XVII
Three months had elapsed. Du Roy's divorce had just been granted. Hiswife had resumed the name of Forestier, and, as the Walters were toleave on the 15th of July for Trouville, it was decided that he and theyshould spend a day in the country together before they started. AThursday was selected, and they started at nine in the morning in alarge traveling landau with six places, drawn by four horses withpostilions. They were going to lunch at the Pavilion Henri-Quatre atSaint Germain. Pretty-boy had asked to be the only man of the party, forhe could not endure the presence of the Marquis de Cazolles. But at thelast moment it was decided that the Count de Latour-Yvelin should becalled for on the way. He had been told the day before.
The carriage passed up the Avenue of the Champs Elysees at a swingingtrot, and then traversed the Bois de Boulogne. It was splendid summerweather, not too warm. The swallows traced long sweeping lines acrossthe blue sky that one fancied one could still see after they had passed.The three ladies occupied the back seat, the mother between herdaughters, and the men were with their backs to the horses, Walterbetween the two guests. They crossed the Seine, skirted Mount Valerien,and gained Bougival in order to follow the river as far as Le Pecq.
The Count de Latour-Yvelin, a man advancing towards middle-age, withlong, light whiskers, gazed tenderly at Rose. They had been engaged fora month. George, who was very pale, often looked at Susan, who was paletoo. Their eyes often met, and seemed to concert something, tounderstand one another, to secretly exchange a thought, and then to fleeone another. Madame Walter was quiet and happy.
The lunch was a long one. Before starting back for Paris, Georgesuggested a turn on the terrace. They stopped at first to admire theview. All ranged themselves in a line along the parapet, and went intoecstasies over the far-stretching horizon. The Seine at the foot of along hill flowed towards Maisons-Lafitte like an immense serpentstretched in the herbage. To the right, on the summit of the slope, theaqueduct of Marly showed against the skyline its outline, resemblingthat of a gigantic, long-legged caterpillar, and Marly was lost beneathit in a thick cluster of trees. On the immense plain extending in frontof them, villages could be seen dotted. The pieces of water at LeVesinet showed like clear spots amidst the thin foliage of the littleforest. To the left, away in the distance, the pointed steeple ofSastrouville could be seen.
Walter said: "Such a panorama is not to be found anywhere in the world.There is not one to match it in Switzerland."
Then they began to walk on gently, to have a stroll and enjoy theprospect. George and Susan remained behind. As soon as they were a fewpaces off, he said to her in a low and restrained voice: "Susan, I adoreyou. I love you to madness."
She murmured: "So do I you, Pretty-boy."
He went on: "If I do not have you for my wife, I shall leave Paris andthis country."
She replied: "Ask Papa for my hand. Perhaps he will consent."
He made a gesture of impatience. "No, I tell you for the twentieth timethat is useless. The door of your house would be closed to me. I shouldbe dismissed from the paper, and we should not be able even to see oneanother. That is a pretty result, at which I am sure to arrive by aformal demand for you. They have promised you to the Marquis deCazolles. They hope that you will end by saying 'yes,' and they arewaiting for that."
She asked: "What is to be done?"
He hesitated, glancing at her, sidelong fashion. "Do you love me enoughto run a risk?"
She answered resolutely: "Yes."
"A great risk?"
"Yes."
"The greatest of risks?"
"Yes."
"Have you the courage to set your father and mother at defiance?"
"Yes."
"Really now?"
"Yes."
"Very well, there is one way and only one. The thing must come from youand not from me. You are a spoilt child; they let you say whatever youlike, and they will not be too much astonished at an act of daring themore on your part. Listen, then. This evening, on reaching home, youmust go to your mamma first, your mamma alone, and tell her you want tomarry me. She will be greatly moved and very angry--"
Susan interrupted him with: "Oh, mamma will agree."
He went on quickly: "No, you do not know her. She will be more vexed andangrier than your father. You will see how she will refuse. But you mustbe firm, you must not give way, you must repeat that you want to marryme, and no one else. Will you do this?"
"I will."
"On leaving your mother you must tell your father the same thing in avery serious and decided manner."
"Yes, yes; and then?"
"And then it is that matters become serious. If you are determined, verydetermined--very, very determined to be my wife, my dear, dear littleSusan--I will--run away with you."
She experienced a joyful shock, and almost clapped her hands. "Oh! howdelightful. You will run away with me. When will you run away with me?"
All the old poetry of nocturnal elopements, post-chaises, country inns;all the charming adventures told in books, flashed through her mind,like an enchanting dream about to be realized. She repeated: "When willyou run away with me?"
He replied, in low tones: "This evening--to-night."
She asked, quivering: "And where shall we go to?"
"That is my secret. Reflect on what you are doing. Remember that aftersuch a flight you can only be my wife. It is the only way, but is--it isvery dangerous--for you."
She declared: "I have made up my mind; where shall I rejoin you?"
"Can you get out of the hotel alone?"
"Yes. I know how to undo the little door."
"Well, when the doorkeeper has gone to bed, towards midnight, come andmeet me on the Place de la Concorde. You will find me in a cab drawn upin front of the Ministry of Marine."
"I will come."
"Really?"
"Really."
He took her hand and pressed it. "Oh! how I love you. How good and braveyou are! So you don't want to marry Monsieur de Cazolles?"
"Oh! no."
"Your father was very angry when you said no?"
"I should think so. He wanted to send me back to the convent."
"You see that it is necessary to be energetic."
"I will be so."
She looked at the vast horizon, her head full of the idea of being ranoff with. She would go further than that with him. She would be ran awaywith. She was proud of it. She scarcely thought of her reputation--ofwhat shame might befall her. Was she aware of it? Did she even suspectit?
Madame Walter, turning round, exclaimed: "Come along, little one. Whatare you doing with Pretty-boy?"
They rejoined the others and spoke of the seaside, where they would soonbe. Then they returned home by way of Chatou, in order not to go overthe same road twice. George no longer spoke. He reflected. If the littlegirl had a little courage, he was going to succeed at last. For threemonths he had been enveloping her in the irresistible net of his love.He was seducing, captivating, conquering her. He had made himself lovedby her, as he knew how to make himself loved. He had captured herchildish soul without difficulty. He had at first obtained of her thatshe should refuse Monsieur de Cazolles. He had just obtained that shewould fly with him. For there was no other way. Madame Walter, he wellunderstood, would never agree to give him her daughter. She still lovedhim; she would always love him with unmanageable violence. He restrainedher by his studied coldness; but he felt that she was eaten up by hungryand impotent passion. He could never bend her. She would never allow himto have Susan. But once he had the girl away he would deal on a levelfooting with her father. Thinking of all this, he replied by brokenphrases to the remarks addressed to him, and which he did not hear. Heonly seemed to come to himself when they returned to Paris.
Susan, too, was thinking, and the bells of the four horses rang in herears, making her see endless miles of highway under eternal moonlight,gloomy forests traversed, wayside inns, and the hurry of the hostlers tochange horses, for every one guesses that t
hey are pursued.
When the landau entered the court-yard of the mansion, they wanted tokeep George to dinner. He refused, and went home. After having eaten alittle, he went through his papers as if about to start on a longjourney. He burnt some compromising letters, hid others, and wrote tosome friends. From time to time he looked at the clock, thinking:"Things must be getting warm there." And a sense of uneasiness gnawed athis heart. Suppose he was going to fail? But what could he fear? Hecould always get out of it. Yet it was a big game he was playing thatevening.
He went out towards eleven o'clock, wandered about some time, took acab, and had it drawn up in the Place de la Concorde, by the Ministry ofMarine. From time to time he struck a match to see the time by hiswatch. When he saw midnight approaching, his impatience became feverish.Every moment he thrust his head out of the window to look. A distantclock struck twelve, then another nearer, then two together, then a lastone, very far away. When the latter had ceased to sound, he thought: "Itis all over. It is a failure. She won't come." He had made up his mind,however, to wait till daylight. In these matters one must be patient.
He heard the quarter strike, then the half-hour, then the quarter to,and all the clocks repeated "one," as they had announced midnight. He nolonger expected her; he was merely remaining, racking his brain todivine what could have happened. All at once a woman's head was passedthrough the window, and asked: "Are you there, Pretty-boy?"
He started, almost choked with emotion, "Is that you, Susan?"
"Yes, it is I."
He could not manage to turn the handle quickly enough, and repeated:"Ah! it is you, it is you; come inside."
She came in and fell against him. He said, "Go on," to the driver, andthe cab started.
She gasped, without saying a word.
He asked: "Well, how did it go off?"
She murmured, almost fainting: "Oh! it was terrible, above all withmamma."
He was uneasy and quivering. "Your mamma. What did she say? Tell me."
"Oh! it was awful. I went into her room and told her my little storythat I had carefully prepared. She grew pale, and then she cried:'Never, never.' I cried, I grew angry. I vowed I would marry no one butyou. I thought that she was going to strike me. She went on just as ifshe were mad; she declared that I should be sent back to the convent thenext day. I had never seen her like that--never. Then papa came in,hearing her shouting all her nonsense. He was not so angry as she was,but he declared that you were not a good enough match. As they had putme in a rage, too, I shouted louder than they did. And papa told me toleave the room, with a melodramatic air that did not suit him at all.This is what decided me to run off with you. Here I am. Where are wegoing to?"
He had passed his arm gently round her and was listening with all hisears, his heart throbbing, and a ravenous hatred awakening within himagainst these people. But he had got their daughter. They should justsee.
He answered: "It is too late to catch a train, so this cab will take usto Sevres, where we shall pass the night. To-morrow we shall start forLa Roche-Guyon. It is a pretty village on the banks of the Seine,between Nantes and Bonnieres."
She murmured: "But I have no clothes. I have nothing."
He smiled carelessly: "Bah! we will arrange all that there."
The cab rolled along the street. George took one of the young girl'shands and began to kiss it slowly and with respect. He scarcely knewwhat to say to her, being scarcely accustomed to platonic love-making.But all at once he thought he noted that she was crying. He inquired,with alarm: "What is the matter with you, darling?"
She replied in tearful tones: "Poor mamma, she will not be able to sleepif she has found out my departure."
Her mother, indeed, was not asleep.
As soon as Susan had left the room, Madame Walter remained face to facewith her husband. She asked, bewildered and cast down: "Good heavens!What is the meaning of this?"
Walter exclaimed furiously: "It means that that schemer has bewitchedher. It is he who made her refuse Cazolles. He thinks her dowry worthtrying for." He began to walk angrily up and down the room, and wenton: "You were always luring him here, too, yourself; you flattered him,you cajoled him, you could not cosset him enough. It was Pretty-boyhere, Pretty-boy there, from morning till night, and this is the returnfor it."
She murmured, livid: "I--I lured him?"
He shouted in her face: "Yes, you. You were all mad over him--Madame deMarelle, Susan, and the rest. Do you think I did not see that you couldnot pass a couple of days without having him here?"
She drew herself up tragically: "I will not allow you to speak to melike that. You forget that I was not brought up like you, behind acounter."
He stood for a moment stupefied, and then uttered a furious "Damn itall!" and rushed out, slamming the door after him. As soon as she wasalone she went instinctively to the glass to see if anything was changedin her, so impossible and monstrous did what had happened appear. Susanin love with Pretty-boy, and Pretty-boy wanting to marry Susan! No, shewas mistaken; it was not true. The girl had had a very natural fancy forthis good-looking fellow; she had hoped that they would give him her fora husband, and had made her little scene because she wanted to have herown way. But he--he could not be an accomplice in that. She reflected,disturbed, as one in presence of great catastrophes. No, Pretty-boycould know nothing of Susan's prank.
She thought for a long time over the possible innocence or perfidy ofthis man. What a scoundrel, if he had prepared the blow! And what wouldhappen! What dangers and tortures she foresaw. If he knew nothing, allcould yet be arranged. They would travel about with Susan for sixmonths, and it would be all over. But how could she meet him herselfafterwards? For she still loved him. This passion had entered into herbeing like those arrowheads that cannot be withdrawn. To live withouthim was impossible. She might as well die.
Her thoughts wandered amidst these agonies and uncertainties. A painbegan in her head; her ideas became painful and disturbed. She worriedherself by trying to work things out; grew mad at not knowing. Shelooked at the clock; it was past one. She said to herself: "I cannotremain like this, I shall go mad. I must know. I will wake up Susan andquestion her."
She went barefooted, in order not to make a noise, and with a candle inher hand, towards her daughter's room. She opened the door softly, wentin, and looked at the bed. She did not comprehend matters at first, andthought that the girl might still be arguing with her father. But all atonce a horrible suspicion crossed her mind, and she rushed to herhusband's room. She reached it in a bound, blanched and panting. He wasin bed reading.
He asked, startled: "Well, what is it? What is the matter with you?"
She stammered: "Have you seen Susan?"
"I? No. Why?"
"She has--she has--gone! She is not in her room."
He sprang onto the carpet, thrust his feet into his slippers, and, withhis shirt tails floating in the air, rushed in turn to his daughter'sroom. As soon as he saw it, he no longer retained any doubt. She hadfled. He dropped into a chair and placed his lamp on the ground infront of him.
His wife had rejoined him, and stammered: "Well?"
He had no longer the strength to reply; he was no longer enraged, heonly groaned: "It is done; he has got her. We are done for."
She did not understand, and said: "What do you mean? done for?"
"Yes, by Jove! He will certainly marry her now."
She gave a cry like that of a wild beast: "He, never! You must be mad!"
He replied, sadly: "It is no use howling. He has run away with her, hehas dishonored her. The best thing is to give her to him. By setting towork in the right way no one will be aware of this escapade."
She repeated, shaken by terrible emotion: "Never, never; he shall neverhave Susan. I will never consent."
Walter murmured, dejectedly: "But he has got her. It is done. And hewill keep her and hide her as long as we do not yield. So, to avoid
scandal, we must give in at once."
His wife, t
orn by pangs she could not acknowledge, repeated: "No, no, Iwill never consent."
He said, growing impatient: "But there is no disputing about it. It mustbe done. Ah, the rascal, how he has done us! He is a sharp one. All thesame, we might have made a far better choice as regards position, butnot as regards intelligence and prospects. He will be a deputy and aminister."
Madame Walter declared, with savage energy: "I will never allow him tomarry Susan. You understand--never."
He ended by getting angry and taking up, as a practical man, the cudgelson behalf of Pretty-boy. "Hold your tongue," said he. "I tell you againthat it must be so; it absolutely must. And who knows? Perhaps we shallnot regret it. With men of that stamp one never knows what may happen.You saw how he overthrew in three articles that fool of aLaroche-Mathieu, and how he did it with dignity, which was infernallydifficult in his position as the husband. At all events, we shall see.It always comes to this, that we are nailed. We cannot get out of it."
She felt a longing to scream, to roll on the ground, to tear her hairout. She said at length, in exasperated tones: "He shall not have her. Iwon't have it."
Walter rose, picked up his lamp, and remarked: "There, you are stupid,just like all women. You never do anything except from passion. You donot know how to bend yourself to circumstances. You are stupid. I willtell you that he shall marry her. It must be."
He went out, shuffling along in his slippers. He traversed--a comicalphantom in his nightshirt--the broad corridor of the huge slumberinghouse, and noiselessly re-entered his room.
Madame Walter remained standing, torn by intolerable grief. She did notyet quite understand it. She was only conscious of suffering. Then itseemed to her that she could not remain there motionless till daylight.She felt within her a violent necessity of fleeing, of running away, ofseeking help, of being succored. She sought whom she could summon toher. What man? She could not find one. A priest; yes, a priest! Shewould throw herself at his feet, acknowledge everything, confess herfault and her despair. He would understand that this wretch must not
marry Susan, and would prevent it. She must have a priest at once. Butwhere could she find one? Whither could she go? Yet she could not remainlike that.
Then there passed before her eyes, like a vision, the calm figure ofJesus walking on the waters. She saw it as she saw it in the picture. Sohe was calling her. He was saying: "Come to me; come and kneel at myfeet. I will console you, and inspire you with what should be done."
She took her candle, left the room, and went downstairs to theconservatory. The picture of Jesus was right at the end of it in a smalldrawing-room, shut off by a glass door, in order that the dampness ofthe soil should not damage the canvas. It formed a kind of chapel in aforest of strange trees. When Madame Walter entered the winter garden,never having seen it before save full of light, she was struck by itsobscure profundity. The dense plants of the tropics made the atmospherethick with their heavy breath; and the doors no longer being open, theair of this strange wood, enclosed beneath a glass roof, entered thechest with difficulty; intoxicated, caused pleasure and pain, andimparted a confused sensation of enervation, pleasure, and death. Thepoor woman walked slowly, oppressed by the shadows, amidst whichappeared, by the flickering light of her candle, extravagant plants,recalling monsters, living creatures, hideous deformities. All at onceshe caught sight of the picture of Christ. She opened the doorseparating her from it, and fell on her knees. She prayed to him,wildly, at first, stammering forth words of true, passionate, anddespairing invocations. Then, the ardor of her appeal slackening, sheraised her eyes towards him, and was struck with anguish. He resembledPretty-boy so strongly, in the trembling light of this solitary candle,lighting the picture from below, that it was no longer Christ--it washer lover who was looking at her. They were his eyes, his forehead, theexpression of his face, his cold and haughty air.
She stammered: "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" and the name "George" rose to herlips. All at once she thought that at that very moment, perhaps, Georgehad her daughter. He was alone with her somewhere. He with Susan! Sherepeated: "Jesus, Jesus!" but she was thinking of them--her daughter andher lover. They were alone in a room, and at night. She saw them. Shesaw them so plainly that they rose up before her in place of thepicture. They were smiling at one another. They were embracing. She roseto go towards them, to take her daughter by the hair and tear her fromhis clasp. She would seize her by the throat and strangle her, thisdaughter whom she hated--this daughter who was joining herself to thisman. She touched her; her hands encountered the canvas; she was pressingthe feet of Christ. She uttered a loud cry and fell on her back. Hercandle, overturned, went out.
What took place then? She dreamed for a long time wild, frightfuldreams. George and Susan continually passed before her eyes, with Christblessing their horrible loves. She felt vaguely that she was not in herroom. She wished to rise and flee; she could not. A torpor had seizedupon her, which fettered her limbs, and only left her mind on the alert,tortured by frightful and fantastic visions, lost in an unhealthydream--the strange and sometimes fatal dream engendered in human mindsby the soporific plants of the tropics, with their strange andoppressive perfumes.
The next morning Madame Walter was found stretched out senseless, almostasphyxiated before "Jesus Walking on the Waters." She was so ill thather life was feared for. She only fully recovered the use of her sensesthe following day. Then she began to weep. The disappearance of Susanwas explained to the servants as due to her being suddenly sent back tothe convent. And Monsieur Walter replied to a long letter of Du Roy bygranting him his daughter's hand.
Pretty-boy had posted this letter at the moment of leaving Paris, for hehad prepared it in advance the evening of his departure. He said in it,in respectful terms, that he had long loved the young girl; that therehad never been any agreement between them; but that finding her comefreely to him to say, "I wish to be your wife," he considered himselfauthorized in keeping her, even in hiding her, until he had obtained ananswer from her parents, whose legal power had for him less weight thanthe wish of his betrothed. He demanded that Monsieur Walter shouldreply, "post restante," a friend being charged to forward the letter tohim.
When he had obtained what he wished he brought back Susan to Paris, andsent her on to her parents, abstaining himself from appearing for somelittle time.
They had spent six days on the banks of the Seine at La Roche-Guyon.
The young girl had never enjoyed herself so much. She had played atpastoral life. As he passed her off as his sister, they lived in a freeand chaste intimacy--a kind of loving friendship. He thought it a cleverstroke to respect her. On the day after their arrival she had purchasedsome linen and some country-girl's clothes, and set to work fishing,with a huge straw hat, ornamented with wild flowers, on her head. Shethought the country there delightful. There was an old tower and an oldchateau, in which beautiful tapestry was shown.
George, dressed in a boating jersey, bought ready-made from a localtradesman, escorted Susan, now on foot along the banks of the river, nowin a boat. They kissed at every moment, she in all innocence, and heready to succumb to temptation. But he was able to restrain himself; andwhen he said to her, "We will go back to Paris to-morrow; your fatherhas granted me your hand," she murmured simply, "Already? It was so nicebeing your wife here."
XVIII
It was dark in the little suite of rooms in the Rue de Constantinople;for George Du Roy and Clotilde de Marelle, having met at the door, hadgone in at once, and she had said to him, without giving him time toopen the Venetian blinds: "So you are going to marry Susan Walter?"
He admitted it quietly, and added: "Did not you know it?"
She exclaimed, standing before him, furious and indignant:
"You are going to marry Susan Walter? That is too much of a good thing.For three months you have been humbugging in order to hide that from me.Everyone knew it but me. It was my husband who told me of it."
Du Roy began to laugh, though somewhat confused all the
same; and havingplaced his hat on a corner of the mantel-shelf, sat down in an armchair.She looked at him straight in the face, and said, in a low and irritatedtone: "Ever since you left your wife you have been preparing this move,and you only kept me on as a mistress to fill up the interim nicely.What a rascal you are!"
He asked: "Why so? I had a wife who deceived me. I caught her, Iobtained a divorce, and I am going to marry another. What could besimpler?"
She murmured, quivering: "Oh! how cunning and dangerous you are."
He began to smile again. "By Jove! Simpletons and fools are alwayssomeone's dupes."
But she continued to follow out her idea: "I ought to have divined yournature from the beginning. But no, I could not believe that you could besuch a blackguard as that."
He assumed an air of dignity, saying: "I beg of you to pay attention tothe words you are making use of."
His indignation revolted her. "What? You want me to put on gloves totalk to you now. You have behaved towards me like a vagabond ever sinceI have known you, and you want to make out that I am not to tell you so.You deceive everyone; you take advantage of everyone; you filch moneyand enjoyment wherever you can, and you want me to treat you as anhonest man!"
He rose, and with quivering lip, said: "Be quiet, or I will turn you outof here."
She stammered: "Turn me out of here; turn me out of here! You will turnme out of here--you--you?" She could not speak for a moment for chokingwith anger, and then suddenly, as though the door of her wrath had been
burst open, she broke out with: "Turn me out of here? You forget, then,that it is I who have paid for these rooms from the beginning. Ah, yes,you have certainly taken them on from time to time. But who first tookthem? I did. Who kept them on? I did. And you want to turn me out ofhere. Hold your tongue, you good-for-nothing fellow. Do you think Idon't know you robbed Madeleine of half Vaudrec's money? Do you think Idon't know how you slept with Susan to oblige her to marry you?"
He seized her by the shoulders, and, shaking her with both hands,exclaimed: "Don't speak of her, at any rate. I won't have it."
She screamed out: "You slept with her; I know you did."
He would have accepted no matter what, but this falsehood exasperatedhim. The truths she had told him to his face had caused thrills of angerto run through him, but this lie respecting the young girl who was goingto be his wife, awakened in the palm of his hand a furious longing tostrike her.
He repeated: "Be quiet--have a care--be quiet," and shook her as weshake a branch to make the fruit fall.
She yelled, with her hair coming down, her mouth wide open, her eyesaglow: "You slept with her!"
He let her go, and gave her such a smack on the face that she fell downbeside the wall. But she turned towards him, and raising herself on herhands, once more shouted: "You slept with her!"
He rushed at her, and, holding her down, struck her as though striking aman. She left off shouting, and began to moan beneath his blows. She nolonger stirred, but hid her face against the bottom of the wall anduttered plaintive cries. He left off beating her and rose up. Then hewalked about the room a little to recover his coolness, and, an ideaoccurring to him, went into the bedroom, filled the basin with coldwater, and dipped his head into it. Then he washed his hands and cameback to see what she was doing, carefully wiping his fingers. She hadnot budged. She was still lying on the ground quietly weeping.
"Shall you have done grizzling soon?"
She did not answer. He stood in the middle of the room, feeling somewhatawkward and ashamed in the presence of the form stretched out beforehim. All at once he formed a resolution, and took his hat from themantel-shelf, saying: "Good-night. Give the key to the doorkeeper whenyou leave. I shan't wait for your convenience."
He went out, closed the door, went to the doorkeeper's, and said:"Madame is still there. She will be leaving in a few minutes. Tell thelandlord that I give notice to leave at the end of September. It is the15th of August, so I am within the limits."
And he walked hastily away, for he had some pressing calls to maketouching the purchase of the last wedding gifts.
The wedding was fixed for the 20th of October after the meeting of theChambers. It was to take place at the Church of the Madeleine. There hadbeen a great deal of gossip about it without anyone knowing the exacttruth. Different tales were in circulation. It was whispered that anelopement had taken place, but no one was certain about anything.According to the servants, Madame Walter, who would no longer speak toher future son-in-law, had poisoned herself out of rage the very eveningthe match was decided on, after having taken her daughter off to aconvent at midnight. She had been brought back almost dead. Certainly,she would never get over it. She had now the appearance of an old woman;her hair had become quite gray, and she had gone in for religion, takingthe Sacrament every Sunday.
At the beginning of September the _Vie Francaise_ announced that theBaron Du Roy de Cantel had become chief editor, Monsieur Walterretaining the title of manager. A battalion of well-known writers,reporters, political editors, art and theatrical critics, detached fromold important papers by dint of monetary influence, were taken on. Theold journalists, the serious and respectable ones, no longer shruggedtheir shoulders when speaking of the _Vie Francaise_. Rapid and completesuccess had wiped out the contempt of serious writers for the beginningsof this paper.
The marriage of its chief editor was what is styled a Parisian event,George Du Roy and the Walters having excited a great deal of curiosityfor some time past. All the people who are written about in the paperspromised themselves to be there.
The event took place on a bright autumn day.
At eight in the morning the sight of the staff of the Madeleinestretching a broad red carpet down the lofty flight of steps overlookingthe Rue Royale caused passers-by to pause, and announced to the peopleof Paris that an important ceremony was about to take place. The clerkson the way to their offices, the work-girls, the shopmen, paused,looked, and vaguely speculated about the rich folk who spent so muchmoney over getting spliced. Towards ten o'clock idlers began to halt.They would remain for a few minutes, hoping that perhaps it would beginat once, and then moved away. At eleven squads of police arrived and setto work almost at once to make the crowd move on, groups forming everymoment. The first guests soon made their appearance--those who wanted tobe well placed for seeing everything. They took the chairs bordering themain aisles. By degrees came others, ladies in rustling silks, andserious-looking gentlemen, almost all bald, walking with well-bred air,and graver than usual in this locality.
The church slowly filled. A flood of sunlight entered by the hugedoorway lit up the front row of guests. In the choir, which lookedsomewhat gloomy, the altar, laden with tapers, shed a yellow light, paleand humble in face of that of the main entrance. People recognized oneanother, beckoned to one another, and gathered in groups. The men ofletters, less respectful than the men in society, chatted in low tonesand looked at the ladies.
Norbert de Varenne, who was looking out for an acquaintance, perceivedJacques Rival near the center of the rows of chair, and joined him."Well," said he, "the race is for the cunning."
The other, who was not envious, replied: "So much the better for him.His career is safe." And they began to point out the people theyrecognized.
"Do you know what became of his wife?" asked Rival.
The poet smiled. "Yes, and no. She is living in a very retired style, Iam told, in the Montmartre district. But--there is a but--I have noticedfor some time past in the _Plume_ some political articles terribly likethose of Forestier and Du Roy. They are by Jean Le Dal, a handsome,intelligent young fellow, of the same breed as our friend George, andwho has made the acquaintance of his late wife. From whence I concludethat she had, and always will have, a fancy for beginners. She is,besides, rich. Vaudrec and Laroche-Mathieu were not assiduous visitorsat the house for nothing."
Rival observed: "She is not bad looking, Madeleine. Very clever and verysharp. She must be charming on terms o
f intimacy. But, tell me, how isit that Du Roy comes to be married in church after a divorce?"
Norbert replied: "He is married in church because, in the eyes of theChurch, he was not married before."
"How so?"
"Our friend, Pretty-boy, from indifference or economy, thought theregistrar sufficient when marrying Madeleine Forestier. He thereforedispensed with the ecclesiastical benediction, which constituted in theeyes of Holy Mother Church a simple state of concubinage. Consequentlyhe comes before her to-day as a bachelor, and she lends him all her pompand ceremony, which will cost Daddy Walter a pretty penny."
The murmur of the augmented throng swelled beneath the vaulted room.Voices could be heard speaking almost out loud. People pointed out toone another celebrities who attitudinized, pleased to be seen, andcarefully maintained the bearing adopted by them towards the publicaccustomed to exhibit themselves thus at all such gatherings, of whichthey were, it seemed to them, the indispensable ornaments.
Rival resumed: "Tell me, my dear fellow, you who go so often to thegovernor's, is it true that Du Roy and Madame Walter no longer speak toone another?"
"Never. She did not want to give him the girl. But he had a hold, itseems, on the father through skeletons in the house--skeletons connectedwith the Morocco business. He threatened the old man with frightfulrevelations. Walter recollected the example he made of Laroche-Mathieu,and gave in at once. But the mother, obstinate like all women, sworethat she would never again speak a word to her son-in-law. She lookslike a statue, a statue of Vengeance, and he is very uneasy at it,although he puts a good face on the matter, for he knows how to controlhimself, that fellow does."
Fellow-journalists came up and shook hands with them. Bits of politicalconversation could be caught. Vague as the sound of a distant sea, thenoise of the crowd massed in front of the church entered the doorwaywith the sunlight, and rose up beneath the roof, above the more discreetmurmur of the choicer public gathered within it.
All at once the beadle struck the pavement thrice with the butt of hishalberd. Every one turned round with a prolonged rustling of skirts anda moving of chairs. The bride appeared on her father's arm in thebright light of the doorway.
She had still the air of a doll, a charming white doll crowned withorange flowers. She stood for a few moments on the threshold, then, whenshe made her first step up the aisle, the organ gave forth a powerfulnote, announcing the entrance of the bride in loud metallic tones. Sheadvanced with bent head, but not timidly; vaguely moved, pretty,charming, a miniature bride. The women smiled and murmured as theywatched her pass. The men muttered: "Exquisite! Adorable!" MonsieurWalter walked with exaggerated dignity, somewhat pale, and with hisspectacles straight on his nose. Behind them four bridesmaids, all fourdressed in pink, and all four pretty, formed the court of this gem of aqueen. The groomsmen, carefully chosen to match, stepped as thoughtrained by a ballet master. Madame Walter followed them, giving her armto the father of her other son-in-law, the Marquis de Latour-Yvelin,aged seventy-two. She did not walk, she dragged herself along, ready tofaint at each forward movement. It could be felt that her feet stuck tothe flagstones, that her legs refused to advance, and that her heart wasbeating within her breast like an animal bounding to escape. She hadgrown thin. Her white hair made her face appear still more blanched andher cheeks hollower. She looked straight before her in order not to seeany one--in order not to recall, perhaps, that which was torturing her.
Then George Du Roy appeared with an old lady unknown. He, too, kept hishead up without turning aside his eyes, fixed and stern under hisslightly bent brows. His moustache seemed to bristle on his lip. He wasset down as a very good-looking fellow. He had a proud bearing, a goodfigure, and a straight leg. He wore his clothes well, the little redribbon of the Legion of Honor showing like a drop of blood on his dresscoat.
Then came the relations, Rose with the Senator Rissolin. She had beenmarried six weeks. The Count de Latour-Yvelin accompanied by theViscountess de Percemur. Finally, there was a strange procession of thefriends and allies of Du Roy, whom he introduced to his new family;people known in the Parisian world, who became at once the intimates,and, if need be, the distant cousins of rich parvenus; gentlemen ruined,blemished; married, in some cases, which is worse. There were Monsieurde Belvigne, the Marquis de Banjolin, the Count and Countess de Ravenel,Prince Kravalow, the Chevalier, Valreali; then some guests of Walter's,the Prince de Guerche, the Duke and the Duchess de Ferracine, thebeautiful Marchioness des Dunes. Some of Madame Walter's relativespreserved a well-to-do, countrified appearance amidst the throng.
The organ was still playing, pouring forth through the immense buildingthe sonorous and rhythmic accents of its glittering throats, which cryaloud unto heaven the joy or grief of mankind. The great doors wereclosed, and all at once it became as gloomy as if the sun had just beenturned out.
Now, George was kneeling beside his wife in the choir, before the lit-upaltar. The new Bishop of Tangiers, crozier in hand and miter on head,made his appearance from the vestry to join them together in the Eternalname. He put the customary questions, exchanged the rings, uttered thewords that bind like chains, and addressed the newly-wedded couple aChristian allocution. He was a tall, stout man, one of those handsomeprelates to whom a rounded belly lends dignity.
The sound of sobs caused several people to look round. Madame Walter wasweeping, with her face buried in her hands. She had to give way. Whatcould she have done else? But since the day when she had driven from herroom her daughter on her return home, refusing to embrace her; since theday when she had said, in a low voice, to Du Roy, who had greeted herceremoniously on again making his appearance: "You are the vilestcreature I know of; never speak to me again, for I shall not answeryou," she had been suffering intolerable and unappeasable tortures. Shehated Susan with a keen hatred, made up of exasperated passion andheartrending jealousy, the strange jealousy of a mother andmistress--unacknowledgable, ferocious, burning like a new wound. And nowa bishop was marrying them--her lover and her daughter--in a church, inpresence of two thousand people, and before her. And she could saynothing. She could not hinder it. She could not cry out: "But that manbelongs to me; he is my lover. This union you are blessing is infamous!"
Some ladies, touched at the sight, murmured: "How deeply the poor motherfeels it!"
The bishop was declaiming: "You are among the fortunate ones of thisworld, among the wealthiest and most respected. You, sir, whom yourtalent raises above others; you who write, who teach, who advise, whoguide the people, you who have a noble mission to fulfill, a nobleexample to set."
Du Roy listened, intoxicated with pride. A prelate of the Roman CatholicChurch was speaking thus to him. And he felt behind him a crowd, anillustrious crowd, gathered on his account. It seemed to him that somepower impelled and lifted him up. He was becoming one of the masters ofthe world--he, the son of two poor peasants at Canteleu. He saw them allat once in their humble wayside inn, at the summit of the slopeoverlooking the broad valley of Rouen, his father and mother, servingthe country-folk of the district with drink, He had sent them fivethousand francs on inheriting from the Count de Vaudrec. He would nowsend them fifty thousand, and they would buy a little estate. They wouldbe satisfied and happy.
The bishop had finished his harangue. A priest, clad in a golden stole,ascended the steps of the altar, and the organ began anew to celebratethe glory of the newly-wedded couple. Now it gave forth long, loudnotes, swelling like waves, so sonorous and powerful that it seemed asthough they must lift and break through the roof to spend abroad intothe sky. Their vibrating sound filled the church, causing body andspirit to thrill. Then all at once they grew calmer, and delicate notesfloated through the air, little graceful, twittering notes, flutteringlike birds; and suddenly again this coquettish music waxed once more, inturn becoming terrible in its strength and fullness, as if a grain ofsand had transformed itself into a world. Then human voices rose, andwere wafted over the bowed heads--Vauri and Landeck, of the Opera, weresingi
ng. The incense shed abroad a delicate odor, and the DivineSacrifice was accomplished on the altar, to consecrate the triumph ofthe Baron George Du Roy!
Pretty-boy, on his knees beside Susan, had bowed his head. He felt atthat moment almost a believer, almost religious; full of gratitudetowards the divinity who had thus favored him, who treated him with suchconsideration. And without exactly knowing to whom he was addressinghimself, he thanked him for his success.
When the ceremony was concluded he rose up, and giving his wife his arm,he passed into the vestry. Then began the interminable defiling past ofthe visitors. George, with wild joy, believed himself a king whom anation had come to acclaim. He shook hands, stammered unmeaning remarks,bowed, and replied: "You are very good to say so."
All at once he caught sight of Madame de Marelle, and the recollectionof all the kisses that he had given her, and that she had returned; therecollection of all their caresses, of her pretty ways, of the sound ofher voice, of the taste of her lips, caused the desire to have her oncemore for his own to shoot through his veins. She was so pretty andelegant, with her boyish air and bright eyes. George thought to himself:"What a charming mistress, all the same."
She drew near, somewhat timid, somewhat uneasy, and held out her hand.He took it in his, and retained it. Then he felt the discreet appeal ofa woman's fingers, the soft pressure that forgives and takes possessionagain. And for his own part, he squeezed it, that little hand, as thoughto say: "I still love you; I am yours."
Their eyes met, smiling, bright, full of love. She murmured in herpleasant voice: "I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again soon,sir."
He replied, gayly: "Soon, madame."
She passed on. Other people were pushing forward. The crowd flowed bylike a stream. At length it grew thinner. The last guests took leave.
George took Susan's arm in his to pass through the church again. It wasfull of people, for everyone had regained their seats in order to seethem pass together. They went by slowly, with calm steps and upliftedheads, their eyes fixed on the wide sunlit space of the open door. Hefelt little quiverings run all over his skin those cold shivers causedby over-powering happiness. He saw no one. His thoughts were solely forhimself. When he gained the threshold he saw the crowd collected--adense, agitated crowd, gathered there on his account--on account ofGeorge Du Roy. The people of Paris were gazing at and envying him. Then,raising his eyes, he could see afar off, beyond the Palace de laConcorde, the Chamber of Deputies, and it seemed to him that he wasgoing to make but one jump from the portico of the Madeleine to that ofthe Palais Bourbon.
He slowly descended the long flight of steps between two ranks ofspectators. But he did not see them; his thoughts had now flownbackwards, and before his eyes, dazzled by the brilliant sun, nowfloated the image of Madame de Marelle, re-adjusting before the glassthe little curls on her temples, always disarranged when she rose.
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