“You always bring general ideas back to the two of us. No, I don’t regret anything. I love you very much and I’m perfectly happy with you, but I would be even happier if you weren’t jealous.”
“I’ll try.”
The following morning the doctor came and found I had a nasty case of tonsillitis. Philippe stayed with me a lot of the time and oversaw the care I was given with great devotion. Solange sent me flowers and books, and came to see me as soon as I was well enough to receive guests. I felt I had been unfair and hateful, but when I was better and ready to start living like everyone else, I was struck once more by the intimacy between them and started worrying as I had before. In fact I was not alone in worrying. Monsieur Shreiber, the director of the paper business, shyly intervened one day when I had gone to see Philippe at his office and did not find him there. Shreiber was a Protestant from Alsace, he had often come to lunch with us at home, and I had taken to him as a friend because I thought him very upright and steadfast.
“Madame Marcenat,” he said, “I apologize for asking you this, but do you know what’s wrong with Monsieur Philippe? He’s not the same man anymore.”
“In what way?”
“He doesn’t care about anything, Madame. He very rarely comes back to the office in the afternoons now, he misses meetings with his best customers, and it’s three months since he’s been to Gandumas … I’m doing my best, but it’s not my company … I can’t replace him.”
So when Philippe told me he was taking care of business, he was sometimes lying—this man I had known to be so scrupulous and loyal. But surely he was lying in order to reassure me? And, besides, had I made it easy for him to be honest? Sometimes I just wished he could be happy, and I promised myself I would not disturb his peace of mind, but, more often than not, I tormented him with questions and resentment. I was sour, insistent, loathsome. He responded with tremendous patience. I felt he had been better with Odile than I was with him in fairly similar circumstances, but immediately forgave myself, thinking the situation far worse for me. A man does not gamble his whole life on one love; he has his work, his friends, his ideas. A woman like me lives only for her love. What was there to replace it with? I hated women and was indifferent to men. I had finally, after a long wait, won the only hand I had ever wanted to play: having a unique and absolute emotion. I had lost it. I could see no end or remedy to this terrible sorrow.
That was how the second year of my marriage was spent.
. XVI .
There were, however, two things that reassured me. For some time Philippe had needed to go to America to study various work processes in the paper industry and the American workman’s way of life. I really longed to make this trip with him. Every now and then he started making plans for it and sent me to the transatlantic company to inquire about departure dates for steamers and the cost of the passage. Then, after hesitating for a long time, he would decide we would not be going. I ended up thinking we would never make the trip and actually made up my mind to be resigned to everything before it even happened. “I’m the one who has adopted Philippe’s ideas about chivalrous love,” I thought. “I love him and I will continue to love him whatever happens, but I will never be totally happy.”
One evening in January 1922 Philippe said, “This time I’ve made up my mind. We shall go the United States in the spring.”
“Me too, Philippe?”
“Of course you too. It’s largely because I promised you this trip that I want to go. We’ll spend six weeks there. I’ll finish all my work within a week so we can travel and see the country.”
“You’re so kind, Philippe! I’m thrilled.”
I thought this really was very good of him. Self-doubt fosters tremendous naïve humility. I honestly could not believe that Philippe would derive any great pleasure from traveling with me. I was particularly grateful to him for relinquishing any opportunity to see Solange Villier for two months. If he loved her as much as I had sometimes feared, he could not have left her like that, particularly as I knew how anxious he was by nature where people he cared for were concerned. So everything must have been less serious than I thought. I remember being gay and clearheaded all through January, and I did not pester Philippe with my questions and complaints at all.
In February I discovered that I was pregnant. This delighted me. I passionately wanted a child, particularly a son; I felt he would be another Philippe but, this time, a Philippe who would be entirely mine, at least for fifteen years. Philippe himself welcomed the news happily, and that too was a pleasure for me. But the early weeks of my pregnancy were terrible and it soon became clear I would not be able to cope with the sea voyage. Philippe offered not to go. I knew he had already written many letters and arranged factory visits and meetings, and I insisted he change none of his plans. When I try now to understand why I subjected myself to a separation I found so painful, I can think of several motives. First, I felt ugly at the time, my face was tired and I was afraid Philippe would not find me appealing. Also, the thought of distancing Philippe from Solange was still precious to me, perhaps more precious than having my husband beside me. Last, I had often heard Philippe propounding the idea that a woman’s great strength was absence, that when we are far away from people we forget their faults and obsessions, we realize they contribute something valuable and indispensible to our lives, something we had not even noticed because it was too intimately tied up with ourselves. “It’s like salt,” he used to say. “We don’t even know we’re eating it, but if you took it out of all our meals we would most likely die.”
If only, while he was far from me, Philippe could discover that I was the salt of his life …
He left in early April, having told me I should keep myself entertained and see people. A few days after he left, I felt better and tried to get out a bit. I had no letters from him; I knew I would have none for a couple of weeks, but I needed to shake off the melancholy that hung over me. I telephoned a few friends and felt it would be both right and shrewd to call Solange. I had a lot of trouble getting hold of anyone; eventually a manservant told me she had gone away for two months. This had a dramatic effect on me. I thought—ridiculously, in fact, because it was so unlikely—that she had gone with Philippe. I asked if anyone had an address for her and was told she was at her house in Marrakesh. But of course, she was on her regular trip to Morocco. Even so, once I had hung up, I had to lie down on my bed, feeling very uncomfortable, and I thought sadly about the facts for some time. So that was why Philippe had so willingly accepted the idea of this trip. I especially resented him for not telling me and for allowing me to accept the offer as a generous sacrifice. Now, looking back, I am far more indulgent. Powerless to tear himself away from her but still affectionate toward me, Philippe had done his best and tried to give me whatever he could spare from a passion that was becoming all too obvious.
Besides, the first letters I received from America erased my fears. They were tender and colorful; he seemed sorry I was not there and wished he could share with me experiences he was enjoying. This country would suit you, Isabelle, it is a country of comfort and perfection, a country of order and jobs well done. New York could be one gigantic household run by a precise, all-powerful Isabelle. And in another letter: I miss you so much, my darling! I would so love to come back to you in the evenings in this hotel room peopled only by an overactive telephone. We could have one of those long conversations I love; we could talk over the people and events of the day, and your clear little mind would give me valuable ideas. And you would ask, probably hesitantly and with apparent indifference, “Do you really think she’s pretty, that Mrs. Cooper Lawrence you spent the whole evening with?” And on that note I would kiss you and we would catch each other’s eyes and laugh. Wouldn’t we, darling? As I read those words, I did indeed smile, and I was grateful to him for knowing me so well and accepting me.
. XVII .
Everything in life is unexpected and perhaps it remains so right to the end. This separa
tion that I had so dreaded has stayed with me as a time of relative happiness. I was fairly solitary but I read and worked. Besides, I was very tired and slept for part of the day. Illness offers a sort of moral respite because it imposes firm limits on our wishes and concerns. Philippe was a long way away, but I knew he was happy and well. He wrote me charming letters. There was never a quarrel between us, never a shadow over us. Solange was in deepest Morocco, with seven or eight days’ sea voyage between her and my husband. The world felt like a better place; life seemed easier and kinder to me than I had known it for a long time. I now understood something Philippe had once said and I had deemed monstrous at the time: “Love tolerates absence and death better than doubt and betrayal.”
Philippe had made me promise to see friends. I dined with the Thianges once, and with Aunt Cora two or three times. She was aging rapidly. Her collection of old generals, old admirals, and old ambassadors was no longer a full set because death had intervened. Several splendid specimens were missing altogether, having not been replaced. She herself occasionally fell asleep in her chair, surrounded by friendly ironic conversation. People said she would drop dead halfway through a dinner. I myself was grateful to her; it was at her house that I had met Philippe, and I continued to visit her faithfully. Two or three times I even lunched alone with her, which was counter to all tradition on the avenue Marceau, but one evening I started confiding in her and she encouraged me to continue. I ended up telling her my whole story, first my childhood, then my marriage, then Solange’s role and my jealousy. She listened and smiled.
“Well, my poor little friend,” she said, “if you never have problems more serious than that, you’ll be a happy woman … What are you complaining about? That your husband’s unfaithful? But men are never faithful …”
“Forgive me, Aunt Cora. But my father-in-law …”
“Your father-in-law was a hermit, that’s a known fact, and I knew him better than you did … But where’s the merit in that! Edouard spent his entire youth in the provinces, in the most unbelievable surroundings … he never had any temptations … but take my poor Adrien, for example. Do you think he was never unfaithful to me? My dear Isabelle, for twenty years of my life I knew my best friend, Jeanne de Casa Ricci, was his mistress … Of course, I won’t say I didn’t find it tricky in the beginning, but everything sorted itself out … I remember for our golden wedding … I invited all of Paris … Poor Adrien, whose mind was starting to go, he made a little speech and talked indiscriminately about me, Jeanne Casa, and the admiral … People around the table laughed, of course, but at the end of the day it was all very kindly meant, we were very old and we’d done the best we could with our lives, we hadn’t ruined anything irremediably … Everything was all right and, besides, the dinner was so good that people hardly thought about anything else.”
“Yes, Aunt Cora, but it all depends on character. To me, my love life is all-important, social life doesn’t mean a thing. So …”
“But my poor dear, who’s told you not to have a love life? Of course I love my nephew very much and I’m not the one to recommend you take a lover … No, clearly … But all the same, if it so pleases Monsieur Philippe to play away when he has such a pretty young wife, I’m also not the one to hold it against you if you too try to fill out your life … I know full well that even here on the avenue Marceau there are plenty of men who find you attractive …”
“Alas! My dear aunt, I believe in marriage.”
“Well, that’s as it should be … I believe in marriage too, I’ve proved I do. But marriage is one thing and love is another … You have to have a solid canvas; there’s nothing to stop you embroidering a few arabesques … It’s just down to how you do it … What I don’t like with young women these days is they have no manners.”
Philippe’s elderly aunt talked at length in these terms. I found her entertaining; we even loved each other, but we were not really designed to understand each other.
I was also invited out by the Sommervieus, associates of Philippe’s in a number of businesses. I thought it my duty to accept because it could be useful to Philippe. When I arrived at their house I regretted coming because I saw immediately there was no one I knew. It was a beautiful house, furnished in a way that was rather too modern for my liking but with real taste. Philippe would have been interested in the paintings: there were some Marquets, a Sisley, and a Lebourg. Madame Sommervieu introduced me to men and women I did not know. The women, who were mostly polite, were covered in magnificent jewels. The men were almost all the industrial engineer type with robust bodies and energetic faces. I listened to the names without really concentrating, well aware I would forget them. “Madame Godet,” my hostess said. I looked at Madame Godet, who was a pretty, slightly faded blonde. Monsieur Godet was also there, an officer of the Légion d’honneur who seemed rather authoritarian. I knew nothing about them and yet I kept thinking, “Godet? Godet? I think I know that name.”
“Who is Monsieur Godet?” I asked my hostess.
“Godet,” said Madame Sommervieu, “is the biggest name in metallurgy. He’s associate director of Steelworks for the West. He’s also very powerful in coal mining.”
I thought Philippe must have mentioned him to me, or was it Villier?
Godet was next to me at dinner. He peered at my name card with interest because he had not caught my name and then said immediately, “You wouldn’t be Philippe Marcenat’s wife by any chance?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Oh! I used to know your husband very well. It was with him, or rather with his father, that I first started out in Limousin. A very lowly start. I had to take care of a paper factory; I didn’t find it very interesting. I had a subordinate role. Your father-in-law was a strict man, difficult to work with. Oh, yes! Gandumas is full of bad memories for me!” He laughed and added, “I do apologize for saying that.”
While he was talking, I suddenly understood. Misa … he was Misa’s husband … All of Philippe’s account came back to me as clearly as if I had every sentence before my eyes. So that pretty woman with the soft, doleful eyes, the one over there at the far end of the table, smiling brightly to the man next to her, she was the one Philippe took in his arms one evening while they sat on cushions before a dying fire. I could not believe it. In my mind’s eye, the cruel, the voluptuous Misa had acquired the voice and manners of a Lucretia Borgia or a Hermione. Had Philippe described her so badly? But I had to talk to the husband.
“Yes, that’s right, Philippe has often mentioned you.” Then I added with some difficulty, “Am I right in thinking Madame Godet was a great friend of my husband’s first wife?”
He stopped looking at me and he too seemed embarrassed. (“What does he know?” I wondered.)
“Yes,” he said. “They were childhood friends. Then there was some trouble. Odile didn’t behave very well toward Misa, I mean Marie-Thérèse, but I call my wife Misa.”
“Yes, of course.”
Then, realizing this was a little strange, I changed the subject. He explained the relationship between France and Germany in the world of steel, coke, and coal. He showed how major industrial issues influenced foreign policy. He had far-reaching ideas and I found them interesting. I asked him whether he knew Jacques Villier.
“The one from Morocco?” he asked. “Yes, he’s on one of my committees.”
“Do you think him an intelligent man?”
“I hardly know him; he’s successful …”
After dinner I maneuvered to ensure I was alone with his wife. I knew Philippe would not have allowed me to do this, and I had made an effort to forbid myself, but passionate curiosity drove me on and urged me toward her. She seemed surprised.
“During dinner,” I said, “your husband reminded me that you once knew mine very well.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. “Julien and I lived at Gandumas for several months.”
She threw me a strange look, both questioning and sad. She seemed to be thinking, “Do you know
the truth? And is this apparent friendliness false?” The strange thing is I did not dislike her. Quite the opposite. I warmed to her. I was touched by her grace, her serious, melancholy expression. “She looks like a woman who has suffered a great deal,” I thought to myself. “Who knows? Perhaps she wanted Philippe to be happy? Perhaps, because she loved him, she wanted to warn him against a woman who could only possibly make him unhappy? Is that such a great crime?”
I sat near her and tried to bring her out of her shell. After an hour I managed to get her to talk about Odile. She could not do so without a degree of discomfort, which showed how raw the feelings these memories stirred still were.
“I find it very difficult to talk of Odile,” she said. “I really loved her and really admired her. Later she hurt me and then she died. I don’t want to sully her memory, particularly for you.”
She glanced at me again with that strange look in her eyes, loaded with questions.
“Oh!” I said. “Please don’t think I’m hostile to her memory. In fact, I’ve heard so much about her I’ve ended up thinking of her as a part of who I am. She must have been so beautiful.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “she was remarkably beautiful. And yet there was something in her eyes that I didn’t like. A bit of … no … I don’t want to say falsity … that would be too … it was—I don’t know how to explain it—it was something like triumphant cunning. Odile needed to dominate. She wanted to impose her will, her version of the truth. Her beauty had given her a lot of self-confidence and she believed, almost in good faith, that if she said something then it became true. This worked with your husband, who adored her, but not with me, and she resented me for that.”
I listened to her and suffered. I was seeing Renée’s Odile, my mother-in-law’s Odile, almost Hélène de Thianges’s Solange, and not Philippe’s Odile, whom I liked.
“It’s so strange,” I said. “The person you’re describing is strong and willful. When Philippe talks about her, I get the impression she was frail, always having to lie down, rather childlike and good at heart.”
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