The newspapers he skimmed could not distract him for even a moment; the news he read met his eyes without reaching his mind. In the middle of an article he was making no effort to understand, the name Guilleroy startled him. It concerned the opening of the chamber, where the count had spoken a few words.
His attention, awakened by such a summons, next observed the name of the celebrated tenor Montrosé, who toward the end of December would be giving a single performance at the Opéra. It was to be a magnificent occasion, the piece went on to say, for the tenor Montrosé, who had been away from Paris six years, had just won unprecedented success throughout Europe and America, and who furthermore would be supported by the famous Swedish soprano Hellson, who also had not been heard in Paris for the last five years.
Olivier was at once struck by the idea, which seemed to spring from the bottom of his heart, of affording Annette the pleasure of attending this performance. Then he reflected that the countess’s mourning would be an obstacle to this plan, and he sought some means of carrying out his purpose even so. Only one way seemed likely: He must engage a stage box where they would be almost invisible, and if the countess should still refuse to go, Annette must be joined by her father and the duchess. In that case the box must be offered to the duchess.
He hesitated and reflected for a long while.
Surely the marriage was decided upon, indeed it must be a settled affair. He guessed his friend’s haste in having it over and realized she would give Farandal her daughter within the shortest possible time. It couldn’t be helped. He could neither prevent nor modify nor retard that frightful event. Since he must endure it, wouldn’t it be better that he should try to master his soul, conceal his suffering, appear content, and no longer permit himself to be carried away by bursts of anger as he had just done?
Yes, he would invite the marquis, thereby allaying the countess’s suspicions and keeping a friendly door open for himself in the young household.
As soon as he finished breakfast he went downstairs to secure one of the boxes hidden behind the curtain. It was reserved for him. Then he hastened to the Guilleroys.
The countess appeared almost immediately, and still somewhat moved by their emotion of the previous day said, “How kind of you to have returned today.”
He stammered, “I’m bringing you something.”
“What is it?”
“A box on the stage of the Opéra for a sole performance of Hellson and Montrosé.”
“Oh! My friend, what a pity! And my mourning?”
“Your mourning is almost four months old.”
“I assure you that I cannot.”
“And Annette? You realize she’ll perhaps never again have such an opportunity.”
“With whom could she go?”
“With her father and the duchess, whom I’m about to invite. I also intend to offer the marquis a seat.”
She looked into the depths of his eyes, while a mad desire to embrace him rose to her lips. She repeated, hardly believing her ears, “The marquis?”
“Why, yes.”
She subscribed at once to this arrangement.
He continued in an indifferent tone, “Have you arranged the day of their marriage?”
“Mon Dieu! Yes, nearly so. We have reasons for hurrying it along, all the more since it had already been decided upon before my mother’s death. You remember?”
“Yes, indeed, and when will it take place?”
“Well, about the beginning of January. I beg your pardon for not telling you before.”
Annette came in. He felt his heart leaping in his breast as if it were on springs, and all the tenderness within him was suddenly changed to bitterness, and created within him that sort of strange, passionate animosity into which love turns when it is lashed by jealousy.
“I’m bringing you something,” he said.
She answered, “So we’ve decidedly adopted the vous.”
“Look here, my child, I’m quite acquainted with the event in store for you. I assure you that in a little while it will be indispensable. Better now than later.”
She shrugged her shoulders discontentedly while the countess remained silent, staring into the distance, her mind intent.
Annette asked, “What did you bring me?”
He told her about the performance and the further invitations he intended to give. She was delighted, and throwing her arms about his neck with the impulse of a little child, she kissed him on both cheeks.
He felt like fainting, and understood, under the repeated caress of that little mouth with its sweet breath, that he would never recover.
Irritated, the countess said to her daughter, “You know your father’s waiting for you.”
“Yes, Maman, I’m going now.” She ran off, sending more kisses with her fingertips.
As soon as she had gone out, Olivier asked, “Will they travel?”
“Yes, for three months.”
And in spite of himself he murmured, “So much the better.”
“We shall resume our former life,” the countess said.
He murmured, “Indeed, I hope so.”
“Meanwhile, do not forget me.”
“No, my friend.”
The impulse he had shown the day before when he saw her weep, and the plan he had just announced of inviting the marquis to that performance at the Opéra, had revived a little hope in the countess.
It was of short duration. Before a week was over she was again following upon this man’s face, with torturous and jealous attention, every stage of his suffering. She could ignore nothing, since she herself endured all the pain she could imagine in him, and Annette’s constant presence reminded her at every moment of the day of the futility of her own efforts.
Everything weighed her down at the same time—the years and her mourning. Her active, intelligent, and ingenuous coquetry, which all her life had insured her triumph with him, found itself paralyzed by the black uniform that emphasized her paleness and the alteration of her features, while the adolescence of her child was by the same means rendered dazzling. The time was already long past, yet quite recent, of Annette’s return to Paris, when she proudly sought similar toilettes that were then favorable to her. Now she was furiously tempted to tear from her body those vestments of the dead which made her look ugly and so tormented her.
Had she felt that all the resources of elegance were at her service, had she been able to choose and make use of delicately tinted stuffs, harmonizing with her complexion, that would have given a studied power to her dying charm, as captivating as her daughter’s inert grace, she would undoubtedly have known how to remain still the most attractive.
She knew so well the influence of the fever-imparting evening toilettes, and the soft, sensuous morning robes, of the dishabille worn at breakfast, with intimate friends, and which invests a woman until midday with a sort of savor of her rising, the material and warm impression of the bed she has left and of her perfumed room.
But what could she attempt under that sepulchral dress, under that prisoner’s outfit which would cover her for a whole year! A year! She’d remain imprisoned for a year in that blackness, inactive and vanquished! For a year she would feel herself growing old day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, under that crepe sheath. What would she be in a year if her poor, ailing body continued to alter under the anguish of her soul?
These thoughts haunted her, spoiled everything she might have relished, turned into grief everything that would have given her joy, left her no pleasure, no contentment, no gaiety intact. She was forever trembling with an exasperated need to shake off the burden of misery that crushed her, for without this distressing importunity she would yet have been happy, alert, and healthy. She felt that her soul was spirited and fresh, her heart ever young, the ardor of a being that is beginning to live, an insatiable appetite for happiness, more ravenous even than heretofore, and a devouring desire to love.
And lo! All good things, all sweet, delicious, poetic things
that embellish life and render it enjoyable, were withdrawing from her because she was growing old. It was over. Yet she still found within herself the sensibility of a young girl and the passionate impulse of a young woman. Nothing had grown old but her body, her miserable skin, that bag of bones, faded little by little, moth-eaten like the slip-cover of a piece of furniture. The obsession with this decay had fastened itself upon her and become the curse of a physical suffering.
This idée fixe had created the sensation of a new epidermis, one that was continuously and freshly aging, perceptible as a spell of heat or cold. She actually believed she was feeling a vague sort of itching, the slow appearance of wrinkles on her forehead, the sinking of cheek and neck tissues, and the multiplication of those innumerable little strokes that wear out the wearied skin. Like a being affected by some consuming disease which a constant irritation compels to scratch itself, the terrorized perception of that abominable and imperceptible work of rapid time imbued her soul with an irresistible need of ascertaining it in every mirror. They called to her, attracted her, forced her to come with staring eyes to see, to look again, to continually observe, to touch with her fingers as though to make more sure of the indelible wear of years. It was at first an intermittent thought, recurring every time she saw the polished surface of the dreaded glass at home or elsewhere. She stopped on the sidewalks to look at herself in the shopwindows, hanging as it were behind all the panes of plate glass with which the tradesmen adorn their storefronts. It became a disease, a mania. She carried in her pocket a pretty ivory powder box the size of a walnut, whose inside cover contained an imperceptible glass, and often while walking she held it open in her hand and raised it toward her eyes.
When she sat down to read or write in the drawing room hung with tapestries, her mind, distracted momentarily by this new employment, would soon return to its obsession. She struggled to divert her attention, to think of something else, to continue her work. All in vain! She was goaded by desire and soon dropping her book or her pen, her hand would stretch out with an irresistible motion toward the petite old silver-handled glass lying on her desk. In this chiseled oval frame her whole face was enclosed like a face of earlier days, like a portrait of the last century, like a pastel once fresh, which the sun had tarnished. Then, after she had long gazed at herself, with a tired motion she rested the little glass upon the desk and tried to resume her work, but before she had read two pages or had written twenty lines, she was again possessed with the invincible and tormenting need of looking at herself, and again she stretched out her arm to grasp the glass.
She now handled it like an irritating and familiar plaything that the hand cannot abandon, using it at every instant while receiving her friends, and becoming nervous enough to cry out; she treated it as a sentient being while twirling it between her fingers.
One day, exasperated by this struggle between herself and this piece of glass, she flung it against the wall where it broke and shivered into pieces.
But after a few days her husband, who had had it repaired, handed it to her, clearer now than ever, and she was obliged to accept it and thank him, resigned to keeping it.
Every evening and every morning afterwards, shut up in her bedroom, she began all over again, in spite of herself, this odious and spiteful havoc.
In bed, when she couldn’t sleep, she would light another candle, lying with her eyes wide open, thinking how sleeplessness and sorrow irretrievably hasten the work of rushing time. In the silence of the night she listened to the pendulum of her clock, which with its regular and monotonous ticking seemed to whisper ça va, ça va, ça va, and her heart shriveled with such suffering that, with the sheet between her teeth, she groaned in despair.
Time was, like everyone else, when she had some notion of the passing years and of the changes they bring. Like everyone else she had said, she had told herself, every winter, every spring, and every summer, “I’ve changed so much since last year.” But ever beautiful, with a somewhat varying beauty, she paid no attention to it. Today, suddenly, she did pay attention to it. Today, all at once, instead of once more peaceably realizing the seasons’ slow changes, she had just discovered and understood the minutes’ formidable flight. She had had a sudden revelation of that vanishing of the hour, of that imperceptible race, maddening when one thinks of it, of that infinite procession of little hurried seconds which nibble at the body and the life of man.
After these miserable nights she had long quieter periods of drowsiness in the warmth of the bed, when her maid had opened the curtains and let in the bright flames of morning. She remained weary, drowsy, neither awake nor asleep, in the mental torpor which permits the involuntary revival of the instinctive and God-given hope that lights and feeds the hearts and smiles of men to the last hour.
Every morning now, as soon as she had risen, she felt impelled by a powerful desire to pray to God and obtain from Him a little relief and consolation.
Then she knelt before a tall oak crucifix, Olivier’s gift, a rare gift discovered by him, and with closed lips, imploring with the voice of the soul, the voice with which we speak to ourselves, she offered up a sorrowful supplication to the divine martyr. Distracted by the want of being heard and succored, simple in her distress like all the faithful on their knees, she could not doubt that He was listening to her, that He was attentive to her request and perhaps touched by her sorrow. She didn’t ask for Him to do for her what He never did for anyone—to leave her charm, her freshness, and her grace until her death; she only asked for a little respite and repose. Of course, she must grow old, as she must die. But why so soon? Some women remain beautiful to such an advanced age. Could He not grant that she be one of those? How good He would be, He who had also suffered so much, if He only gave her for two or three years more the remnant of charm she needed in order to please.
She did not say these things to Him, but she sighed them to Him in the confused complaint of her soul.
Then, having risen, she would sit before her dressing table, and with a tension of thought as ardent as if in prayer, she would handle her powders, her cosmetics, her pencils, the puffs and brushes that gave her once more a beauty of plaster, daily and fragile.
6
ON THE boulevard two names were repeated on every tongue: Emma Hellson and Montrosé. The nearer one came to the Opéra, the oftener one heard those names repeated. Moreover, enormous placards posted on huge columns caught the eyes of passersby, and there was the excitement of a grand event in the evening air.
Crouching under a black sky, the massive monument known as the Académie Nationale de Musique exhibited to the public, clustered in front of its pompous white façade and the red marble colonnade of its gallery, the immense details of the event illuminated like a stage set by invisible electric lights.
In the square, the mounted gardes républicains directed traffic: countless carriages arriving from all over Paris offered glimpses of creamy fabrics and pale faces behind lowered panes.
A line of coupés and landaus formed a reserved arcade, at every other moment discharging fashionable creatures, their evening pelisses trimmed with furs, feathers, and priceless laces—among them many precious bodies divinely adorned.
Up the famous stairs mounted a magical procession of ladies dressed like queens, their throats and ears sparkling with diamonds, their long dresses sweeping over the steps.
The hall was filling early, for no one wanted to miss a note from the two illustrious artists, and throughout the vast amphitheater, under the resplendent light cascading from the electric chandelier, the surging crowds were finding their seats amid a loud clamor of voices.
From the stage box, already occupied by the duchess, Annette, the count, the marquis, Bertin, and Monsieur de Musadieu, nothing could be seen but the wings, where men were chatting, running, or shouting. These were machinists in their blouses, gentlemen in full dress, actors in costume. But on the other side of the lowered curtain could be heard the deep voice of the crowd indicative of the
presence of a mass of stirring, overexcited beings whose agitation seemed to penetrate the curtain and spread out even to the decorations of the house.
The opera to be performed was Faust.
Musadieu was relating anecdotes connected to the first performance of this work at the Théâtre Lyrique, a partial failure at the time, and the brilliant success that followed; he described the original cast, and their interpretation of the music. Annette, partly turned toward him, listened with the greedy youthful curiosity with which she encompassed the entire world, occasionally tossing her betrothed, who would be her husband in a few days, an affectionate glance. She loved him now, as simple hearts can love, which is to say, she loved in him all the promises of the morrow. The intoxication of the first feasts of life and the ardent wish to be happy made her shiver with joy and expectation.
And Olivier, who saw everything, knew everything, who had descended each step of secret, helpless, and jealous love, down to the very chimney corner of human suffering where the heart seems to crackle like flesh on hot coals—Olivier stood at the back of the box regarding the spectacle with the eyes of a martyr.
The three blows were struck, and the sharp rap of a bow upon the music stand of the conductor abruptly stopped all movement, all coughing, all whispers; then, after a short profound silence, the first measures of the overture were heard, filling the auditorium with the invisible and irresistible mystery of music that penetrates our bodies, fills our nerves and souls with a poetic and sensuous fever, mingling with the air we breathe a sonorous wave to which we listen.
Olivier sat down at the back of the box, painfully moved, as if the wounds of his heart had been touched by those sounds. But with the rising of the curtain he stood up again, for he saw Doctor Faust in a meditative attitude, the scene representing the study of an alchemist.
He must have already heard this opera twenty times, he virtually knew it by heart, and his attention immediately left the play and turned to the auditorium. He could see but a little section of it behind the frame of the stage concealing his box, but that section, reaching from the orchestra to the upper gallery, showed him an entire portion of the audience in which he recognized many faces. In the orchestra chairs, men in white cravats, side by side in rows, seemed a museum of familiar faces, worldlings, artists, journalists, representing all classes of those who never fail to be where everybody goes. In the balcony, in the stalls, he mentally designated and called out the names of the women he recognized. The Marquise de Lochrist, in a proscenium box, looked absolutely charming, while a little farther on a young bride, the Marchioness de Ebelin, was already raising her opera glass. “A pretty debut,” Bertin thought. People listened with great attention and with evident sympathy to the tenor Montrosé, who was bewailing the fruitlessness of life.