CHAPTER VI. A DISTINGUISHED RELICT
It was raining. Madame Martin-Belleme saw confusedly through the glass
of her coupe the multitude of passing umbrellas, like black turtles
under the watery skies. She was thinking. Her thoughts were gray and
indistinct, like the aspect of the streets and the squares.
She no longer knew why the idea had come to her to spend a month with
Miss Bell. Truly, she never had known. The idea had been like a spring,
at first hidden by leaves, and now forming the current of a deep and
rapid stream. She remembered that Tuesday night at dinner she had said
suddenly that she wished to go, but she could not remember the first
flush of that desire. It was not the wish to act toward Robert Le Menil
as he was acting toward her. Doubtless she thought it excellent to go
travelling in Italy while he went fox-hunting. This seemed to her a
fair arrangement. Robert, who was always pleased to see her when he came
back, would not find her on his return. She thought this would be right.
She had not thought of it at first. And since then she had thought
little of it, and really she was not going for the pleasure of making
him grieve. She had against him a thought less piquant, and more
harsh. She did not wish to see him soon. He had become to her almost
a stranger. He seemed to her a man like others--better than most
others--good-looking, estimable, and who did not displease her; but he
did not preoccupy her. Suddenly he had gone out of her life. She could
not remember how he had become mingled with it. The idea of belonging
to him shocked her. The thought that they might meet again in the small
apartment of the Rue Spontini was so painful to her that she discarded
it at once. She preferred to think that an unforeseen event would
prevent their meeting again--the end of the world, for example. M.
Lagrange, member of the Academie des Sciences, had told her the day
before of a comet which some day might meet the earth, envelop it with
its flaming hair, imbue animals and plants with unknown poisons, and
make all men die in a frenzy of laughter. She expected that this, or
something else, would happen next month. It was not inexplicable that
she wished to go. But that her desire to go should contain a vague joy,
that she should feel the charm of what she was to find, was inexplicable
to her.
Her carriage left her at the corner of a street.
There, under the roof of a tall house, behind five windows, in a small,
neat apartment, Madame Marmet had lived since the death of her husband.
Countess Martin found her in her modest drawing-room, opposite M.
Lagrange, half asleep in a deep armchair. This worldly old savant had
remained ever faithful to her. He it was who, the day after M. Marmet’s
funeral, had conveyed to the unfortunate widow the poisoned speech
delivered by Schmoll. She had fainted in his arms. Madame Marmet thought
that he lacked judgment, but he was her best friend. They dined together
often with rich friends.
Madame Martin, slender and erect in her zibeline corsage opening on a
flood of lace, awakened with the charming brightness of her gray eyes
the good man, who was susceptible to the graces of women. He had told
her the day before how the world would come to an end. He asked her
whether she had not been frightened at night by pictures of the earth
devoured by flames or frozen to a mass of ice. While he talked to her
with affected gallantry, she looked at the mahogany bookcase. There were
not many books in it, but on one of the shelves was a skeleton in armor.
It amazed one to see in this good lady’s house that Etruscan warrior
wearing a green bronze helmet and a cuirass. He slept among boxes of
bonbons, vases of gilded porcelain, and carved images of the Virgin,
picked up at Lucerne and on the Righi. Madame Marmet, in her widowhood,
had sold the books which her husband had left. Of all the ancient
objects collected by the archaeologist, she had retained nothing except
the Etruscan. Many persons had tried to sell it for her. Paul Vence had
obtained from the administration a promise to buy it for the Louvre, but
the good widow would not part with it. It seemed to her that if she lost
that warrior with his green bronze helmet she would lose the name that
she wore worthily, and would cease to be the widow of Louis Marmet of
the Academie des Inscriptions.
“Do not be afraid, Madame; a comet will not soon strike the earth. Such
a phenomenon is very improbable.”
Madame Martin replied that she knew no serious reason why the earth and
humanity should not be annihilated at once.
Old Lagrange exclaimed with profound sincerity that he hoped the
cataclysm would come as late as possible.
She looked at him. His bald head could boast only a few hairs dyed
black. His eyelids fell like rags over eyes still smiling; his cheeks
hung in loose folds, and one divined that his body was equally withered.
She thought, “And even he likes life!”
Madame Marmet hoped, too, that the end of the world was not near at
hand.
“Monsieur Lagrange,” said Madame Martin, “you live, do you not, in
a pretty little house, the windows of which overlook the Botanical
Gardens? It seems to me it must be a joy to live in that garden, which
makes me think of the Noah’s Ark of my infancy, and of the terrestrial
paradises in the old Bibles.”
But he was not at all charmed with his house. It was small, unimproved,
infested with rats.
She acknowledged that one seldom felt at home anywhere, and that rats
were found everywhere, either real or symbolical, legions of pests that
torment us. Yet she liked the Botanical Gardens; she had always wished
to go there, yet never had gone. There was also the museum, which she
was curious to visit.
Smiling, happy, he offered to escort her there. He considered it his
house. He would show her rare specimens, some of which were superb.
She did not know what a bolide was. She recalled that some one had
said to her that at the museum were bones carved by primitive men, and
plaques of ivory on which were engraved pictures of animals, which were
long ago extinct. She asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to
smile. He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his
colleagues.
“Ah!” said Madame Martin, “then they are not in your showcase.”
She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is
indiscreet to question them on things that are not in their own
showcases. It is true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in
studying meteors. This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For
twenty years he had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out.
When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected
of her.
“I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming
with me.”
The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent
for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented.