第 38 页

me. Oh! I'm well aware that he looks big and strong; but to know him

properly one must have nursed and watched him as I have done! What

trouble I had to rear him! In reality he is at the mercy of any petty

ailment. His slightest complaint becomes serious illness. And the life he

leads does not conduce to good health."

She paused and sighed, hesitating to carry her confession further.

"He leads the life he can," slowly responded the Marquis de Morigny, of

whose delicate profile, and lofty yet loving bearing, little could be

seen in the gloom. "As he was unable to endure military life, and as even

the fatigues of diplomacy frighten you, what would you have him do? He

can only live apart pending the final collapse, while this abominable

Republic is dragging France to the grave."

"No doubt, my friend. And yet it is just that idle life which frightens

me. He is losing in it all that was good and healthy in him. I don't

refer merely to the _liaisons_ which we have had to tolerate. The last

one, which I found so much difficulty in countenancing at the outset, so

contrary did it seem to all my ideas and beliefs, has since seemed to me

to exercise almost a good influence. Only he is now entering his

thirty-sixth year, and can he continue living in this fashion without

object or duties? If he is ailing it is perhaps precisely because he does

nothing, holds no position, and serves no purpose." Her voice again

quavered. "And then, my friend, since you force me to tell you

everything, I must own that I am not in good health myself. I have had

several fainting fits of late, and have consulted a doctor. The truth is,

that I may go off at any moment."

With a quiver, Morigny leant forward in the still deepening gloom, and

wished to take hold of her hands. "You! what, am I to lose you, my last

affection!" he faltered, "I who have seen the old world I belong to

crumble away, I who only live in the hope that you at all events will

still be here to close my eyes!"

But she begged him not to increase her grief: "No, no, don't take my

hands, don't kiss them! Remain there in the shade, where I can scarcely

see you.... We have loved one another so long without aught to cause

shame or regret; and that will prove our strength--our divine

strength--till we reach the grave.... And if you were to touch me, if

I were to feel you too near me I could not finish, for I have not done so

yet."

As soon as he had relapsed into silence and immobility, she continued:

"If I were to die to-morrow, Gerard would not even find here the little

fortune which he still fancies is in my hands. The dear child has often

cost me large sums of money without apparently being conscious of it. I

ought to have been more severe, more prudent. But what would you have?

Ruin is at hand. I have always been too weak a mother. And do you now

understand in what anguish I live? I ever have the thought that if I die

Gerard will not even possess enough to live on, for he is incapable of

effecting the miracle which I renew each day, in order to keep the house

up on a decent footing.... Ah! I know him, so supine, so sickly, in

spite of his proud bearing, unable to do anything, even conduct himself.

And so what will become of him; will he not fall into the most dire

distress?"

Then her tears flowed freely, her heart opened and bled, for she foresaw

what must happen after her death: the collapse of her race and of a whole

world in the person of that big child. And the Marquis, still motionless

but distracted, feeling that he had no title to offer his own fortune,

suddenly understood her, foresaw in what disgrace this fresh disaster

would culminate.

"Ah! my poor friend!" he said at last in a voice trembling with revolt

and grief. "So you have agreed to that marriage--yes, that abominable

marriage with that woman's daughter! Yet you swore it should never be!

You would rather witness the collapse of everything, you said. And now

you are consenting, I can feel it!"

She still wept on in that black, silent drawing-room before the

chimney-piece where the fire had died out. Did not Gerard's marriage to

Camille mean a happy ending for herself, a certainty of leaving her son

wealthy, loved, and seated at the banquet of life? However, a last

feeling of rebellion arose within her.

"No, no," she exclaimed, "I don't consent, I swear to you that I don't

consent as yet. I am fighting with my whole strength, waging an incessant

battle, the torture of which you cannot imagine."

Then, in all sincerity, she foresaw the likelihood of defeat. "If I

should some day give way, my friend, at all events believe that I feel,

as fully as you do, how abominable such a marriage must be. It will be

the end of our race and our honour!"

This cry profoundly stirred the Marquis, and he was unable to add a word.

Haughty and uncompromising Catholic and Royalist that he was, he, on his

side also, expected nothing but the supreme collapse. Yet how

heartrending was the thought that this noble woman, so dearly and so

purely loved, would prove one of the most mournful victims of the

catastrophe! And in the shrouding gloom he found courage to kneel before

her, take her hand, and kiss it.

Just as the servant was at last bringing a lighted lamp Gerard made his

appearance. The past-century charm of the old Louis XVI. drawing-room,

with its pale woodwork, again became apparent in the soft light. In order

that his mother might not be over-saddened by his failure to dine with

her that evening the young man had put on an air of brisk gaiety; and

when he had explained that some friends were waiting for him, she at once

released him from his promise, happy as she felt at seeing him so merry.

"Go, go, my dear boy," said she, "but mind you do not tire yourself too

much.... I am going to keep Morigny; and the General and Larombiere

are coming at nine o'clock. So be easy, I shall have someone with me to

keep me from fretting and feeling lonely."

In this wise Gerard after sitting down for a moment and chatting with the

Marquis was able to slip away, dress, and betake himself to the Cafe

Anglais.

When he reached it women in fur cloaks were already climbing the stairs,

fashionable and merry parties were filling the private rooms, the

electric lights shone brilliantly, and the walls were already vibrating

with the stir of pleasure and debauchery. In the room which Baron

Duvillard had engaged the young man found an extraordinary display, the

most superb flowers, and a profusion of plate and crystal as for a royal

gala. The pomp with which the six covers were laid called forth a smile;

while the bill of fare and the wine list promised marvels, all the rarest

and most expensive things that could be selected.

"It's stylish, isn't it?" exclaimed Silviane, who was already there with

Duvillard, Fonsegue and Duthil. "I just wanted to make your influential

critic open his eyes a little! When one treats a journalist to such a

dinner as this, he has got to be amiable, hasn't he?"

In her desire to conquer, it had occurred to the young woman to array

herself in the most amazing fashion. Her gown of yellow satin, covered

with old Alencon lace, was cut low at the neck; and she had put on all

her diamonds, a necklace, a diadem, shoulder-knots, bracelets and rings.

With her candid, girlish face, she looked like some Virgin in a missal, a

Queen-Virgin, laden with the offerings of all Christendom.

"Well, well, you look so pretty," said Gerard, who sometimes jested with

her, "that I think it will do all the same."

"Ah!" she replied with equanimity. "You consider me a _bourgeoise_, I

see. Your opinion is that a simple little dinner and a modest gown would

have shown better taste. But ah! my dear fellow, you don't know the way

to get round men!"

Duvillard signified his approval, for he was delighted to be able to show

her in all her glory, adorned like an idol. Fonsegue, for his part,

talked of diamonds, saying that they were now doubtful investments, as

the day when they would become articles of current manufacture was fast

approaching, thanks to the electrical furnace and other inventions.

Meantime Duthil, with an air of ecstasy and the dainty gestures of a

lady's maid, hovered around the young woman, either smoothing a

rebellious bow or arranging some fold of her lace.

"But I say," resumed Silviane, "your critic seems to be an ill-bred man,

for he's keeping us waiting."

Indeed, the critic arrived a quarter of an hour late, and while

apologising, he expressed his regret that he should be obliged to leave

at half-past nine, for he was absolutely compelled to put in an

appearance at a little theatre in the Rue Pigalle. He was a big fellow of

fifty with broad shoulders and a full, bearded face. His most

disagreeable characteristic was the narrow dogmatic pedantry which he had

acquired at the Ecole Normale, and had never since been able to shake

off. All his herculean efforts to be sceptical and frivolous, and the

twenty years he had spent in Paris mingling with every section of

society, had failed to rid him of it. _Magister_ he was, and _magister_

he remained, even in his most strenuous flights of imagination and

audacity. From the moment of his arrival he tried to show himself

enraptured with Silviane. Naturally enough, he already knew her by sight,

and had even criticised her on one occasion in five or six contemptuous

lines. However, the sight of her there, in full beauty, clad like a

queen, and presented by four influential protectors, filled him with

emotion; and he was struck with the idea that nothing would be more

Parisian and less pedantic than to assert she had some talent and give

her his support.

They had seated themselves at table, and the repast proved a magnificent

one, the service ever prompt and assiduous, an attendant being allotted

to each diner. While the flowers scattered their perfumes through the

room, and the plate and crystal glittered on the snowy cloth, an

abundance of delicious and unexpected dishes were handed round--a

sturgeon from Russia, prohibited game, truffles as big as eggs, and

hothouse vegetables and fruit as full of flavour as if they had been

naturally matured. It was money flung out of window, simply for the

pleasure of wasting more than other people, and eating what they could

not procure. The influential critic, though he displayed the ease of a

man accustomed to every sort of festivity, really felt astonished at it

all, and became servile, promising his support, and pledging himself far

more than he really wished to. Moreover, he showed himself very gay,

found some witty remarks to repeat, and even some rather ribald jests.

But when the champagne appeared after the roast and the grand burgundies,

his over-excitement brought him back perforce to his real nature. The

conversation had now turned on Corneille's "Polyeucte" and the part of

"Pauline," in which Silviane wished to make her _debut_ at the Comedie

Francaise. This extraordinary caprice, which had quite revolted the

influential critic a week previously, now seemed to him simply a bold

enterprise in which the young woman might even prove victorious if she

consented to listen to his advice. And, once started, he delivered quite

a lecture on the past, asserting that no actress had ever yet understood

it properly, for at the outset Pauline was simply a well-meaning little

creature of the middle classes, and the beauty of her conversion at the

finish arose from the working of a miracle, a stroke of heavenly grace

which endowed her with something divine. This was not the opinion of

Silviane, who from the first lines regarded Pauline as the ideal heroine

of some symbolical legend. However, as the critic talked on and on, she

had to feign approval; and he was delighted at finding her so beautiful

and docile beneath his ferule. At last, as ten o'clock was striking, he

rose and tore out of the hot and reeking room in order to do his work.

"Ah! my dears," cried Silviane, "he's a nice bore is that critic of

yours! What a fool he is with his idea of Pauline being a little

_bourgeoise_! I would have given him a fine dressing if it weren't for

the fact that I have some need of him. Ah! no, it's too idiotic! Pour me

out a glass of champagne. I want something to set me right after all

that!"

The _fete_ then took quite an intimate turn between the four men who

remained and that bare-armed, bare-breasted girl, covered with diamonds;

while from the neighbouring passages and rooms came bursts of laughter

and sounds of kissing, all the stir and mirth of the debauchery now

filling the house. And beneath the windows torrents of vehicles and

pedestrians streamed along the Boulevards where reigned the wild fever of

pleasure and harlotry.

"No, don't open it, or I shall catch cold!" resumed Silviane, addressing

Fonsegue as he stepped towards the window. "Are you so very warm, then?

I'm just comfortable.... But, Duvillard, my good fellow, please order

some more champagne. It's wonderful what a thirst your critic has given

me!"

Amidst the blinding glare of the lamps and the perfume of the flowers and

wines, one almost stifled in the room. And Silviane was seized with an

irresistible desire for a spree, a desire to tipple and amuse herself in

some vulgar fashion, as in her bygone days. A few glasses of champagne

brought her to full pitch, and she showed the boldest and giddiest

gaiety. The others, who had never before seen her so lively, began on

their own side to feel amused. As Fonsegue was obliged to go to his

office she embraced him "like a daughter," as she expressed it. However,

on remaining alone with the others she indulged in great freedom of

speech, which became more and more marked as her intoxication increased.