CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED

In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking

of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of

the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy,

who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the

illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and

resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in

language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the

adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark

and blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning

more charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those

magnificent forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was

through him, that she understood art and life. She took no interest in

things that did not interest him. How had this affection come to her?

She had no precise remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul

Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him,

no presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze

statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked

at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel’s. But she did not imagine

that he could be agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists

and lovers of art at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw

him, he pleased her; she had a desire to attract him, to see him often.

The night he dined at her house she realized that she had for him a

noble and elevating affection. But soon after he irritated her a little;

it made her impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little

preoccupied by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in that

state of impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the grille

of the Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of the

Empress seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious

and charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night,

but too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt

a sort of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the

boxwood bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day

or never to see him again.

Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near

her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new.

He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened

in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was

determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her

lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment

she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer,

exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without

being exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea.

If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare

to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and

closing her eyes.

She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when

Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope

marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the

handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only

astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood,

when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson.

In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without

saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to

Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was

happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two

or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he

regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her

house.

“I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He

said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at

Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale

and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not

wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in

persuading you.

“I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary,

that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter

resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it.

Reassure me at once, I pray you.

“Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your

husband and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it

annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in

Paris. I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister.

This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among

fashionable people.”

Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three

fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal

which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand.

In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He

feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under

these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be

taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be

very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return

soon.

Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire,

and calmly watched it burn.

Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had

complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer?

Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so

indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she

had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle

toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn

tranquillity, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was

the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were

separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in

the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she

had not begun to write an answer.

Anxious, she thought: “He trusts me. He suspects nothing.” This made her

more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were

simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others.

She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The

latter said:

“Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you?

Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls

naturally expressed.”

Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, and

said:

“May I look?”

“Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the

popular songs of your country.”

“Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me.”

“Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several

meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very

clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly

disengage one’s self from what one has taken into the heart.”

The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the

Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was

to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along

the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism.

As they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and

terraces ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend

the villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers

of the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and

diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then

she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before.

“You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had

left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate

and polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of

distinction who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my

cook Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them,

but he puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet’s tongue is very

sweet, but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like

Pompaloni’s dish, my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like

Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found

her alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking

mournfully of her husband. I said to her: ‘Do you wish me to think of

your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that

he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame

Marmet, talk to me of him.’ She replied that he had devoted himself

to the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh,

darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who

lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to

Madame Marmet, ‘We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest

little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?’ She

replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to

the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze

figures, grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were

a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the

monkeys--some afflicted with big stomachs, others astonished to show

their bones--Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She

contemplated them like--there is a beautiful French word that escapes

me--like the monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet.”

Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull,

the streets ugly, the passers-by common.

“Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his

palace.”

“I do not think so.”

“Why, darling, why?”

“Because I do not please him much.”

Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great

admirer of the Countess Martin.

The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade

were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held

rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the

most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The

Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into

the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not

an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio

Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now

fallen, had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering

the works of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin

several paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a

Mantegna.

The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection;

she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the

darkness a bit of armor and a white horse.

A valet presented a card.

The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he

was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression

of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors.

Dechartre was on the staircase.

The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero,

but Antinous.

“I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said

Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.”

And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin.

Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos.

Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old

men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable

tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to

her, in a low tone:

“This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world

hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that

Jews could not sell.”

He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green

velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo.

“I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London,

of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that

it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to

sell it for fifty thousand francs.”

The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully.

“There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm

that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old

inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about

it.”

And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures

by the pre-Raphaelites.

Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese.

He had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again,

delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had

imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and

also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed

cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her;

that he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He

murmured bitterly in her ear: “I have reflected. I did not wish to come.

Why did I come?” She understood at once what he meant, that he feared

her now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her

that he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the

desires he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to

understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and

look at bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not

interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt

reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived

the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said “No,

nothing interesting.” The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to

breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused

himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found

himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away

from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled

to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. “You have

permitted me to accompany you.” She asked him if he had not found her

moody and tiresome. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he

feared she was sad.

“Alas,” he added, “your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know

them.” She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. “You do not think

that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?” And she walked away

brusquely.