VIII
His duel had given Duroy a position among the leader-writers of the _VieFrancaise_, but as he had great difficulty in finding ideas, he made aspecialty of declamatory articles on the decadence of morality, thelowering of the standard of character, the weakening of the patrioticfiber and the anemia of French honor. He had discovered the word anemia,and was very proud of it. And when Madame de Marelle, filled with thatskeptical, mocking, and incredulous spirit characteristic of theParisian, laughed at his tirades, which she demolished with an epigram,he replied with a smile: "Bah! this sort of thing will give me a goodreputation later on."
He now resided in the Rue de Constantinople, whither he had shifted hisportmanteau, his hair-brush, his razor, and his soap, which was what hismoving amounted to. Twice or thrice a week she would call before he wasup, undress in a twinkling, and slip into bed, shivering from the coldprevailing out of doors. As a set off, Duroy dined every Thursday at herresidence, and paid court to her husband by talking agriculture withhim. As he was himself fond of everything relating to the cultivation ofthe soil, they sometimes both grew so interested in the subject of theirconversation that they quite forgot the wife dozing on the sofa. Laurinewould also go to sleep, now on the knee of her father and now on that ofPretty-boy. And when the journalist had left, Monsieur de Marelle neverfailed to assert, in that doctrinal tone in which he said the leastthing: "That young fellow is really very pleasant company, he has awell-informed mind."
February was drawing to a close. One began to smell the violets in thestreet, as one passed the barrows of the flower-sellers of a morning.Duroy was living beneath a sky without a cloud.
One night, on returning home, he found a letter that had been slippedunder his door. He glanced at the post-mark, and read "Cannes." Havingopened it, he read:
"Villa Jolie, Cannes.
"DEAR SIR AND FRIEND,--You told me, did you not, that I could reckon upon you for anything? Well, I have a very painful service to ask of you; it is to come and help me, so that I may not be left alone during the last moments of Charles, who is dying. He may not last out the week, as the doctor has forewarned me, although he has not yet taken to his bed. I have no longer strength nor courage to witness this hourly death, and I think with terror of those last moments which are drawing near. I can only ask such a service of you, as my husband has no relatives. You were his comrade; he opened the door of the paper to you. Come, I beg of you; I have no one else to ask.
"Believe me, your very sincere friend,
"MADELEINE FORESTIER."
A strange feeling filled George's heart, a sense of freedom and of aspace opening before him, and he murmured: "To be sure, I'll go. PoorCharles! What are we, after all?"
The governor, to whom he read the letter, grumblingly grantedpermission, repeating: "But be back soon, you are indispensable to us."
George left for Cannes next day by the seven o'clock express, afterletting the Marelles know of his departure by a telegram. He arrived thefollowing evening about four o'clock. A commissionaire guided him to theVilla Jolie, built half-way up the slope of the pine forest clothedwith white houses, which extends from Cannes to the Golfe Juan. Thehouse--small, low, and in the Italian style--was built beside the roadwhich winds zig-zag fashion up through the trees, revealing a successionof charming views at every turning it makes.
The man servant opened the door, and exclaimed: "Oh! Sir, madame isexpecting you most impatiently."
"How is your master?" inquired Duroy.
"Not at all well, sir. He cannot last much longer."
The drawing-room, into which George was shown, was hung with pink andblue chintz. The tall and wide windows overlooked the town and the sea.Duroy muttered: "By Jove, this is nice and swell for a country house.Where the deuce do they get the money from?"
The rustle of a dress made him turn round. Madame Forestier held outboth hands to him. "How good of you to come, how good of you to come,"said she.
And suddenly she kissed him on the cheek. Then they looked atone another. She was somewhat paler and thinner, but stillfresh-complexioned, and perhaps still prettier for her additionaldelicacy. She murmured: "He is dreadful, do you know; he knows that he
is doomed, and he leads me a fearful life. But where is yourportmanteau?"
"I have left it at the station, not knowing what hotel you would like meto stop at in order to be near you."
She hesitated a moment, and then said: "You must stay here. Besides,your room is all ready. He might die at any moment, and if it were tohappen during the night I should be alone. I will send for yourluggage."
He bowed, saying: "As you please."
"Now let us go upstairs," she said.
He followed her. She opened a door on the first floor, and Duroy saw,wrapped in rugs and seated in an armchair near the window, a kind ofliving corpse, livid even under the red light of the setting sun, andlooking towards him. He scarcely recognized, but rather guessed, that itwas his friend. The room reeked of fever, medicated drinks, ether, tar,the nameless and oppressive odor of a consumptive's sick room. Forestierheld out his hand slowly and with difficulty. "So here you are; you havecome to see me die, then! Thanks."
Duroy affected to laugh. "To see you die? That would not be a veryamusing sight, and I should not select such an occasion to visit Cannes.I came to give you a look in, and to rest myself a bit."
Forestier murmured, "Sit down," and then bent his head, as though lostin painful thoughts. He breathed hurriedly and pantingly, and from timeto time gave a kind of groan, as if he wanted to remind the others howill he was.
Seeing that he would not speak, his wife came and leaned against thewindow-sill, and indicating the view with a motion of her head, said,"Look! Is not that beautiful?"
Before them the hillside, dotted with villas, sloped downwards towardsthe town, which stretched in a half-circle along the shore with its headto the right in the direction of the pier, overlooked by the old citysurmounted by its belfry, and its feet to the left towards the point ofLa Croisette, facing the Isles of Lerins. These two islands appearedlike two green spots amidst the blue water. They seemed to be floatingon it like two huge green leaves, so low and flat did they appear fromthis height. Afar off, bounding the view on the other side of the bay,beyond the pier and the belfry, a long succession of blue hills showedup against a dazzling sky, their strange and picturesque line of summitsnow rounded, now forked, now pointed, ending with a huge pyramidalmountain, its foot in the sea itself.
Madame Forestier pointed it out, saying: "This is L'Estherel."
The void beyond the dark hill tops was red, a glowing red that the eyewould not fear, and Duroy, despite himself, felt the majesty of theclose of the day. He murmured, finding no other term strong enough toexpress his admiration, "It is stunning."
Forestier raised his head, and turning to his wife, said: "Let me havesome fresh air."
"Pray, be careful," was her reply. "It is late, and the sun is setting;you will catch a fresh cold, and you know how bad that is for you."
He made a feverish and feeble movement with his right hand that wasalmost meant for a blow, and murmured with a look of anger, the grin ofa dying man that showed all the thinness of his lips, the hollowness ofthe cheeks, and the prominence of all the bones of the face: "I tell youI am stifling. What does it matter to you whether I die a day sooner ora day later, since I am done for?"
She opened the window quite wide. The air that entered surprised allthree like a caress. It was a soft, warm breeze, a breeze of spring,already laden with the scents of the odoriferous shrubs and flowerswhich sprang up along this shore. A powerful scent of turpentine andthe harsh savor of the eucalyptus could be distinguished.
Forestier drank it in with short and fevered gasps. He clutched the armof his chair with his nails, and said in low, hissing, and savage tones:"Shut the window. It hurts me; I would rather die in a cellar."
His wife slowly closed the window,
and then looked out in space, herforehead against the pane. Duroy, feeling very ill at ease, would haveliked to have chatted with the invalid and reassured him. But he couldthink of nothing to comfort him. At length he said: "Then you have notgot any better since you have been here?"
Forestier shrugged his shoulders with low-spirited impatience. "You seevery well I have not," he replied, and again lowered his head.
Duroy went on: "Hang it all, it is ever so much nicer here than inParis. We are still in the middle of winter there. It snows, it freezes,it rains, and it is dark enough for the lamps to be lit at three in theafternoon."
"Anything new at the paper?" asked Forestier.
"Nothing. They have taken on young Lacrin, who has left the _Voltaire_,to do your work, but he is not up to it. It is time that you came back."
The invalid muttered: "I--I shall do all my work six feet under the sodnow."
This fixed idea recurred like a knell _apropos_ of everything,continually cropping up in every idea, every sentence. There was a longsilence, a deep and painful silence. The glow of the sunset was slowlyfading, and the mountains were growing black against the red sky, whichwas getting duller. A colored shadow, a commencement of night, which yetretained the glow of an expiring furnace, stole into the room and seemedto tinge the furniture, the walls, the hangings, with mingled tints ofsable and crimson. The chimney-glass, reflecting the horizon, seemedlike a patch of blood. Madame Forestier did not stir, but remainedstanding with her back to the room, her face to the window pane.
Forestier began to speak in a broken, breathless voice, heartrending tolisten to. "How many more sunsets shall I see? Eight, ten, fifteen, ortwenty, perhaps thirty--no more. You have time before you; for me it isall over. And it will go on all the same, after I am gone, as if I wasstill here." He was silent for a few moments, and then continued: "Allthat I see reminds me that in a few days I shall see it no more. It ishorrible. I shall see nothing--nothing of all that exists; not thesmallest things one makes use of--the plates, the glasses, the beds inwhich one rests so comfortably, the carriages. How nice it is to driveout of an evening! How fond I was of all those things!"
He nervously moved the fingers of both hands, as though playing thepiano on the arms of his chair. Each of his silences was more painfulthan his words, so evident was it that his thoughts must be fearful.Duroy suddenly recalled what Norbert de Varenne had said to him someweeks before, "I now see death so near that I often want to stretch outmy arms to put it back. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on thepath, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend's beard, rend myheart and cry to me, 'Behold!'"
He had not understood all this on that occasion; now, seeing Forestier,he did. An unknown pain assailed him, as if he himself was sensible ofthe presence of death, hideous death, hard by, within reach of his hand,on the chair in which his friend lay gasping. He longed to get up, to goaway, to fly, to return to Paris at once. Oh! if he had known he wouldnot have come.
Darkness had now spread over the room, like premature mourning for thedying man. The window alone remained still visible, showing, within thelighter square formed by it, the motionless outline of the young wife.
Forestier remarked, with irritation, "Well, are they going to bring inthe lamp to-night? This is what they call looking after an invalid."
The shadow outlined against the window panes disappeared, and the soundof an electric bell rang through the house. A servant shortly enteredand placed a lamp on the mantelpiece. Madame Forestier said to herhusband, "Will you go to bed, or would you rather come down to dinner?"
He murmured: "I will come down."
Waiting for this meal kept them all three sitting still for nearly anhour, only uttering from time to time some needless commonplace remark,as if there had been some danger, some mysterious danger in lettingsilence endure too long, in letting the air congeal in this room wheredeath was prowling.
At length dinner was announced. The meal seemed interminable to Duroy.They did not speak, but ate noiselessly, and then crumbled their breadwith their fingers. The man servant who waited upon them went to and frowithout the sound of his footsteps being heard, for as the creak of aboot-sole irritated Charles, he wore list slippers. The harsh tick of awooden clock alone disturbed the calm with its mechanical and regularsound.
As soon as dinner was over Duroy, on the plea of fatigue, retired to hisroom, and leaning on the window-sill watched the full moon, in the midstof the sky like an immense lamp, casting its cold gleam upon the whitewalls of the villas, and scattering over the sea a soft and movingdappled light. He strove to find some reason to justify a swiftdeparture, inventing plans, telegrams he was to receive, a recall fromMonsieur Walter.
But his resolves to fly appeared more difficult to realize on awakeningthe next morning. Madame Forestier would not be taken in by his devices,and he would lose by his cowardice all the benefit of his self-devotion.He said to himself: "Bah! it is awkward; well so much the worse, theremust be unpleasant situations in life, and, besides, it will perhaps besoon over."
It was a bright day, one of those bright Southern days that make theheart feel light, and Duroy walked down to the sea, thinking that itwould be soon enough to see Forestier some time in course of theafternoon. When he returned to lunch, the servant remarked, "Master hasalready asked for you two or three times, sir. Will you please step upto his room, sir?"
He went upstairs. Forestier appeared to be dozing in his armchair. Hiswife was reading, stretched out on the sofa.
The invalid raised his head, and Duroy said, "Well, how do you feel? Youseem quite fresh this morning."
"Yes, I am better, I have recovered some of my strength. Get through
your lunch with Madeleine as soon as you can, for we are going out fora drive."
As soon as she was alone with Duroy, the young wife said to him, "There,to-day he thinks he is all right again. He has been making plans all themorning. We are going to the Golfe Juan now to buy some pottery for ourrooms in Paris. He is determined to go out, but I am horribly afraid ofsome mishap. He cannot bear the shaking of the drive."
When the landau arrived, Forestier came down stairs a step at a time,supported by his servant. But as soon as he caught sight of thecarriage, he ordered the hood to be taken off. His wife opposed this,saying, "You will catch cold. It is madness."
He persisted, repeating, "Oh, I am much better. I feel it."
They passed at first along some of those shady roads, bordered bygardens, which cause Cannes to resemble a kind of English Park, and thenreached the highway to Antibes, running along the seashore. Forestieracted as guide. He had already pointed out the villa of the Court deParis, and now indicated others. He was lively, with the forced andfeeble gayety of a doomed man. He lifted his finger, no longer havingstrength to stretch out his arm, and said, "There is the Ile SainteMarguerite, and the chateau from which Bazaine escaped. How they didhumbug us over that matter!"
Then regimental recollections recurred to him, and he mentioned variousofficers whose names recalled incidents to them. But all at once, theroad making a turn, they caught sight of the whole of the Golfe Juan,with the white village in the curve of the bay, and the point of Antibesat the further side of it. Forestier, suddenly seized upon by childishglee, exclaimed, "Ah! the squadron, you will see the squadron."
Indeed they could perceive, in the middle of the broad bay, half-a-dozenlarge ships resembling rocks covered with leafless trees. They werehuge, strange, mis-shapen, with excrescences, turrets, rams, buryingthemselves in the water as though to take root beneath the waves. Onecould scarcely imagine how they could stir or move about, they seemed soheavy and so firmly fixed to the bottom. A floating battery, circularand high out of water, resembling the light-houses that are built onshoals. A tall three-master passed near them, with all its white sailsset. It looked graceful and pretty beside these iron war monsterssquatted on the water. Forestier tried to make them out. He pointed outthe Colbert, the Suffren, the Admiral Duperre, the Redoubtable,
theDevastation, and then checking himself, added, "No I made a mistake;that one is the Devastation."
They arrived opposite a species of large pavilion, on the front of whichwas the inscription, "Art Pottery of the Golfe Juan," and the carriage,driving up the sweep, stopped before the door. Forestier wanted to buy acouple of vases for his study. As he felt unequal to getting out of thecarriage, specimens were brought out to him one after the other. He wasa long time in making a choice, and consulted his wife and Duroy.
"You know," he said, "it is for the cabinet at the end of the study.Sitting in my chair, I have it before my eyes all the time. I want anantique form, a Greek outline." He examined the specimens, had othersbrought, and then turned again to the first ones. At length he made uphis mind, and having paid, insisted upon the articles being sent on atonce. "I shall be going back to Paris in a few days," he said.
They drove home, but as they skirted the bay a rush of cold air from oneof the valleys suddenly met them, and the invalid began to cough. It wasnothing at first, but it augmented and became an unbroken fit ofcoughing, and then a kind of gasping hiccough.
Forestier was choking, and every time he tried to draw breath the coughseemed to rend his chest. Nothing would soothe or check it. He had to beborne from the carriage to his room, and Duroy, who supported his legs,felt the jerking of his feet at each convulsion of his lungs. The warmthof the bed did not check the attack, which lasted till midnight, when,at length, narcotics lulled its deadly spasm. The sick man remained tillmorning sitting up in his bed, with his eyes open.
The first words he uttered were to ask for the barber, for he insistedon being shaved every morning. He got up for this operation, but had tobe helped back into bed at once, and his breathing grew so short, sohard, and so difficult, that Madame Forestier, in alarm, had Duroy, whohad just turned in, roused up again in order to beg him to go for thedoctor.
He came back almost immediately with Dr. Gavaut, who prescribed asoothing drink and gave some advice; but when the journalist saw him tothe door, in order to ask his real opinion, he said, "It is the end. Hewill be dead to-morrow morning. Break it to his poor wife, and send fora priest. I, for my part, can do nothing more. I am, however, entirelyat your service."
Duroy sent for Madame Forestier. "He is dying," said he. "The doctoradvises a priest being sent for. What would you like done?"
She hesitated for some time, and then, in slow tones, as though she hadcalculated everything, replied, "Yes, that will be best--in manyrespects. I will break it to him--tell him the vicar wants to see him,or something or other; I really don't know what. You would be very kindif you would go and find a priest for me and pick one out. Choose onewho won't raise too many difficulties over the business. One who will besatisfied with confession, and will let us off with the rest of it all."
The young fellow returned with a complaisant old ecclesiastic, whoaccommodated himself to the state of affairs. As soon as he had goneinto the dying man's room, Madame Forestier came out of it, and sat downwith Duroy in the one adjoining.
"It has quite upset him," said she. "When I spoke to him about a priesthis face assumed a frightful expression as if he had felt thebreath--the breath of--you know. He understood that it was all over atlast, and that his hours were numbered." She was very pale as shecontinued, "I shall never forget the expression of his face. Hecertainly saw death face to face at that moment. He saw him."
They could hear the priest, who spoke in somewhat loud tones, beingslightly deaf, and who was saying, "No, no; you are not so bad as allthat. You are ill, but in no danger. And the proof is that I have calledin as a friend as a neighbor."
They could not make out Forestier's reply, but the old man went on, "No,I will not ask you to communicate. We will talk of that when you arebetter. If you wish to profit by my visit--to confess, for instance--Iask nothing better. I am a shepherd, you know, and seize on everyoccasion to bring a lamb back to the fold."
A long silence followed. Forestier must have been speaking in a faintvoice. Then all at once the priest uttered in a different tone, the toneof one officiating at the altar. "The mercy of God is infinite. Repeatthe Comfiteor, my son. You have perhaps forgotten it; I will help you.Repeat after me: 'Comfiteor Deo omnipotenti--Beata Maria sempervirgini.'"
He paused from time to time to allow the dying man to catch him up. Thenhe said, "And now confess."
The young wife and Duroy sat still seized on by a strange uneasiness,stirred by anxious expectation. The invalid had murmured something. Thepriest repeated, "You have given way to guilty pleasures--of what kind,my son?"
Madeleine rose and said, "Let us go down into the garden for a shorttime. We must not listen to his secrets."
And they went and sat down on a bench before the door beneath a rosetree in bloom, and beside a bed of pinks, which shed their soft andpowerful perfume abroad in the pure air. Duroy, after a few moments'silence, inquired, "Shall you be long before you return to Paris?"
"Oh, no," she replied. "As soon as it is all over I shall go backthere."
"Within ten days?"
"Yes, at the most."
"He has no relations, then?"
"None except cousins. His father and mother died when he was quiteyoung."
They both watched a butterfly sipping existence from the pinks, passingfrom one to another with a soft flutter of his wings, which continued toflap slowly when he alighted on a flower. They remained silent for aconsiderable time.
The servant came to inform them that "the priest had finished," and theywent upstairs together.
Forestier seemed to have grown still thinner since the day before. Thepriest held out his hand to him, saying, "Good-day, my son, I shall callin again to-morrow morning," and took his departure.
As soon as he had left the room the dying man, who was panting forbreath, strove to hold out his two hands to his wife, and gasped, "Saveme--save me, darling, I don't want to die--I don't want to die. Oh! saveme--tell me what I had better do; send for the doctor. I will takewhatever you like. I won't die--I won't die."
He wept. Big tears streamed from his eyes down his fleshless cheeks, andthe corners of his mouth contracted like those of a vexed child. Thenhis hands, falling back on the bed clothes, began a slow, regular, andcontinuous movement, as though trying to pick something off the sheet.
His wife, who began to cry too, said: "No, no, it is nothing. It is onlya passing attack, you will be better to-morrow, you tired yourself toomuch going out yesterday."
Forestier's breathing was shorter than that of a dog who has beenrunning, so quick that it could not be counted, so faint that it couldscarcely be heard.
He kept repeating: "I don't want to die. Oh! God--God--God; what is tobecome of me? I shall no longer see anything--anything any more. Oh!God."
He saw before him some hideous thing invisible to the others, and hisstaring eyes reflected the terror it inspired. His two hands continuedtheir horrible and wearisome action. All at once he started with a sharpshudder that could be seen to thrill the whole of his body, and jerkedout the words, "The graveyard--I--Oh! God."
He said no more, but lay motionless, haggard and panting.
Time sped on, noon struck by the clock of a neighboring convent. Duroyleft the room to eat a mouthful or two. He came back an hour later.Madame Forestier refused to take anything. The invalid had not stirred.He still continued to draw his thin fingers along the sheet as though topull it up over his face.
His wife was seated in an armchair at the foot of the bed. Duroy tookanother beside her, and they waited in silence. A nurse had come, sentin by the doctor, and was dozing near the window.
Duroy himself was beginning to doze off when he felt that something washappening. He opened his eyes just in time to see Forestier close his,like two lights dying out. A faint rattle stirred in the throat of thedying man, and two streaks of blood appeared at the corners of hismouth, and then flowed down into his shirt. His hands ceased theirhideous motion. He had ceased to breathe.
&n
bsp; His wife understood this, and uttering a kind of shriek, she fell on herknees sobbing, with her face buried in the bed-clothes. George,surprised and scared, mechanically made the sign of the cross. The nurseawakened, drew near the bed. "It is all over," said she.
Duroy, who was recovering his self-possession, murmured, with a sigh ofrelief: "It was sooner over than I thought for."
When the first shock was over and the first tears shed, they had to busythemselves with all the cares and all the necessary steps a dead manexacts. Duroy was running about till nightfall. He was very hungry whenhe got back. Madame Forestier ate a little, and then they both installedthemselves in the chamber of death to watch the body. Two candles burnedon the night-table beside a plate filled with holy water, in which lay asprig of mimosa, for they had not been able to get the necessary twig ofconsecrated box.
They were alone, the young man and the young wife, beside him who was nomore. They sat without speaking, thinking and watching.
George, whom the darkness rendered uneasy in presence of the corpse,kept his eyes on this persistently. His eye and his mind were bothattracted and fascinated by this fleshless visage, which the vacillatinglight caused to appear yet more hollow. That was his friend CharlesForestier, who was chatting with him only the day before! What a strangeand fearful thing was this end of a human being! Oh! how he recalled thewords of Norbert de Varenne haunted by the fear of death: "No one evercomes back." Millions on millions would be born almost identical, witheyes, a nose, a mouth, a skull and a mind within it, without he who laythere on the bed ever reappearing again.
For some years he had lived, eaten, laughed, loved, hoped like all theworld. And it was all over for him all over for ever. Life; a few days,and then nothing. One is born, one grows up, one is happy, one waits,and then one dies. Farewell, man or woman, you will not return again toearth. Plants, beast, men, stars, worlds, all spring to life, and thendie to be transformed anew. But never one of them comes back--insect,man, nor planet.
A huge, confused, and crushing sense of terror weighed down the soul ofDuroy, the terror of that boundless and inevitable annihilationdestroying all existence. He already bowed his head before its menace.He thought of the flies who live a few hours, the beasts who live a fewdays, the men who live a few years, the worlds which live a fewcenturies. What was the difference between one and the other? A few moredays' dawn that was all.
He turned away his eyes in order no longer to have the corpse beforethem. Madame Forestier, with bent head, seemed also absorbed in painfulthoughts. Her fair hair showed so prettily with her pale face, that afeeling, sweet as the touch of hope flitted through the young fellow'sbreast. Why grieve when he had still so many years before him? And hebegan to observe her. Lost in thought she did not notice him. He said tohimself, "That, though, is the only good thing in life, to love, to holdthe woman one loves in one's arms. That is the limit of humanhappiness."
What luck the dead man had had to meet such an intelligent and charmingcompanion! How had they become acquainted? How ever had she agreed onher part to marry that poor and commonplace young fellow? How had shesucceeded in making someone of him? Then he thought of all the hiddenmysteries of people's lives. He remembered what had been whispered aboutthe Count de Vaudrec, who had dowered and married her off it was said.
What would she do now? Whom would she marry? A deputy, as Madame deMarelle fancied, or some young fellow with a future before him, a higherclass Forestier? Had she any projects, any plans, any settled ideas? Howhe would have liked to know that. But why this anxiety as to what shewould do? He asked himself this, and perceived that his uneasiness wasdue to one of those half-formed and secret ideas which one hides fromeven one's self, and only discovers when fathoming one's self to thevery bottom.
Yes, why should he not attempt this conquest himself? How strong andredoubtable he would be with her beside him!
How quick, and far, and surely he would fly! And why should he notsucceed too? He felt that he pleased her, that she had for him more thanmere sympathy; in fact, one of those affections which spring up betweentwo kindred spirits and which partake as much of silent seduction as ofa species of mute complicity. She knew him to be intelligent, resolute,and tenacious, she would have confidence in him.
Had she not sent for him under the present grave circumstances? And whyhad she summoned him? Ought he not to see in this a kind of choice, aspecies of confession. If she had thought of him just at the moment shewas about to become a widow, it was perhaps that she had thought of onewho was again to become her companion and ally? An impatient desire toknow this, to question her, to learn her intentions, assailed him. Hewould have to leave on the next day but one, as he could not remainalone with her in the house. So it was necessary to be quick, it wasnecessary before returning to Paris to become acquainted, cleverly anddelicately, with her projects, and not to allow her to go back on them,to yield perhaps to the solicitations of another, and pledge herselfirrevocably.
The silence in the room was intense, nothing was audible save theregular and metallic tick of the pendulum of the clock on themantelpiece.
He murmured: "You must be very tired?"
She replied: "Yes; but I am, above all, overwhelmed."
The sound of their own voices startled them, ringing strangely in thisgloomy room, and they suddenly glanced at the dead man's face as thoughthey expected to see it move on hearing them, as it had done some hoursbefore.
Duroy resumed: "Oh! it is a heavy blow for you, and such a completechange in your existence, a shock to your heart and your whole life."
She gave a long sigh, without replying, and he continued, "It is sopainful for a young woman to find herself alone as you will be."
He paused, but she said nothing, and he again went on, "At all events,you know the compact entered into between us. You can make what use ofme you will. I belong to you."
She held out her hand, giving him at the same time one of those sweet,sad looks which stir us to the very marrow.
"Thank you, you are very kind," she said. "If I dared, and if I could doanything for you, I, too, should say, 'You may count upon me.'"
He had taken the proffered hand and kept it clasped in his, with aburning desire to kiss it. He made up his mind to this at last, andslowly raising it to his mouth, held the delicate skin, warm, slightlyfeverish and perfumed, to his lips for some time. Then, when he feltthat his friendly caress was on the point of becoming too prolonged, helet fall the little hand. It sank back gently onto the knee of itsmistress, who said, gravely: "Yes, I shall be very lonely, but I shallstrive to be brave."
He did not know how to give her to understand that he would be happy,very happy, to have her for his wife in his turn. Certainly he could nottell her so at that hour, in that place, before that corpse; yet hemight, it seemed to him, hit upon one of those ambiguous, decorous, andcomplicated phrases which have a hidden meaning under their words, andwhich express all one wants to by their studied reticence. But thecorpse incommoded him, the stiffened corpse stretched out before them,and which he felt between them. For some time past, too, he fancied hedetected in the close atmosphere of the room a suspicious odor, afoetid breath exhaling from the decomposing chest, the first whiff ofcarrion which the dead lying on their bed throw out to the relativeswatching them, and with which they soon fill the hollow of theircoffin.
"Cannot we open the window a little?" said Duroy. "It seems to me thatthe air is tainted."
"Yes," she replied, "I have just noticed it, too."
He went to the window and opened it. All the perfumed freshness of nightflowed in, agitating the flame of the two lighted candles beside thebed. The moon was shedding, as on the former evening, her full mellowlight upon the white walls of the villas and the broad glitteringexpanse of the sea. Duroy, drawing in the air to the full depth of hislungs, felt himself suddenly seized with hope, and, as it were buoyed upby the approach of happiness. He turned round, saying: "Come and get alittle fresh air. It is delightful."
Sh
e came quietly, and leant on the window-sill beside him. Then hemurmured in a low tone: "Listen to me, and try to understand what I wantto tell you. Above all, do not be indignant at my speaking to you ofsuch a matter at such a moment, for I shall leave you the day afterto-morrow, and when you return to Paris it may be too late. I am only apoor devil without fortune, and with a position yet to make, as youknow. But I have a firm will, some brains I believe, and I am well onthe right track. With a man who has made his position, one knows whatone gets; with one who is starting, one never knows where he may finish.So much the worse, or so much the better. In short, I told you one dayat your house that my brightest dream would have been to have married awoman like you. I repeat this wish to you now. Do not answer, let mecontinue. It is not a proposal I am making to you. The time and placewould render that odious. I wish only not to leave you ignorant that youcan make me happy with a word; that you can make me either a friend andbrother, or a husband, at your will; that my heart and myself are yours.I do not want you to answer me now. I do not want us to speak any moreabout the matter here. When we meet again in Paris you will let me knowwhat you have resolved upon. Until then, not a word. Is it not so?" Hehad uttered all this without looking at her, as though scattering hiswords abroad in the night before him. She seemed not to have heard them,so motionless had she remained, looking also straight before her with afixed and vague stare at the vast landscape lit up by the moon. Theyremained for some time side by side, elbow touching elbow, silent andreflecting. Then she murmured: "It is rather cold," and turning round,returned towards the bed.
He followed her. When he drew near he recognized that Forestier's bodywas really beginning to smell, and drew his chair to a distance, for hecould not have stood this odor of putrefaction long. He said: "He mustbe put in a coffin the first thing in the morning."
"Yes, yes, it is arranged," she replied. "The undertaker will be here ateight o'clock."
Duroy having sighed out the words, "Poor fellow," she, too, gave a longsigh of heartrending resignation.
They did not look at the body so often now, already accustomed to theidea of it, and beginning to mentally consent to the decease which but ashort time back had shocked and angered them--them who were mortals,too. They no longer spoke, continuing to keep watch in befitting fashionwithout going to sleep. But towards midnight Duroy dozed off the first.When he woke up he saw that Madame Forestier was also slumbering, andhaving shifted to a more comfortable position, he reclosed his eyes,growling: "Confound it all, it is more comfortable between the sheetsall the same."
A sudden noise made him start up. The nurse was entering the room. Itwas broad daylight. The young wife in the armchair in front of himseemed as surprised as himself. She was somewhat pale, but still pretty,fresh-looking, and nice, in spite of this night passed in a chair.
Then, having glanced at the corpse, Duroy started and exclaimed: "Oh,his beard!" The beard had grown in a few hours on this decomposing fleshas much as it would have in several days on a living face. And theystood scared by this life continuing in death, as though in presence ofsome fearful prodigy, some supernatural threat of resurrection, one ofthese startling and abnormal events which upset and confound the mind.
They both went and lay down until eleven o'clock. Then they placedCharles in his coffin, and at once felt relieved and soothed. They hadsat down face to face at lunch with an aroused desire to speak of thelivelier and more consolatory matters, to return to the things of lifeagain, since they had done with the dead. Through the wide-open windowthe soft warmth of spring flowed in, bearing the perfumed breath of thebed of pinks in bloom before the door.
Madame Forestier suggested a stroll in the garden to Duroy, and theybegan to walk slowly round the little lawn, inhaling with pleasure thebalmy air, laden with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. Suddenly shebegan to speak, without turning her head towards him, as he had doneduring the night upstairs. She uttered her words slowly, in a low andserious voice.
"Look here, my dear friend, I have deeply reflected already on what youproposed to me, and I do not want you to go away without an answer.Besides, I am neither going to say yes nor no. We will wait, we willsee, we will know one another better. Reflect, too, on your side. Do notgive way to impulse. But if I speak to you of this before even poorCharles is lowered into the tomb, it is because it is necessary, afterwhat you have said to me, that you should thoroughly understand whatsort of woman I am, in order that you may no longer cherish the wish youexpressed to me, in case you are not of a--of a--disposition tocomprehend and bear with me. Understand me well. Marriage for me is nota charm, but a partnership. I mean to be free, perfectly free as to myways, my acts, my going and coming. I could neither toleratesupervision, nor jealousy, nor arguments as to my behavior. I shouldundertake, be it understood, never to compromise the name of the man whotakes me as his wife, never to render him hateful and ridiculous. Butthis man must also undertake to see in me an equal, an ally, and not aninferior or an obedient and submissive wife. My notions, I know, are notthose of every one, but I shall not change them. There you are. I willalso add, do not answer me; it would be useless and unsuitable. We shallsee one another again, and shall perhaps speak of all this again lateron. Now, go for a stroll. I shall return to watch beside him. Till thisevening."
He printed a long kiss on her hand, and went away without uttering aword. That evening they only saw one another at dinnertime. Then theyretired to their rooms, both exhausted with fatigue.
Charles Forestier was buried the next day, without any funeral display,in the cemetery at Cannes. George Duroy wished to take the Parisexpress, which passed through the town at half-past one.
Madame Forestier drove with him to the station. They walked quietly upand down the platform pending the time for his departure, speaking oftrivial matters.
The train rolled into the station. The journalist took his seat, andthen got out again to have a few more moments' conversation with her,suddenly seized as he was with sadness and a strong regret at leavingher, as though he were about to lose her for ever.
A porter shouted, "Take your seats for Marseilles, Lyons, and Paris."Duroy got in and leant out of the window to say a few more words. Theengine whistled, and the train began to move slowly on.
The young fellow, leaning out of the carriage, watched the womanstanding still on the platform and following him with her eyes.Suddenly, as he was about to lose sight of her, he put his hand to hismouth and threw a kiss towards her. She returned it with a discreet andhesitating gesture.