第 46 页

concluded that he must have been mistaken. This public room, which had a

kind of glazed verandah overlooking the Bois, contained a few chairs and

tables, the latter with marble tops. On the first floor there were four

or five private rooms reached by a narrow passage. Though the doors were

open the place had as yet scarcely emerged from its winter's rest. There

was nobody about, and on all sides one found the dampness common to

establishments which, from lack of custom, are compelled to close from

November until March. In the rear were some stables, a coach-house, and

various mossy, picturesque outbuildings, which painters and gardeners

would now soon embellish for the gay pleasure parties which the fine

weather would bring.

"I really think that they haven't opened for the season yet," said

Guillaume as he entered the silent house.

"At all events they will let us stay here till the rain stops," answered

Pierre, seating himself at one of the little tables.

However, a waiter suddenly made his appearance seemingly in a great

hurry. He had come down from the first floor, and eagerly rummaged a

cupboard for a few dry biscuits, which he laid upon a plate. At last he

condescended to serve the brothers two glasses of Chartreuse.

In one of the private rooms upstairs Baroness Duvillard, who had driven

to the chalet in a cab, had been awaiting her lover Gerard for nearly

half an hour. It was there that, during the charity bazaar, they had

given each other an appointment. For them the chalet had precious

memories: two years previously, on discovering that secluded nest, which

was so deserted in the early, hesitating days of chilly spring, they had

met there under circumstances which they could not forget. And the

Baroness, in choosing the house for the supreme assignation of their

dying passion, had certainly not been influenced merely by a fear that

she might be spied upon elsewhere. She had, indeed, thought of the first

kisses that had been showered on her there, and would fain have revived

them even if they should now prove the last that Gerard would bestow on

her.

But she would also have liked to see some sunlight playing over the

youthful foliage. The ashen sky and threatening rain saddened her. And

when she entered the private room she did not recognise it, so cold and

dim it seemed with its faded furniture. Winter had tarried there, with

all the dampness and mouldy smell peculiar to rooms which have long

remained closed. Then, too, some of the wall paper which had come away

from the plaster hung down in shreds, dead flies were scattered over the

parquetry flooring; and in order to open the shutters the waiter had to

engage in a perfect fight with their fastenings. However, when he had

lighted a little gas-stove, which at once flamed up and diffused some

warmth, the room became more cosy.

Eve had seated herself on a chair, without raising the thick veil which

hid her face. Gowned, gloved, and bonneted in black, as if she were

already in mourning for her last passion, she showed naught of her own

person save her superb fair hair, which glittered like a helm of tawny

gold. She had ordered tea for two, and when the waiter brought it with a

little plateful of dry biscuits, left, no doubt, from the previous

season, he found her in the same place, still veiled and motionless,

absorbed, it seemed, in a gloomy reverie. If she had reached the cafe

half an hour before the appointed time it was because she desired some

leisure and opportunity to overcome her despair and compose herself. She

resolved that of all things she would not weep, that she would remain

dignified and speak calmly, like one who, whatever rights she might

possess, preferred to appeal to reason only. And she was well pleased

with the courage that she found within her. Whilst thinking of what she

should say to dissuade Gerard from a marriage which to her mind would

prove both a calamity and a blunder, she fancied herself very calm,

indeed almost resigned to whatsoever might happen.

But all at once she started and began to tremble. Gerard was entering the

room.

"What! are you here the first, my dear?" he exclaimed. "I thought that I

myself was ten minutes before the time! And you've ordered some tea and

are waiting for me!"

He forced a smile as he spoke, striving to display the same delight at

seeing her as he had shown in the early golden days of their passion. But

at heart he was much embarrassed, and he shuddered at the thought of the

awful scene which he could foresee.

She had at last risen and raised her veil. And looking at him she

stammered: "Yes, I found myself at liberty earlier than I expected....

I feared some impediment might arise... and so I came."

Then, seeing how handsome and how affectionate he still looked, she could

not restrain her passion. All her skilful arguments, all her fine

resolutions, were swept away. Her flesh irresistibly impelled her towards

him; she loved him, she would keep him, she would never surrender him to

another. And she wildly flung her arms around his neck.

"Oh! Gerard, Gerard! I suffer too cruelly; I cannot, I cannot bear it!

Tell me at once that you will not marry her, that you will never marry

her!"

Her voice died away in a sob, tears started from her eyes. Ah! those

tears which she had sworn she would never shed! They gushed forth without

cessation, they streamed from her lovely eyes like a flood of the

bitterest grief.

"My daughter, O God! What! you would marry my daughter! She, here, on

your neck where I am now! No, no, such torture is past endurance, it must

not be, I will not have it!"

He shivered as he heard that cry of frantic jealousy raised by a mother

who now was but a woman, maddened by the thought of her rival's youth,

those five and twenty summers which she herself had left far behind. For

his part, on his way to the assignation, he had come to what he thought

the most sensible decision, resolving to break off the intercourse after

the fashion of a well-bred man, with all sorts of fine consolatory

speeches. But sternness was not in his nature. He was weak and

soft-hearted, and had never been able to withstand a woman's tears.

Nevertheless, he endeavoured to calm her, and in order to rid himself of

her embrace, he made her sit down upon the sofa. And there, beside her,

he replied: "Come, be reasonable, my dear. We came here to have a

friendly chat, did we not? I assure you that you are greatly exaggerating

matters."

But she was determined to obtain a more positive answer from him. "No,

no!" she retorted, "I am suffering too dreadfully, I must know the truth

at once. Swear to me that you will never, never marry her!"

He again endeavoured to avoid replying as she wished him to do. "Come,

come," he said, "you will do yourself harm by giving way to such grief as

this; you know that I love you dearly."

"Then swear to me that you will never, never marry her."

"But I tell you that I love you, that you are the only one I love."

Then she again threw her arms around him, and kissed him passionately

upon the eyes. "Is it true?" she asked in a transport. "You love me, you

love no one else? Oh! tell me so again, and kiss me, and promise me that

you will never belong to her."

Weak as he was he could not resist her ardent caresses and pressing

entreaties. There came a moment of supreme cowardice and passion; her

arms were around him and he forgot all but her, again and again repeating

that he loved none other, and would never, never marry her daughter. At

last he even sank so low as to pretend that he simply regarded that poor,

infirm creature with pity. His words of compassionate disdain for her

rival were like nectar to Eve, for they filled her with the blissful idea

that it was she herself who would ever remain beautiful in his eyes and

whom he would ever love....

At last silence fell between them, like an inevitable reaction after such

a tempest of despair and passion. It disturbed Gerard. "Won't you drink

some tea?" he asked. "It is almost cold already."

She was not listening, however. To her the reaction had come in a

different form; and as though the inevitable explanation were only now

commencing, she began to speak in a sad and weary voice. "My dear Gerard,

you really cannot marry my daughter. In the first place it would be so

wrong, and then there is the question of your name, your position.

Forgive my frankness, but the fact is that everybody would say that you

had sold yourself--such a marriage would be a scandal for both your

family and mine."

As she spoke she took hold of his hands, like a mother seeking to prevent

her big son from committing some terrible blunder. And he listened to

her, with bowed head and averted eyes. She now evinced no anger, no

jealous rage; all such feelings seemed to have departed with the rapture

of her passion.

"Just think of what people would say," she continued. "I don't deceive

myself, I am fully aware that there is an abyss between your circle of

society and ours. It is all very well for us to be rich, but money simply

enlarges the gap. And it was all very fine for me to be converted, my

daughter is none the less 'the daughter of the Jewess,' as folks so often

say. Ah! my Gerard, I am so proud of you, that it would rend my heart to

see you lowered, degraded almost, by a marriage for money with a girl who

is deformed, who is unworthy of you and whom you could never love."

He raised his eyes and looked at her entreatingly, anxious as he was to

be spared such painful talk. "But haven't I sworn to you, that you are

the only one I love?" he said. "Haven't I sworn that I would never marry

her! It's all over. Don't let us torture ourselves any longer."

Their glances met and lingered on one another, instinct with all the

misery which they dared not express in words. Eve's face had suddenly

aged; her eyelids were red and swollen, and blotches marbled her

quivering cheeks, down which her tears again began to trickle. "My poor,

poor Gerard," said she, "how heavily I weigh on you. Oh! do not deny it!

I feel that I am an intolerable burden on your shoulders, an impediment

in your life, and that I shall bring irreparable disaster on you by my

obstinacy in wishing you to be mine alone."

He tried to speak, but she silenced him. "No, no, all is over between us.

I am growing ugly, all is ended. And besides, I shut off the future from

you. I can be of no help to you, whereas you bestow all on me. And yet

the time has come for you to assure yourself a position. At your age you

can't continue living without any certainty of the morrow, without a home

and hearth of your own; and it would be cowardly and cruel of me to set

myself up as an obstacle, and prevent you from ending your life happily,

as I should do if I clung to you and dragged you down with me."

Gazing at him through her tears she continued speaking in this fashion.

Like his mother she was well aware that he was weak and even sickly; and

she therefore dreamt of arranging a quiet life for him, a life of

tranquil happiness free from all fear of want. She loved him so fondly;

and possessed so much genuine kindness of heart that perhaps it might be

possible for her to rise even to renunciation and sacrifice. Moreover,

the very egotism born of her beauty suggested that it might be well for

her to think of retirement and not allow the autumn of her life to be

spoilt by torturing dramas. All this she said to him, treating him like a

child whose happiness she wished to ensure even at the price of her own;

and he, his eyes again lowered, listened without further protest, pleased

indeed to let her arrange a happy life for him.

Examining the situation from every aspect, she at last began to

recapitulate the points in favour of that abominable marriage, the

thought of which had so intensely distressed her. "It is certain," she

said, "that Camille would bring you all that I should like you to have.

With her, I need hardly say it, would come plenty, affluence. And as for

the rest, well, I do not wish to excuse myself or you, but I could name

twenty households in which there have been worse things. Besides, I was

wrong when I said that money opened a gap between people. On the

contrary, it draws them nearer together, it secures forgiveness for every

fault; so nobody would dare to blame you, there would only be jealous

ones around you, dazzled by your good fortune."

Gerard rose, apparently rebelling once more. "Surely," said he, "_you_

don't insist on my marrying your daughter?"

"Ah! no indeed! But I am sensible, and I tell you what I ought to tell

you. You must think it all over."

"I have done so already. It is you that I have loved, and that I love

still. What you say is impossible."

She smiled divinely, rose, and again embraced him. "How good and kind you

are, my Gerard. Ah! if you only knew how I love you, how I shall always

love you, whatever happens."

Then she again began to weep, and even he shed tears. Their good faith

was absolute; tender of heart as they were, they sought to delay the

painful wrenching and tried to hope for further happiness. But they were

conscious that the marriage was virtually an accomplished fact. Only

tears and words were left them, while life and destiny were marching on.

And if their emotion was so acute it was probably because they felt that

this was the last time they would meet as lovers. Still they strove to

retain the illusion that they were not exchanging their last farewell,

that their lips would some day meet again in a kiss of rapture.

Eve removed her arms from the young man's neck, and they both gazed round

the room, at the sofa, the table, the four chairs, and the little hissing

gas-stove. The moist, hot atmosphere was becoming quite oppressive.