and more lost than at home.She could no longer pray, she could only think of him. She sufferedalready that he had quitted her. She struggled, however, despairingly,resisted, implored help with all the strength of her soul. She wouldliked to have died rather than fall thus, she who had never faltered inher duty. She murmured wild words of supplication, but she was listeningto George's footsteps dying away in the distance.
She understood that it was all over, that the struggle was a uselessone. She would not yield, however; and she was seized by one of thosenervous crises that hurl women quivering, yelling, and writhing on theground. She trembled in every limb, feeling that she was going to falland roll among the chairs, uttering shrill cries. Someone approachedwith rapid steps. It was a priest. She rose and rushed towards him,holding out her clasped hands, and stammering: "Oh! save me, save me!"
He halted in surprise, saying: "What is it you wish, madame?"
"I want you to save me. Have pity on me. If you do not come to myassistance, I am lost."
He looked at her, asking himself whether she was not mad, and then said:"What can I do for you?"
He was a tall, and somewhat stout young man, with full, pendulouscheeks, dark, with a carefully shaven face, a good-looking city curatebelonging to a wealthy district, and accustomed to rich penitents.
"Hear my confession, and advise me, sustain me, tell me what I am todo."
He replied: "I hear confessions every Saturday, from three to sixo'clock."
Having seized his arm, she gripped it tightly as she repeated: "No, no,no; at once, at once! You must. He is here, in the church. He is waitingfor me."
"Who is waiting for you?" asked the priest.
"A man who will ruin me, who will carry me off, if you do not save me.I cannot flee from him. I am too weak--too weak! Oh, so weak, so weak!"She fell at his feet sobbing: "Oh, have pity on me, father! Save me, inGod's name, save me!"
She held him by his black gown lest he should escape, and he withuneasiness glanced around, lest some malevolent or devout eye should seethis woman fallen at his feet. Understanding at length that he could notescape, he said: "Get up; I have the key of the confessional with me."
And fumbling in his pocket he drew out a ring full of keys, selectedone, and walked rapidly towards the little wooden cabin, dust holes ofthe soul into which believers cast their sins. He entered the centerdoor, which he closed behind him, and Madame Walter, throwing herselfinto the narrow recess at the side, stammered fervently, with apassionate burst of hope: "Bless me father, for I have sinned."
Du Roy, having taken a turn round the choir, was passing down the leftaisle. He had got half-way when he met the stout, bald gentleman stillwalking quietly along, and said to himself: "What the deuce is thatcustomer doing here?"
The promenader had also slackened his pace, and was looking at Georgewith an evident wish to speak to him. When he came quite close he bowed,and said in a polite fashion: "I beg your pardon, sir, for troublingyou, but can you tell me when this church was built?"
Du Roy replied: "Really, I am not quite certain. I think within the lasttwenty or five-and-twenty years. It is, besides, the first time I everwas inside it."
"It is the same with me. I have never seen it."
The journalist, whose interest was awakened, remarked: "It seems to methat you are going over it very carefully. You are studying it indetail."
The other replied, with resignation: "I am not examining it; I amwaiting for my wife, who made an appointment with me here, and who isvery much behind time." Then, after a few moments' silence, he added:"It is fearfully hot outside."
Du Roy looked at him, and all at once fancied that he resembledForestier.
"You are from the country?" said he, inquiringly.
"Yes, from Rennes. And you, sir, is it out of curiosity that you enteredthis church?"
"No, I am expecting a lady," and bowing, the journalist walked away,with a smile on his lips.
Approaching the main entrance, he saw the poor woman still on her knees,and still praying. He thought: "By Jove! she keeps hard at it." He wasno longer moved, and no longer pitied her.
He passed on, and began quietly to walk up the right-hand aisle to findMadame Walter again. He marked the place where he had left her from adistance, astonished at not seeing her. He thought he had made a mistakein the pillar; went on as far as the end one, and then returned. She hadgone, then. He was surprised and enraged. Then he thought she might belooking for him, and made the circuit of the church again. Not findingher, he returned, and sat down on the chair she had occupied, hoping shewould rejoin him there, and waited. Soon a low murmur of voices arousedhis attention. He had not seen anyone in that part of the church. Whencecame this whispering? He rose to see, and perceived in the adjacentchapel the doors of the confessional. The skirt of a dress issuing fromone of these trailed on the pavement. He approached to examine thewoman. He recognized her. She was confessing.
He felt a violent inclination to take her by the shoulders and to pullher out of the box. Then he thought: "Bah! it is the priest's turn now;it will be mine to-morrow." And he sat down quietly in front of theconfessional, biding his time, and chuckling now over the adventure. Hewaited a long time. At length Madame Walter rose, turned round, saw him,and came up to him. Her expression was cold and severe, "Sir," said she,"I beg of you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come tomy house alone. You will not be received. Farewell."
And she walked away with a dignified bearing. He let her depart, for oneof his principles was never to force matters. Then, as the priest,somewhat upset, issued in turn from his box, he walked up to him, and,looking him straight in the eyes, growled to his face: "If you did notwear a petticoat, what a smack you would get across your ugly chops."After which he turned on his heels and went out of the church, whistlingbetween his teeth. Standing under the porch, the stout gentleman, withthe hat on his head and his hands behind his back, tired of waiting, wasscanning the broad squares and all the streets opening onto it. As DuRoy passed him they bowed to one another.
The journalist, finding himself at liberty, went to the office of the_Vie Francaise_. As soon as he entered he saw by the busy air of themessengers that something out of the common was happening, and at oncewent into the manager's room. Daddy Walter, in a state of nervousexcitement, was standing up dictating an article in broken sentences;issuing orders to the reporters, who surrounded him, between twoparagraphs; giving instructions to Boisrenard; and opening letters.
As Du Roy came in, the governor uttered a cry of joy: "Ah! how lucky;here is Pretty-boy!" He stopped short, somewhat confused, and excusedhimself: "I beg your pardon for speaking like that, but I am very muchdisturbed by certain events. And then I hear my wife and daughterspeaking of you as Pretty-boy from morning till night, and have ended byfalling into the habit myself. You are not offended?"
"Not at all!" said George, laughingly; "there is nothing in thatnickname to displease me."
Daddy Walter went on: "Very well, then, I christen you Pretty-boy, likeeveryone
else. Well, the fact is, great things are taking place. TheMinistry has been overthrown by a vote of three hundred and ten to ahundred and two. Our prorogation is again postponed--postponed to theGreek calends, and here we are at the twenty-eighth of July. Spain isangry about the Morocco business, and it is that which has overthrownDurand de l'Aine and his following. We are right in the swim. Marrot isentrusted with the formation of a new Cabinet. He takes General Boutind'Acre as minister of war, and our friend Laroche-Mathieu for foreignaffairs. We are going to become an official organ. I am writing aleader, a simple declaration of our principles, pointing out the line tobe followed by the Ministry." The old boy smiled, and continued: "Theline they intend following, be it understood. But I want somethinginteresting about Morocco; an actuality; a sensational article;something or other. Find one for me."
Du Roy reflected for a moment, and then replied: "I have the very thingfor you. I will give you a study of the political situation of the wholeof our African colony, with Tunis on the left, Algeria in the middle,and Morocco on the right; the history of the races inhabiting this vastextent of territory; and the narrative of an excursion on the frontierof Morocco to the great oasis of Figuig, where no European haspenetrated, and which is the cause of the present conflict. Will thatsuit you?"
"Admirably!" exclaimed Daddy Walter. "And the title?"
"From Tunis to Tangiers."
"Splendid!"
Du Roy went off to search the files of the _Vie Francaise_ for his firstarticle, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique," which, rebaptized,touched up, and modified, would do admirably, since it dealt withcolonial policy, the Algerian population, and an excursion in theprovince of Oran. In three-quarters of an hour it was rewritten, touchedup, and brought to date, with a flavor of realism, and praises of thenew Cabinet. The manager, having read the article, said: "It is capital,capital, capital! You are an invaluable fellow. I congratulate you."
And Du Roy went home to dinner delighted with his day's work, despitethe check at the Church of the Trinity, for he felt the battle won. Hiswife was anxiously waiting for him. She exclaimed, as soon as she sawhim: "Do you know that Laroche-Mathieu is Minister for Foreign Affairs?"
"Yes; I have just written an article on Algeria, in connection withit."
"What?"
"You know, the first we wrote together, 'The Recollections of a Chasseurd'Afrique,' revised and corrected for the occasion."
She smiled, saying: "Ah, that is very good!" Then, after a few moments'reflection, she continued: "I was thinking--that continuation you wereto have written then, and that you--put off. We might set to work on itnow. It would make a nice series, and very appropriate to thesituation."
He replied, sitting down to table: "Exactly, and there is nothing in theway of it now that cuckold of a Forestier is dead."
She said quietly, in a dry and hurt tone: "That joke is more than out ofplace, and I beg of you to put an end to it. It has lasted too longalready."
He was about to make an ironical answer, when a telegram was broughthim, containing these words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and comeat four o'clock to-morrow to the Parc Monceau."
He understood, and with heart suddenly filled with joy, he said to hiswife, as he slipped the message into his pocket: "I will not do so anymore, darling; it was stupid, I admit."
And he began his dinner. While eating he kept repeating to himself the
words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come at four o'clockto-morrow to the Parc Monceau." So she was yielding. That meant: "Isurrender, I am yours when you like and where you like." He began tolaugh, and Madeleine asked: "What is it?"
"Nothing," he answered; "I was thinking of a priest I met just now, andwho had a very comical mug."
Du Roy arrived to the time at the appointed place next day. On thebenches of the park were seated citizens overcome by heat, and carelessnurses, who seemed to be dreaming while their children were rolling onthe gravel of the paths. He found Madame Walter in the little antiqueruins from which a spring flows. She was walking round the little circleof columns with an uneasy and unhappy air. As soon as he had greetedher, she exclaimed: "What a number of people there are in the garden."
He seized the opportunity: "It is true; will you come somewhere else?"
"But where?"
"No matter where; in a cab, for instance. You can draw down the blind onyour side, and you will be quite invisible."
"Yes, I prefer that; here I am dying with fear."
"Well, come and meet me in five minutes at the gate opening onto theouter boulevard. I will have a cab."
And he darted off.
As soon as she had rejoined him, and had carefully drawn down the blindon her side, she asked: "Where have you told the driver to take us?"
George replied: "Do not trouble yourself, he knows what to do."
He had given the man his address in the Rue de Constantinople.
She resumed: "You cannot imagine what I suffer on account of you, how Iam tortured and tormented. Yesterday, in the church, I was cruel, but Iwanted to flee from you at any cost. I was so afraid to find myselfalone with you. Have you forgiven me?"
He squeezed her hands: "Yes, yes, what would I not forgive you, lovingyou as I do?"
She looked at him with a supplicating air: "Listen, you must promise torespect me--not to--not to--otherwise I cannot see you again."
He did not reply at once; he wore under his moustache that keen smilethat disturbed women. He ended by murmuring: "I am your slave."
Then she began to tell him how she had perceived that she was in lovewith him on learning that he was going to marry Madeleine Forestier. Shegave details, little details of dates and the like. Suddenly she paused.The cab had stopped. Du Roy opened the door.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Get out and come into this house," he replied. "We shall be more atease there."
"But where are we?"
"At my rooms," and here we will leave them to their _tete-a-tete_.
Bel Ami (A Ladies' Man) Page 12
