LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

his young colleague—Marmet was not fifty years old—with reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without rancor. It is a virtue of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. Marmet refused to take it, and said ‘I do not know you.’—‘Do you take me for a Latin inscription?’ Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried because of that satire. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his enemy with horror.”

      “And I have made them dine together, side by side.”

      “Madame, it was not immoral, but it was cruel.”

      “My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.”

      A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed with brusque suppleness.

      “Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.”

      They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s.

      “Madame Meillan’s—there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul Vence.

      “Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil. “I do not exaggerate their value, but they are the elite.”

      Madame Martin smiled.

      “We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are preoccupied by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.”

      “What wolves?”

      “Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty a woman your conversation was rather savage!”

      Paul Vence rose.

      “So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease you. There is life in his mind. He is full of ideas.”

      “Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said. “People that are natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes they amuse me.”

      When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps had vanished; then, coming nearer:

      “To-morrow, at three o’clock? Do you still love me?”

      He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her husband would come.

      He entreated. Then she said:

      “I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o’clock.”

      He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished introduced to her.

      “I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. He is a sculptor.”

      He deplored the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding:

      “A sculptor? They are usually brutal.”

      “Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I should meet him, I will not do so.”

      “I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give to me.”

      “My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame Meillan’s yesterday.”

      “You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a house for you.”

      He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored intrigue. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence of her mind. She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal attraction the charm of things that art had created.

      He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze in the ashes, she said:

      “We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where misery dwells.”

      He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and he thought them dangerous. People might see them.

      “And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip—”

      She shook her head.

      “Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know or do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is said.”

      She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for some reason which she would not tell. He bent upon her beautiful, grave eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured him.

      “I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? Nothing matters.”

      He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. Then she began again to read in the ashes.

      She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent awakening of her imagination threw her into a troubled maze of desires and of fears. When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary thing. She should have known this. She thought:

      “I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid taste of life, and seemed to inhale the future like a salt and pungent aroma. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?”

      She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible force of character, a rare alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as if he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive and powerful atheist, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with the brutality of his temperament and the shrewdness of his mind.

      Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished at Joinville, delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died one night of sadness and exhaustion, never having loved anything on earth except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue Maubeuge.

      She never had had any intimacy with her daughter, whom she felt instinctively too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong Montessuy blood, the ardor which had made her suffer so much, and which she forgave in her husband,

Скачать книгу