When they arrived Madame Walter was alone in the little Louis XVI.
boudoir she had adopted for the reception of personal friends. Dressed in black, she had powdered her hair, which rendered her charming. She had the air at a distance of an old woman, and close at hand, of a young one, and when one looked at her well, of a pretty snare for the eyes.
"You are in mourning?" inquired Madeleine.
She replied, sadly: "Yes, and no. I have not lost any relative. But I have reached the age when one wears the mourning of one"s life. I wear it to-day to inaugurate it. In future I shall wear it in my heart."
Du Roy thought: "Will this resolution hold good?"
The dinner was somewhat dull. Susan alone chattered incessantly. Rose seemed preoccupied. The journalist was warmly congratulated. During the evening they strolled chatting through the saloons and the conservatory.
As Du Roy was walking in the rear with Madame Walter, she checked him by the arm.
"Listen," said she, in a low voice, "I will never speak to you of anything again, never. But come and see me, George. It is impossible for me to live without you, impossible. It is indescribable torture. I feel you, I cherish you before my eyes, in my heart, all day and all night.
It is as though you had caused me to drink a poison which was eating me away within. I cannot bear it, no, I cannot bear it. I am willing to be nothing but an old woman for you. I have made my hair white to show you so, but come here, only come here from time to time as a friend."
She had taken his hand and was squeezing it, crushing it, burying her nails in his flesh.
He answered, quietly: "It is understood, then. It is useless to speak of all that again. You see I came to-day at once on receiving your letter."
Walter, who had walked on in advance with his two daughters and Madeleine, was waiting for Du Roy beside the picture of "Jesus Walking on the Waters."
"Fancy," said he, laughing, "I found my wife yesterday on her knees before this picture, as if in a chapel. She was paying her devotions.
How I did laugh."
Madame Walter replied in a firm voice--a voice thrilling with secret exultation: "It is that Christ who will save my soul. He gives me strength and courage every time I look at Him." And pausing in front of the Divinity standing amidst the waters, she murmured: "How handsome he is. How afraid of Him those men are, and yet how they love Him. Look at His head, His eyes--how simple yet how supernatural at the same time."
Susan exclaimed, "But He resembles you, Pretty-boy. I am sure He resembles you. If you had a beard, or if He was clean shaven, you would be both alike. Oh, but it is striking!"
She insisted on his standing beside the picture, and they all, indeed, recognized that the two faces resembled one another. Everyone was astonished. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, smiling, declared that Jesus had a more manly air. Madame Walter stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the face of her lover beside the face of Christ, and had become as white as her hair.
XVI
During the remainder of the winter the Du Roys often visited the Walters. George even dined there by himself continually, Madeleine saying she was tired, and preferring to remain at home. He had adopted Friday as a fixed day, and Madame Walter never invited anyone that evening; it belonged to Pretty-boy, to him alone. After dinner they played cards, and fed the goldfish, amusing themselves like a family circle. Several times behind a door or a clump of shrubs in the conservatory, Madame Walter had suddenly clasped George in her arms, and pressing him with all her strength to her breast, had whispered in his ear, "I love you, I love you till it is killing me." But he had always coldly repulsed her, replying, in a dry tone: "If you begin that business once again, I shall not come here any more."
Towards the end of March the marriage of the two sisters was all at once spoken about. Rose, it was said, was to marry the Count de Latour-Yvelin, and Susan the Marquis de Cazolles. These two gentlemen had become familiars of the household, those familiars to whom special favors and marked privileges are granted. George and Susan continued to live in a species of free and fraternal intimacy, romping for hours, making fun of everyone, and seeming greatly to enjoy one another"s company. They had never spoken again of the possible marriage of the young girl, nor of the suitors who offered themselves.
The governor had brought George home to lunch one morning. Madame Walter was called away immediately after the repast to see one of the tradesmen, and the young fellow said to Susan: "Let us go and feed the goldfish."
They each took a piece of crumb of bread from the table and went into the conservatory. All along the marble brim cushions were left lying on the ground, so that one could kneel down round the basin, so as to be nearer the fish. They each took one of these, side by side, and bending over the water, began to throw in pellets of bread rolled between the fingers. The fish, as soon as they caught sight of them, flocked round, wagging their tails, waving their fins, rolling their great projecting eyes, turning round, diving to catch the bait as it sank, and coming up at once to ask for more. They had a funny action of the mouth, sudden and rapid movements, a strangely monstrous appearance, and against the sand of the bottom stood out a bright red, pa.s.sing like flames through the transparent water, or showing, as soon as they halted, the blue edging to their scales. George and Susan saw their own faces looking up in the water, and smiled at them. All at once he said in a low voice: "It is not kind to hide things from me, Susan."
"What do you mean, Pretty-boy?" asked she.
"Don"t you remember, what you promised me here on the evening of the fete?"
"No."
"To consult me every time your hand was asked for."
"Well?"
"Well, it has been asked for."
"By whom?"
"You know very well."
"No. I swear to you."
"Yes, you do. That great fop, the Marquis de Cazolles."
"He is not a fop, in the first place."
"It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out by dissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, and so intelligent."
She inquired, smiling: "What have you against him?"
"I, nothing."
"Yes, you have. He is not all that you say."
"Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer."
She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said: "Come, what is the matter with you?"
He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of his heart: "I--I--am jealous of him."
She was slightly astonished, saying: "You?"
"Yes, I."
"Why so?"
"Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl."
She said, in a severe tone: "You are mad, Pretty-boy."
He replied; "I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that--I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan."
He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer being thrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, and looking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troubling themselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly: "It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done.
It is settled."
He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: "If I were free, would you marry me?"
She replied, in a tone of sincerity: "Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marry you, for you please me far better than any of the others."