III
Nor could Yvette sleep. Like her mother, she sat at the open window, resting her elbows on the sill, and tears, her first bitter tears, filled her eyes.
Till now she had lived and grown up in the heedless and serene self-confidence of happy youth. Why should she have analysed, wondered, reflected? Why should she not have been like all young girls of her age? Why should doubt, fear, painful suspicions have troubled her? Because she seemed to talk about every subject, because she had taken the tone, the manner, the bold speech of those around her, she had seemed to know all about everything. But she knew hardly more than a girl brought up in a convent; her risky phrases came from her memory, from the faculty women possess of imitation and assimilation, not from a mind already sophisticated and debauched.
She talked of love in the same way that an artist’s or musician’s son talks of painting and music at ten or twelve years of age. She knew, or rather suspected, the sort of mystery hidden behind this word—too many jests had been whispered in her presence for her innocence to remain completely unenlightened—but how was she to tell from this that every household was not like the one she lived in? Her mother’s hand was kissed with apparent respect; all their friends were titled; all were rich, or appeared to be; all spoke familiarly of princes of the blood royal. Two king’s sons had actually come several times, in the evening, to the Marquise’s house. How was she to know?
And, besides, she was by nature innocent. She did not probe into things, she had not her mother’s intuitive judgment of other people. She lived tranquilly, too full of the joy of life to worry about circumstances which might have roused suspicions in people of more quiet, more thoughtful, more secluded ways, who were less impulsive and less radiantly joyous. And now, in a single instant, by a few words whose brutality she had felt without understanding, Servigny had roused in her a sudden uneasiness, an uneasiness at first unreasoning, and now growing into a torturing fear.
She had gone home, had fled from him like a wounded animal; deeply wounded, indeed, by the words she repeated to herself again and again, trying to penetrate their farthest meaning, trying to guess their whole implication: “You know perfectly well that there can be no question of marriage between us—but of love!”
What had he meant? And why the harshness? There was something, then, some shameful secret, of which she was in ignorance? Doubtless she was the only one in ignorance of it. What was it? She was terrified, crushed, as at the discovery of a hidden infamy, the treachery of a friend, one of those calamities of the heart which strike at one’s very reason.
She had thought, wondered, pored over it, wept, consumed with fears and suspicions. Then her young and buoyant nature calmed her, and she began to imagine an adventure, to build up an unusual and dramatic situation drawn from her remembrance of all the fanciful romances she had read. She recalled exciting changes of fortune, gloomy and heartrending plots, and mingled them with her own story, to fling a romantic glory round the half-seen mystery which surrounded her.
She was no longer miserable, she was wholly wrapped up in her dreams. She lifted mysterious veils, imagined improbable complications, a thou sand curious and terrible ideas, attractive through their very strangeness. Was she, by any chance, the natural daughter of a prince? Had her unfortunate mother been reduced and deserted, created a marquise by a king, King Victor Emmanuel perhaps, and had she even been forced to flee from the wrath of her family?
Or was she not more probably a child abandoned by her parents, very noble and famous parents, as the fruit of a guilty love, and found by the marquise, who had adopted her and brought her up? A hundred other notions raced through her head; she accepted or rejected them at the dictates of her fancy. She grew profoundly sorry for herself, at once very happy and very sad; above all, she was delighted at becoming the heroine of a romance with emotions to reveal, a part to act, a dignity and nobility to be upheld. And she thought of the part she would have to play in each plot she imagined. She saw it vaguely, as if she were a character in a novel by Scribe or George Sand. It would be compounded of equal parts of devotion, pride, self-sacrifice, greatness of soul, tenderness, and fine words. Her volatile little heart almost revelled in her new position.
She had continued till nightfall to ponder over her future course of action, wondering how to set to work to drag the truth from the Marquise.
And at the coming of night, so suitable to a tragic situation, she had thought of a trick, a quite simple yet subtle trick, for getting what she wanted; it was to tell her mother very abruptly that Servigny had asked her to marry him. At this news Madame Obardi, in her surprise, would surely let fall a word, an exclamation, that would illumine her daughter’s mind.
So Yvette had promptly put her plan into execution. She expected a burst of astonishment, protests of affection, disclosures, accompanied by tears and every sign of emotion.
And lo and behold! her mother had not apparently been either surprised or heartbroken, merely annoyed; from the worried and peevish tone of her reply the young girl, in whose mind every latent power of feminine cunning, wit, and knowledge were suddenly aroused, realised that it was no good insisting, that the mystery was quite other and more painful than she had imagined, and that she must discover it for herself. So she had returned to her room with a sad heart, her spirit distressed, depressed now in the apprehension of a real misfortune, without knowing how or why she was suffering such an emotion. She rested her elbows on the windowsill and wept.
She cried for a long time, now with no idle dreams: she made no attempt at further discovery. Little by little she was overcome with weariness, and closed her eyes. She dozed, for a few minutes, in the unrefreshing slumber of a person too exhausted to undress and get into bed; her sleep was long and fitful, roughly broken whenever her head slipped from between her hands.
She did not go to bed until the earliest gleam of daylight, when the chill of dawn drove her from the window.
During the next day and the day after, she kept an air of melancholy and reserve. A ceaseless and urgent travail of thought was moving within her; she was learning to watch, to guess, to reason. A gleam, still vague, seemed to throw a new light upon the men and events passing around her; distrust invaded her soul, distrust of everyone that she had believed in, distrust of her mother. During those two days she conjectured every conceivable supposition. She envisaged every possibility, making the most extravagant resolutions, in the impulsiveness of her volatile and unrestrained nature. On the Wednesday she fixed on a plan, a whole scheme of conduct and an elaborate plan of espionage. On the Thursday morning she rose with the determination to be more cunning than the most experienced detective, to be armed against all the world.
She even decided to take as her motto the two words “Myself alone,” and for more than an hour she wondered how they could with best effect be engraved round her monogram and stamped on her notepaper.
Saval and Servigny arrived at ten o’clock. The young girl held out her hand with reserve, but without embarrassment, and said in a familiar, though serious, tone:
“Good morning, Muscade. How are you?”
“Pretty well, thank you, Mam’zelle. And you?”
He watched her narrowly. “What game is she playing now?” he said to himself.
The Marquise having taken Saval’s arm, he took Yvette’s, and they began to walk round the lawn, disappearing and reappearing behind the clumps of trees.
Yvette walked with a thoughtful air, her eyes on the gravel path, and seemed scarcely to hear her companion’s remarks, to which she made no reply. Suddenly she asked:
“Are you really my friend, Muscade?”
“Of course, Mam’zelle.”
“But really, really and truly?”
“Absolutely your friend, Mam’zelle, body and soul.”
“Enough not to tell a lie for once, just for once?”
“Enough not even to tell one for twice, if necessary.”
“Enough to tell me the whole truth, even if it’s unpleasant?”
“Yes, Mam’zelle.”
“Well, what do you really think, really, really think, of Prince Kravalow?”
“Oh, Lord!”
“There you are, already getting ready to tell a fib.”
“No, I’m searching for the words, the right words. Well, dash it, the Prince is a Russian—a real Russian, who speaks Russian, was born in Russia, and perhaps had a passport to get into France. There’s nothing false about him except his name and his title.”
She looked into his eyes.
“You mean he’s a … a …”
He hesitated; then, making up his mind, said:
“An adventurer, Mam’zelle.”
“Thank you. And the Chevalier Valréali is no better, is he?”
“It’s as you say.”
“And Monsieur de Belvigne?”
“Ah, he’s rather different. He’s a gentleman, provincial of course; he’s honourable … up to a point … but he’s singed his wings through flying too near the candle.”
“And you?”
Without hesitation he replied:
“I? Oh, I’m what’s generally called a gay dog, a bachelor of good family who once had brains and frittered them away on making puns; who had health, and ruined it by playing the fool; moderate wealth, and wasted it doing nothing. All I have left is a certain experience of life, a pretty complete freedom from prejudice, a vast contempt for men, women included, a profound sense of the uselessness of my actions, and a wide tolerance of scoundrels in general. I still have momentary flashes of honesty, as you see, and I’m even capable of affection, as you could see if you would. With these qualities and defects I place myself at your orders, Mam’zelle, body and soul, for you to dispose of at your pleasure. There!”
She did not laugh; she listened attentively, carefully scrutinising his words and intentions.
“What do you think of the Comtesse de Lammy?” she continued.
“You must allow me not to give you my opinions on women,” he said gaily.
“Not on any?”
“No, not on any.”
“Then that means you must have a very low opinion of them, of all of them. Now think, aren’t there any exceptions?”
He laughed with the insolent air he almost always wore, and the brutal audacity that was his strength, his armour against life.
“Present company always excepted, of course,” he said.
She flushed slightly, but coolly asked: “Well, what do you think of me?”
“You want to know? Very well, then. I think you’re a person of excellent sense, of considerable experience, or, if you prefer it, of great common sense; that you know very well how to mask your battery, amuse yourself at others’ expense, hide your purpose, pull the strings and wait, without impatience, for the result.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“That’s all,” he replied.
“I’ll make you alter your opinion, Muscade,” she said very gravely. Then she went over to her mother, who was walking with bent head and tiny steps, with the languid gait one falls into when murmuring of things sweet and intimate. As she walked she drew designs, letters perhaps, with the tip of her sunshade, and talked to Saval without looking at him, talked long and slowly, resting on his arm, held close against his side. Yvette looked sharply at her, and a suspicion, so vague that she could not put it into words, as if it were a physical sensation only half realised, flitted across her mind as the shadow of a windblown cloud flits across the earth.
The bell rang for lunch.
It was silent, almost gloomy.
There was storm in the air, as the saying goes. Vast motionless clouds lay in wait on the horizon, silent and heavy, but loaded with tempest.
When they had taken their coffee on the veranda, the Marquise asked:
“Well, darling, are you going for a walk today with your friend Servigny? This is really the weather to enjoy the coolness of the woods.”
Yvette threw her a rapid glance, and swiftly looked away again.
“No, mother, I’m not going out today.”
The Marquise seemed disappointed.
“Do go for a little walk, child,” she persisted. “It’s so good for you.”
“No, mother,” said Yvette sharply, “I’m going to stay in the house, and you know quite well why, because I told you the other night.”
Madame Obardi had quite forgotten, consumed with her need to be alone with Saval. She blushed, fidgeted, and, distracted by her own desire, uncertain how to secure a free hour or two, stammered:
“Of course; I never thought of it. You’re quite right; I don’t know where my wits are wandering.”
Yvette took up a piece of embroidery which she called the “public welfare,” busying herself with it five or six times a year, on days of utter boredom, and seated herself on a low chair beside her mother. The young men sat in deck-chairs and smoked their cigars.
The hours went by in idle conversation that flagged continually. The Marquise threw impatient glances at Saval, seeking for an excuse, any way of getting rid of her daughter. Realising at last that she would not succeed, and not knowing what plan to adopt, she said to Servigny:
“You know, my dear Duc, that you’re both going to stay the night here. Tomorrow we are going to lunch at the restaurant Fournaise, at Chaton.”
He understood, smiled, and said with a bow:
“I am at your service, Marquise.”
Slowly the day wore on, slowly and uncomfortably, under the menace of the storm. Gradually the hour of dinner approached. The lowering sky was heavy with dull, sluggish clouds. They could not feel the least movement in the air.
The evening meal was eaten in silence. A sense of embarrassment and restraint, a sort of vague fear, silenced the two men and the two women.
When the table had been cleared, they remained on the veranda, speaking only at long intervals. Night was falling, a stifling night. Suddenly the horizon was torn by a great jagged flame that lit with its dazzling and pallid glare the four faces sunk in the shadows. Followed a distant noise, dull and faint, like the noise made by a cart crossing a bridge; the heat of the atmosphere increased, the air grew still more oppressive, the evening shadows more profound.
Yvette rose.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. “The storm makes me feel ill.”
She bent her forehead for the Marquise to kiss, offered her hand to the two young men, and departed.
As her room was directly above the veranda, the leaves of a large chestnut-tree planted in front of the door were soon gleaming with a green light. Servigny fixed his eyes on this pale gleam in the foliage, thinking now and then that he saw a shadow pass across it. But suddenly the light went out. Madame Obardi sighed.
“My daughter is in bed,” she said.
Servigny rose.
“I will follow your daughter’s example, Marquise, if you will allow me.”
He kissed her hand and disappeared in his turn.
She remained alone with Saval, in the darkness. At once she was in his arms, clasping him, embracing him. Then, though he tried to prevent it, she knelt down in front of him, murmuring: “I want to look at you in the lightning-flashes.”
But Yvette, her candle blown out, had come out on to her balcony, gliding barefooted like a shadow, and was listening, tortured by a painful and confused suspicion. She could not see, being exactly over their heads on the roof of the veranda. She heard nothing but a murmur of voices, and her heart beat so violently that the thudding of it filled her ears. A window shut overhead. So Servigny had just gone up to bed. Her mother was alone with the other.
A second flash split the sky, and for a second the whole familiar landscape was revealed in a vivid and sinister glare. She saw the great river, the colour of molten lead, like a river in some fantastic dream-country. At the same instant a voice below her said: “I love you.” She heard no more; strange shudder passed over her, her spirit was drowned in a fearful sea of trouble.
Silence, pressing, infinite, a silence that seemed the eternal silence of the grave, brooded over the world. She could not breathe, her lungs choked by some unknown and horrible weight. Another flash kindled the heavens and for an instant lit up the horizon, another followed on its heels, then another and another.
The voice she had already heard repeated more loudly: “Oh! How I love you! How I love you!” And Yvette knew the voice well; it was her mother’s.
A large drop of warm water fell upon her forehead, and a slight, almost imperceptible quiver ran through the leaves, the shiver of the coming rain.
Then a tumult came hurrying from far off, a confused tumult like the noise of the wind in trees; it was the heavy shower pouring in a torrent upon the earth, the river, and the trees. In a few moments the water was streaming all round her, covering her, splashing her, soaking her like a bath. She did not move, thinking only of what was happening on the veranda. She heard them rise and go up to their rooms. Doors slammed inside the house. And obeying an irresistible longing for certitude, a maddening, torturing desire, the young girl ran down the stairs, softly opened the outer door, ran across the lawn under the furious downpour of rain, and hid in a clump of bushes to watch the windows.
One alone, her mother’s, showed a light. And suddenly two shadows appeared on the luminous square, two shadows side by side. Then they drew closer and made only one; another flash of lightning flung a swift and dazzling jet of light upon the house-front, and she saw them embracing, their arms about one another’s necks.
At that she was stunned; without thinking, without knowing what she did, she cried out with all her strength, in a piercing voice: “Mother!” as one cries to warn another creature of deadly peril.
Her desperate cry was lost in the clatter of the rain, but the engrossed pair started uneasily apart. One of the shadows disappeared, while the other tried to distinguish something in the darkness of the garden.
Fearing to be taken unawares and found by her mother, Yvette ran to the house, hurried upstairs, leaving a trail of water dripping from step to step, and locked herself in her room, determined to open to no one. Without taking off the soaking clothes which clung to her body, she fell upon her knees with clasped hands, imploring in her distress some superhuman protection, the mysterious help of heaven, that unknown aid we pray for in our hours of weeping and despair. Every instant the great flashes threw their livid light into the room, and she saw herself fitfully reflected in her wardrobe-mirror, with her wet hair streaming down her back, so strange a figure that she could not recognise herself.
She remained in this strait for a long time, so long that the storm passed without her noticing its departure. The rain ceased to fall, light flowed into the sky, though it was still dark with clouds, and a warm, fragrant, delicious freshness, the freshness of wet leaves and grass, drifted in at the open window. Yvette rose from her knees, took off her cold sodden clothes, without thinking at all of what she did, and got into bed. She fixed her eyes on the growing daylight, then wept again, then tried to think.
Her mother! With a lover! The shame of it! But she had read so many books in which women, even mothers, abandoned themselves in like fashion, only to rise once more to honour in the last few pages, that she was not utterly dumbfounded to find herself involved in a drama like all the dramas in the stories she read. The violence of her first misery, her first cruel bewilderment, was already slightly lessened by her confused recollections of similar situations. Her thoughts had roamed among so many tragic adventures, gracefully woven into their stories by the authors of romances, that gradually her horrible discovery began to seem the natural continuation of a novelette begun the night before.
“I will save my mother,” she said to herself.
Almost calmed by this heroic resolution, she felt herself strong, great, ready upon the instant for sacrifice and combat. She thought over the means she must employ. Only one seemed good to her, and accorded with her romantic nature. And she rehearsed, like an actress before the performance, the interview she would have with her mother.
The sun had risen and the servants were up and about. The maid came with her chocolate. Yvette had the tray set down on the table, and said:
“Tell my mother that I’m not well, that I shall stay in bed till the gentlemen leave; tell her I did not sleep last night and that I wish not to be disturbed, because I must try to sleep.”
The astonished maid caught sight of the soaked dress, thrown like a rag on the carpet.
“Mademoiselle has been out, then?” she said.
“Yes, I went for a walk in the rain to clear my head.”
The servant picked up the petticoats, stockings, and muddy shoes, and went out carrying them gingerly on her arm with an expression of disgust; they were dripping like the clothes of a drowned women.
Yvette waited, knowing well that her mother would come.
The Marquise entered, having leapt out of bed at the first words of the maid, for she had endured a vague uneasiness ever since that cry of “Mother!” pierced the darkness.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
Yvette looked at her and faltered.
“I’ve … I’ve …”
Then, overcome by violent and sudden emotion, she began to sob.
The astonished Marquise asked again:
“What’s the matter with you?”
Then, forgetting all her schemes and the phrases so carefully prepared, the young girl hid her face in her hands and sobbed:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother!”
Madame Obardi remained standing by the bed, too excited to understand fully, but guessing with that subtle instinct wherein her strength lay, almost everything there was to know.
Yvette, choked with sobs, could not speak, and her mother, exasperated at last and feeling the approach of a formidable revelation, asked sharply:
“Come, what’s the matter with you? Tell me.”
With difficulty Yvette stammered:
“Oh! Last night … I saw … your window.”
“Well, what then?” asked the Marquise, very pale.
Her daughter repeated, still sobbing:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother!”
Madame Obardi, whose fear and embarrassment were changing to anger, shrugged her shoulders and turned to go.
“I really think you must be mad. When it’s all over, let me know.”
But suddenly the young girl parted her hands and disclosed her tear-stained face.
“No. … Listen. … I must speak to you. … Listen. Promise me … we’ll both go away, far away, into the country, and we’ll live like peasants and no one will know what’s become of us. Will you, mother? Please, please, I beg you, mother, I implore you!”
The Marquise, abashed, remained in the middle of the room. She had the hot blood of the people in her veins. Then shame, the shame of a mother, mingled with her vague sensation of fear and the exasperation of a passionate woman whose love is menaced. She shivered, equally ready to implore forgiveness or to fly into a rage.
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
“I saw you, mother,” continued Yvette, “last night. … You must never again … Oh, if you knew … we’ll both go away. … I’ll love you so much that you’ll forget. …
“Listen, my child,” said Madame Obardi in a trembling voice, “there are some things you don’t yet understand. Well, never forget … never forget … that I forbid you … ever to speak to me … of … of … of those matters.”
But the young girl caught desperately at her role of saviour and went on:
“No, mother, I’m no longer a child, and I have the right to know. I know all sorts of disreputable people, adventurers, come to our house, and that that’s why we are not respected; and I know more than that. Well, it mustn’t be, I won’t endure it. We’ll go away; you can sell your jewels; we’ll work if necessary, and we’ll live like honest women somewhere far away. And if I manage to get married, so much the better.”
Her mother looked at her out of angry black eyes, and answered:
“You’re mad. Be good enough to get up and come out to lunch with the rest of us.”
“No, mother. There’s someone here, you know whom, whom I won’t see again. He must go out of this house, or I will. You must choose between us.”
She was sitting up in bed, and raised her voice, speaking like a character on the stage; at last she had entered upon the drama so long dreamed of, and her grief was almost forgotten in absorption in her mission.
“You must be mad,” repeated the astonished Marquise again, finding nothing else to say.
“No, mother,” the young girl added, with dramatic verve, “that man will leave this house or I shall go; I shall not weaken.”
“And where will you go? … What will you do?”
“I don’t know; it doesn’t matter much … I want us to be honest women.”
The repetition of that phrase “honest women” aroused in the Marquise the fury of a drab.
“Silence!” she shouted. “I won’t be spoken to like that. I’m as good as any other woman, do you hear? I’m a harlot, it’s true, and I’m proud of it; I’m worth a dozen of your honest women.”
Yvette, overwhelmed, looked at her and stammered:
“Oh, mother!”
But the Marquise became frenzied with excitement.
“Yes, I am a harlot. What then? If I weren’t a harlot, you’d be a kitchen-maid today, as I was once, and you’d work for twenty sous a day, and you’d wash the dishes, and your mistress would send you out on errands to the butcher’s, d’you hear, and kick you out if you were idle; whereas here you are, idling all day long, just because I am a harlot. There! When you’re only a poor servant-girl with fifty francs of savings, you must get away from it somehow if you don’t want to rot in the workhouse; and there’s only one way for women, only one way, d’you hear, when you’re a servant! We can’t make fortunes on the stock exchange or at high finance. We’ve nothing but our bodies, nothing but our bodies.”
She beat her breast like a penitent at confession, and advanced towards the bed, flushed and excited:
“So much the worse for a pretty girl; she must live on her looks or grind along in poverty all her life long … all her life. … There’s no alternative.”
Then, returning hastily to her old idea: “And your honest women, do they go without? It’s they who are sluts, because they’re not forced. They’ve money to live on and amuse themselves with; they have their lovers out of pure wantonness. It’s they who are sluts!”
She stood beside Yvette’s bed; Yvette, utterly overcome, wanted to scream for help and run away; she was crying noisily, like a beaten child.
The Marquise was silent, and looked at her daughter; seeing the girl’s utter despair, she was herself overcome by sorrow, remorse, tenderness, and pity; and falling upon the bed with outstretched arms, she too began to sob, murmuring:
“My poor darling, my poor darling, if you only knew how you hurt me.”
And for a long time they both wept.
Then the Marquise, whose grief never lasted very long, rose gently, and said very softly:
“Well, darling, that’s how it is; it can’t be helped. It can’t be altered now. Life must be taken as it comes.”
But Yvette continued to cry; the shock had been too severe and too unexpected for her to be able to reflect upon it calmly and recover herself.
“Come, get up, and come down to breakfast, so that nothing will be noticed,” said her mother.
The young girl shook her head, unable to speak; at last she said very slowly, her voice choked with sobs:
“No, mother, you know what I said; I won’t change my mind. I will not leave my room till they have gone. I won’t see any of those people again, never, never. If they come back, I … I … you won’t see me again.”
The Marquise had dried her eyes and, worn out with her emotion, murmured:
“Come now, think it over, be sensible about it.” Then again, after a minute’s silence: “Yes, you had better rest this morning. I’ll come and see you in the afternoon.”
She kissed her daughter on the forehead and went away to get dressed, quite calm again.
As soon as her mother had disappeared, Yvette ran to the door and bolted it, so as to be alone, quite alone; then she began to reflect.
About eleven o’clock the maid knocked at the door and asked:
“Madame la Marquise wishes to know if you want anything, Mademoiselle, and what will you have for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry,” replied Yvette; “I only want to be left alone.”
She stayed in bed as though she were really ill. About three o’clock there was another knock.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“It’s I, darling,” answered her mother’s voice; “I’ve come to see how you are.”
She hesitated. What should she do? She opened the door and got back into bed. The Marquise came close, speaking softly as though to an invalid.
“Well, are you feeling better? Won’t you eat an egg?”
“No, thank you, nothing.”
Madame Obardi had sat down beside the bed. Neither spoke for some time; then, at last, as her daughter remained immobile, her hands resting inertly on the sheets, the Marquise added:
“Aren’t you going to get up?”
“Yes, presently,” answered Yvette. “I’ve thought a great deal, mother,” she continued slowly and seriously, “and this … this is my decision. The past is the past; let us say no more about it. But the future will be different … or else … or else I know what I shall have to do. And now let us have done with this subject.”
The Marquise, who had thought that the explanation was all over, felt somewhat irritated. She had had more than enough. This great goose of a girl ought to have understood long ago. But she made no answer, only repeating:
“Are you going to get up?”
“Yes, I’m ready now.”
The mother acted as maid to her daughter, bringing her her stockings, her corset, and her petticoats. Then she kissed her.
“Shall we go for a walk before dinner?”
“Yes, mamma.”
And they walked along the bank of the river, talking almost entirely of the most trivial affairs.