CHAPTER XXXIII. A WHITE NIGHT

In the carriage, and in her room, she saw again the look of her lover,

that cruel and dolorous look. She knew with what facility he fell into

despair, the promptness of his will not to will. She had seen him run

away thus on the shore of the Arno. Happy then in her sadness and in her

anguish, she could run after him and say, “Come.” Now, again surrounded,

watched, she should have found something to say, and not have let him

go from her dumb and desolate. She had remained surprised, stunned. The

accident had been so absurd and so rapid! She had against Le Menil the

sentiment of simple anger which malicious things cause. She reproached

herself bitterly for having permitted her lover to go without a word,

without a glance, wherein she could have placed her soul.

While Pauline waited to undress her, Therese walked to and fro

impatiently. Then she stopped suddenly. In the obscure mirrors, wherein

the reflections of the candles were drowned, she saw the corridor of the

playhouse, and her beloved flying from her through it.

Where was he now? What was he saying to himself alone? It was torture

for her not to be able to rejoin him and see him again at once.

She pressed her heart with her hands; she was smothering.

Pauline uttered a cry. She saw drops of blood on the white corsage of

her mistress.

Therese, without knowing it, had pricked her hand with the red lily.

She detached the emblematic jewel which she had worn before all as

the dazzling secret of her heart, and, holding it in her fingers,

contemplated it for a long time. Then she saw again the days of

Florence--the cell of San Marco, where her lover’s kiss weighed

delicately on her mouth, while, through her lowered lashes, she vaguely

perceived again the angels and the sky painted on the wall, and the

dazzling fountain of the ice-vender against the bright cloth; the

pavilion of the Via Alfieri, its nymphs, its goats, and the room where

the shepherds and the masks on the screens listened to her sighs and

noted her long silences.

No, all these things were not shadows of the past, spectres of ancient

hours. They were the present reality of her love. And a word stupidly

cast by a stranger would destroy these beautiful things! Happily, it was

not possible. Her love, her lover, did not depend on such insignificant

matters. If only she could run to his house! She would find him before

the fire, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, sad. Then she

would run her fingers through his hair, force him to lift his head, to

see that she loved him, that she was his treasure, palpitating with joy

and love.

She had dismissed her maid. In her bed she thought of only one thing.

It was an accident, an absurd accident. He would understand it; he would

know that their love had nothing to do with anything so stupid. What

folly for him to care about another! As if there were other men in the

world!

M. Martin-Belleme half opened the bedroom door. Seeing a light he went

in.

“You are not asleep, Therese?”

He had been at a conference with his colleagues. He wanted advice from

his wife on certain points. He needed to hear sincere words.

“It is done,” he said. “You will help me, I am sure, in my situation,

which is much envied, but very difficult and even perilous. I owe it to

you somewhat, since it came to me through the powerful influence of your

father.”

He consulted her on the choice of a Chief of Cabinet.

She advised him as best she could. She thought he was sensible, calm,

and not sillier than many others.

He lost himself in reflections.

“I have to defend before the Senate the budget voted by the Chamber of

Deputies. The budget contains innovations which I did not approve. When

I was a deputy I fought against them. Now that I am a minister I must

support them. I saw things from the outside formerly. I see them from

the inside now, and their aspect is changed. And, then, I am free no

longer.”

He sighed:

“Ah, if the people only knew the little that we can do when we are

powerful!”

He told her his impressions. Berthier was reserved. The others were

impenetrable. Loyer alone was excessively authoritative.

She listened to him without attention and without impatience. His pale

face and voice marked for her like a clock the minutes that passed with

intolerable slowness.

Loyer had odd sallies of wit. Immediately after he had declared his

strict adhesion to the Concordat, he said: “Bishops are spiritual

prefects. I will protect them since they belong to me. And through them

I shall hold the guardians of souls, curates.”

He recalled to her that she would have to meet people who were not of

her class and who would shock her by their vulgarity. But his situation

demanded that he should not disdain anybody. At all events, he counted

on her tact and on her devotion.

She looked at him, a little astonished.

“There is no hurry, my dear. We shall see later.”

He was tired. He said good-night and advised her to sleep. She was

ruining her health by reading all night. He left her.

She heard the noise of his footsteps, heavier than usual, while he

traversed the library, encumbered with blue books and journals, to reach

his room, where he would perhaps sleep. Then she felt the weight on her

of the night’s silence. She looked at her watch. It was half-past one.

She said to herself: “He, too, is suffering. He looked at me with so

much despair and anger.”

She was courageous and ardent. She was impatient at being a prisoner.

When daylight came, she would go, she would see him, she would explain

everything to him. It was so clear! In the painful monotony of her

thought, she listened to the rolling of wagons which at long intervals

passed on the quay. That noise preoccupied, almost interested her. She

listened to the rumble, at first faint and distant, then louder, in

which she could distinguish the rolling of the wheels, the creaking

of the axles, the shock of horses’ shoes, which, decreasing little by

little, ended in an imperceptible murmur.

And when silence returned, she fell again into her reverie.

He would understand that she loved him, that she had never loved any one

except him. It was unfortunate that the night was so long. She did not

dare to look at her watch for fear of seeing in it the immobility of

time.

She rose, went to the window, and drew the curtains. There was a pale

light in the clouded sky. She thought it might be the beginning of dawn.

She looked at her watch. It was half-past three.

She returned to the window. The sombre infinity outdoors attracted her.

She looked. The sidewalks shone under the gas-jets. A gentle rain was

falling. Suddenly a voice ascended in the silence; acute, and then

grave, it seemed to be made of several voices replying to one another.

It--was a drunkard disputing with the beings of his dream, to whom he

generously gave utterance, and whom he confounded afterward with great

gestures and in furious sentences. Therese could see the poor man

walk along the parapet in his white blouse, and she could hear words

recurring incessantly: “That is what I say to the government.”

Chilled, she returned to her bed. She thought, “He is jealous, he is

madly jealous. It is a question of nerves and of blood. But his love,

too, is an affair of blood and of nerves. His love and his jealousy are

one and the same thing. Another would understand. It would be sufficient

to please his self-love.” But he was jealous from the depth of his soul.

She knew this; she knew that in him jealousy was a physical torture, a

wound enlarged by imagination. She knew how profound the evil was. She

had seen him grow pale before the bronze St. Mark when she had thrown

the letter in the box on the wall of the old Florentine house at a time

when she was his only in dreams.

She recalled his smothered complaints, his sudden fits of sadness, and

the painful mystery of the words which he repeated frequently: “I can

forget you only when I am with you.” She saw again the Dinard letter and

his furious despair at a word overheard at a wine-shop table. She felt

that the blow had been struck accidentally at the most sensitive point,

at the bleeding wound. But she did not lose courage. She would tell

everything, she would confess everything, and all her avowals would say

to him: “I love you. I have never loved any one except you!” She had not

betrayed him. She would tell him nothing that he had not guessed. She

had lied so little, as little as possible, and then only not to give

him pain. How could he not understand? It was better he should know

everything, since everything meant nothing. She represented to herself

incessantly the same ideas, repeated to herself the same words.

Her lamp gave only a smoky light. She lighted candles. It was six

o’clock. She realized that she had slept. She ran to the window. The sky

was black, and mingled with the earth in a chaos of thick darkness. Then

she was curious to know exactly at what hour the sun would rise. She had

had no idea of this. She thought only that nights were long in December.

She did not think of looking at the calendar. The heavy step of workmen

walking in squads, the noise of wagons of milkmen and marketmen, came

to her ear like sounds of good augury. She shuddered at this first

awakening of the city.