CHAPTER IV. THE END OF A DREAM

In the little shadowy room, where sound was deadened by curtains,

portieres, cushions, bearskins, and carpets from the Orient, the

firelight shone on glittering swords hanging among the faded favors of

the cotillons of three winters. The rosewood chiffonier was surmounted

by a silver cup, a prize from some sporting club. On a porcelain plaque,

in the centre of the table, stood a crystal vase which held branches

of white lilacs; and lights palpitated in the warm shadows. Therese and

Robert, their eyes accustomed to obscurity, moved easily among these

familiar objects. He lighted a cigarette while she arranged her hair,

standing before the mirror, in a corner so dim she could hardly see

herself. She took pins from the little Bohemian glass cup standing on

the table, where she had kept it for three years. He looked at her,

passing her light fingers quickly through the gold ripples of her hair,

while her face, hardened and bronzed by the shadow, took on a mysterious

expression. She did not speak.

He said to her:

“You are not cross now, my dear?”

And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said:

“What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said

at first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from

General Lariviere.”

He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained

cold and reserved toward him. But he affected to think that she only

pouted.

“My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I

met Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my

promise to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I

meant to tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere

told you first, but there was no significance in that.”

Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a

glance from her tranquil eyes, which he did not understand.

“Then you are going?”

“Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at

most.”

She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented with a branch of holly.

“Is it something that you can not postpone?”

“Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover,

Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence.”

Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned.

“Is fox-hunting interesting?”

“Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems that one must fathom. The

intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at

night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you

it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do

not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half

a dozen skins.”

“What do you wish me to do with them?”

“Oh, you can make rugs of them.”

“And you will be hunting eight days?”

“Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at

this time there was a delightful reunion at her house. She had with her

her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five

women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable. I shall probably

find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt’s

birthday, and I shall remain there two days.”

“My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable

if you shortened on my account a sojourn which is so agreeable.”

“But you, Therese?”

“I, my friend? I can take care of myself.”

The fire was languishing. The shadows were deepening between them. She

said, in a dreamy tone:

“It is true, however, that it is never prudent to leave a woman alone.”

He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her

hand.

“You love me?” he said.

“Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but--”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I am thinking--I am thinking that we are separated all through

the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends

half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is

better not to see each other at all.”

He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated. He

looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit common

to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her

through force of education and simplicity of intelligence.

“Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment me?

Sometimes you are painfully harsh.”

She shook her little head brusquely.

“What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate. It is in the blood. I

take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the

castle, the ceilings, the tapestries, the gardens, the park, the

hunting-grounds, you have said that none better were in France; but you

have not seen my father’s workshop--a white wooden table and a mahogany

bureau. Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my

father made figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in

the apartment where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a

parvenu’s daughter, or a conqueror’s daughter, it’s all the same. We are

people of material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess

what he could buy--that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep--what?

I do not know--the happiness that I have--or that I have not. I have my

own way of being exacting. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know

very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in

giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something,

because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or

think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what

is due to me. And then--”

She lowered her voice:

“And then, I have--impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you

have? You shouldn’t have loved me.”

This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his

pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she

did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to

a woman’s words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often

words are the same as actions.

Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength

and confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims, which he

judged absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her;

and, naively, he always ended by playing it.

“You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be

agreeable to you. Don’t be capricious with me.”

“And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not

because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I

was capricious.”

He looked at her, astonished and saddened.

“The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was

love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you

loved me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the

satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my

desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone.

You are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your

foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?”

He replied, very sincerely:

“If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice

that small pleasure with great joy.”

She felt that he spoke the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling

the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he

would not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would

seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to

take his reason seriously, and said:

“Ah, you have promised!”

And she affected to yield.

Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her

listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn.

He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids

as a reward. He said:

“We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I

will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here

to-morrow?”

She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the

next day nor any other day.

Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her.

The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity

fair, exhibitions. As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to

increase. The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the

exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see

him again before his departure.

As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to

observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed

by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained

silent and unhappy.

With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on

the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the

sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she

turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little

mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic emotion:

“Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little

visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!”

She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a

point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely

forced him to do so.

In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world,

without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was

her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But

the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights,

enveloped her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so

agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold

of winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains

of the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and

there. These small shops, these monotonous windows, were nothing to her.

Yet she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship

of inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of

houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly upon her. She

was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between

the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had

taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day

brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had

left a subtle, strange, persistent sting, which would never leave her.

What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced everything. She

had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room

which had so recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her

life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made

to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of

herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which

was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had

not allowed herself to be taken at random and by surprise. She had done

what she had wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to

do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it

was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at

an end. She thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had

been given to an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved.

“For I loved him. I must have loved him in order to give myself to him.”

But she could not feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements

of her mind when she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant

circumstances: the flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the

room. She recalled the words, a little ridiculous and almost touching,

that he had said to her. But it seemed to her that the adventure had

occurred to another woman, to a stranger whom she did not like and whom

she hardly understood. And what had happened only a moment ago seemed

far distant now. The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little

cup of Bohemian glass where she found her pins--she saw all these things

as if through a window that one passes in the street. She was without

bitterness, and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas!

This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against

her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew it.

She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her being.

She said to herself: “I have no reason to love him less. Do I love him

no more? Did I ever love him?” She did not know and she did not care to

know. Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen

each other every day--was all this nothing? Life is not a great thing.

And what one puts in it, how little that is!

In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end

it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not

a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state

of the body and of the mind.

When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain,

and on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its

bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that

he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame. They had

loved each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened

at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor

little flower skeleton, in her memory.

While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her

dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and

the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a

crisis. She thought: “How do other women manage such things? And I, who

promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?”

Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil

disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made

of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the

other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized

her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her;

she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few

steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this

place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal

a glimpse of the sky.

He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of

her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively.

“Graceful movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.”

She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause

of her good health.

He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The

mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages

had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm.

He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the

Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother

country of his mind.

“I shall go there next week,” he said. “I long to see again Ravenna

asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen

Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms

appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale,

with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one

feel the monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its

silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its

crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the

sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius,

seated on her golden chair, erect in her gown studded with stones and

embroidered with scenes from the Old Testament; her beautiful, cruel

face preserved hard and black with aromatic plants, and her ebony

hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she retained this

funereal majesty, until one day a child passed a candle through the

opening of the grave and burned the body.”

Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her

conceit, had done during her life.

“Twice a slave,” said Dechartre, “she became twice an empress.”

“She must have been beautiful,” said Madame Martin. “You have made

me see her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to

Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals

bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I

still like Venice, after being there three times.”

He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice.

Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made

studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere.

“Elsewhere,” he said, “even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice

it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops

lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the

iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice

is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women

are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If

nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that

bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they

form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant

necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the

suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head

resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by

two choir-boys.”

He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas,

sometimes quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost

outstripped him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and

supple carriage. He observed the little shake which at moments her

obstinate head gave to the holly on her toque.

Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate,

with a young woman almost unknown.

They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows

of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of

boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay.

One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in

misty days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights

of the city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three

golden nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued:

“Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at

her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with

small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in

the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant as

a flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most

beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a

butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head.”

At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two

lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly.

“It is true that at Venice,” she said, “all women are pretty.”

“They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls--the

cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are

commonplace enough.”

“By others you mean society women; and you don’t like these?”

“Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them,

that’s a different affair.”

“Do you think so?”

She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner.