CHAPTER XIII

AT HOME

The letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly reached its destination on the morning of the day that was to complete poor Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne had received it with the rest of her correspondence a few minutes before her husband entered her room to get his morning cup of tea, and she was just engaged in reading it when Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in the doorway.

'_Bon jour_, Suzon,' he cried in his deep but cheery voice, adding, as he sometimes did, 'my fair rose.' This allusion to de Musset's well-known romance was always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de Musset was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice of suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this simple-hearted fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's lover, and not as a lawful spouse. He was one of those strange husbands who say to you in confidence, 'I have no secrets from my wife--that is the only way to cure her of curiosity.' Meanwhile, he was as much in love with his 'fair rose' as ever, and proved it by the manner in which he tenderly kissed her on the neck.

But she checked further demonstrations of affection with the words, 'Get along! See to the tea, and let me finish my letter.'

She knew that Paul would never ask her anything about her correspondence, and it gave her such intense pleasure to read the poet's ardent phrases that she was not satisfied with going over them once, but read them a second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it into her bodice. She looked so supremely happy as she sat down to the table and took up the fine porcelain cup filled with fragrant tea that Moraines, wishing to tease her, said, in a voice that was meant to be gruff, 'If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had received a letter from your sweetheart, you look so happy, madame. And if you knew how nice you look like that,' he added, kissing her arm just above the wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and warmed by her luxurious bath, looked so inviting.

'Well, sir, you would be right,' she replied, with a roguish air. Women take a divine pleasure in saying in fun things which, though true, will not be believed. It procures them that mild sensation of danger which titillates their nerves so delightfully.

'I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow?' asked Paul, quite amused by what he considered a good joke.

'Very nice.'

'And may I know his name?'

'You are too inquisitive. Guess.'

'Bless me--no!' cried Paul. 'I should have too much to do. Ah! Suzanne,' he added, suddenly changing his tone to one that betrayed deep feeling, 'what pain it must be to harbour suspicions! Just fancy me being jealous of you, and having to sit in the office all day whilst my heart was being torn by doubts! Ah! well,' this with a shrewd look, 'I would set Desforges to watch you!'

'It's lucky there was no one to hear his "joke,"' thought Suzanne when she was alone. 'He has a silly way of saying these things, too, when he's out.' René's letter had, however, put her in such a good temper that she forgot to get angry, as she would do when she thought her husband too utterly simple. Such is the logic of these pretty and light-hearted sinners; they will exercise all their wits in blindfolding a man, and then blame him for stumbling. The fact of having deceived him does not satisfy them--he must only be deceived up to a certain point. If he goes beyond that it is too much--he makes them feel uneasy, and they hate him for it--sincerely. Suzanne contented herself with a shrug of her shoulders and a look of sweet pity. Then she took the letter from its hiding-place and read it for the third time.

'It's quite true,' she said aloud; 'he is not like other men.'

Thereupon she fell into a deep reverie, in which she saw the poet as she had seen him waiting for her at the Louvre, standing just under the large Veronese canvas with his face turned a little to the right. How agitated he had been when his eyes met hers! How young he was! How his lips had trembled when he told her a little later that he loved her--those full, fresh lips which she could have bitten like some fruit, after having caressed his fair cheeks and the soft silken beard that adorned his manly face. But the fruit was not yet ripe; she must learn to wait. She sighed. Her calculation that the poet would write that very letter, and so soon after their meeting, too, had proved correct. She had made up her mind not to reply to it, nor yet to the second. For this second letter she waited one, two, three days. Though her confidence in the strength of the passion with which she had inspired René was unshaken, she was somewhat startled when, on the afternoon of the third day, just as her brougham was turning the corner of the Rue Murillo, she saw him standing where she had seen him once before. She was very careful to look as though she had not noticed him, and put on her saddest expression, her most dreamy eyes and an air of sweet resignation that would have moved a tiger. The comfortable brougham, furnished with a number of dainty and useful knick-knacks, was immediately transformed in René's eyes into a prison van containing a martyr--a martyr to her husband, a martyr to her home, a martyr to her love, and a martyr to her virtue.

She was not acting a very great lie, either, as she passed René. As she saw the pallor on his cheeks, caused by three days' anguish, and the look of despair in his eyes, she would have given much to be able to stop the brougham, to get out or to make him get in, and to exclaim as she carried him off, 'I love you as much as you love me!' Instead of that she drove on to do her shopping and pay her calls, sure now that the second letter so impatiently expected would not be long in coming. It came the same afternoon, but just when its arrival presented most danger. And for this reason. Having gone home immediately after meeting Suzanne, René had written her four pages in feverish haste, and in order that they might reach her sooner and more safely, he had sent them about five o'clock by a commissionaire; the letter was therefore handed to Suzanne by her manservant whilst Desforges was with her. He had come, as he often did at that hour, with a dainty little present; this time it was a pretty needle-case in old gold which he had picked up at a sale.

No sooner had she recognised the writing on the envelope than she said to herself, 'The least sign of emotion and the Baron will smell a rat!' As sometimes happens, the fear of betraying her agitation made it more difficult for her to conceal it. She took the letter, looked at the address as we do when trying to guess from whom a communication comes, tore it open and skimmed its contents, after having first cast a glance at the signature; then, getting up to place it amongst some others on her desk, she said:

'Another, begging letter! It's astonishing how many I've had lately. How do you manage with them, Frédéric?'

'I have a very simple plan,' replied the Baron. 'Fifty francs the first time of asking, twenty francs the second, nothing the third. My secretary has orders to that effect. That's one of the fads I don't believe in--charity! Just as if it were through want of money that the poor are poor! It's their disposition that has made them so, and that you'll never change. Look here, take this person who is sponging on you to-day; I'll bet twenty-five pounds that if you inquire about him you'll find that fortune, or at least a competency, has been in his grasp ten times during his life. If you were to set him up afresh he would be in the same plight in a few years from now. Not that I mind giving, and as much as people want--but as to believing that money so spent is of the least use, that's a different thing altogether. And then these benefactors and lady patronesses--I know them; it's all advertisement--a means of making their way into Society and of getting hold of good people.'

'That's enough,' said Suzanne, 'you are a terrible sceptic.' And with that delicate irony that women sometimes use in avenging themselves upon the man who compels them to lie, she added, 'You're not one to be easily duped.'

The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had his suspicions been aroused, that phrase alone would have lulled them. The most cunning men have that weak point by which they can always be conquered--vanity. But suspicion of any kind had been far from the Baron's mind. Suzanne deceived him as easily as René had deceived his sister. Those who see us every day are the last to perceive what would be evident to the merest stranger. That is because the stranger comes to us without any preconceived idea, whilst our daily associates have formed an opinion about us which they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The Baron therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that afternoon a prey to intense agitation, which lasted during the whole of his visit. He stayed rather longer than usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, while she pottered about in the room, under some pretence or other, with one eye on her letter, seizing it once more with delight as soon as Desforges had at last decided to go.

'He is an excellent fellow,' she said, 'but such a bore!' A fortnight's passion had sufficed to bring her to this stage of ingratitude, and she now found compensation for the restraint of the past hour in going over each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This time it was an ardent prayer--an appeal to a woman's love. He no longer spoke of friendship. The air of melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had told.

'Since you love me,' he said, 'have pity on yourself, if you have no pity on me.' What would have appeared to Suzanne an intolerable piece of conceit in anyone else touched her deeply as a mark of absolute confidence in her love. She recognised it for what it really was--worship so devout that it did not harbour a shadow of doubt. It would have been so natural if René had accused her of having cruelly trifled with his feelings, but such an hypothesis was far from the poet's thoughts. 'Poor boy!' she said to herself, 'how he loves me!' Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she added, 'It is the best way to make sure of not being deceived!' She took the letter out once more. Its language was so touching, and it was full of such sincere grief; then, again, the cosy _salon_, just at that hour, reminded her so forcibly of the poet and of his first visit, and she asked herself whether she had not put him sufficiently to the proof. 'No,' she concluded, 'not yet.'

This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply--to tell René to come and see her there, and it was in his own home that she wanted to see him, in the little room he had described to her. She would appear before him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of saving him from suicide. The third letter would undoubtedly furnish her with that pretence, and she decided to await its coming, already enjoying in anticipation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst the whirl of excitement that her sudden and unexpected appearance would cause the poet there would be no room for reflection. All the hateful preliminaries of a false step, impossible to discuss with a man so inexperienced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true there was the presence of the rest of the family to consider. Suzanne would not have been the depraved woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if this detail had not given her plans the charm of doubly forbidden fruit.

She waited for that third letter with intense longing. The time slipped rapidly by. She dined out, went to the theatre, and paid calls, her mind entirely absorbed in that one thought. As luck would have it, Desforges, having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had not asked for any appointments in the Rue du Mont-Thabor that week. She knew that this was merely a postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress she would still have to continue her relations with the man who supplied so many of her luxurious wants. This seemed to her as natural as the fact of being Paul's wife. 'What does that matter, since you know I love only you?' is what such a wife will say to her lover when he gets into one of those ridiculous fits of jealousy that so ill become a man in that position. And these women are never more sincere than in uttering that phrase. They know full well that love is totally different from duty, interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne saw nothing particularly shocking in the plural life she was leading, she was glad that the opportunity was afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new passion for a day or two. In all this, however, she was still the courtesan, one of those creatures who, when they do fall in love, become real artists of sentiment, feeling as delicately on certain points as they are abominably wanton in others.

'What if he should really have taken it into his head to go away!' This was the thought that struck her when she at last received the much desired third letter, consisting of one long, heartrending farewell--without a word of reproach.

She trembled lest René might have had recourse to the proceeding counselled by Napoleon, who, with his imperial good sense, said, 'In love the only victory is flight.' In behaving as she had done she had staked all. Would she win? What she had foreseen had come to pass with a precision that both delighted and frightened her. The third letter bore the imprint of such deep despair that, on reading it a second time, this subtle actress, with all her experience, was seized by a fresh fear more terrible than the first--the fear that René might really have destroyed himself. In vain did she argue with herself that if the poet had had real intentions of going away he would have mentioned it in the letter, and that a handsome young man of twenty-five does not kill himself on account of the silence of a woman he believes to be in love with him--her anguish was none the less real and intense when she reached the Rue Coëtlogon a few hours after having received the letter.

It was two o'clock. She stopped for a moment at the corner of the street, gazing in wonderment at this provincial corner of Paris, whose picturesqueness had so charmed Claude Larcher on the evening our story opens. The grey clouds hung low in the wintry sky, and the bare branches of the trees stood out drearily against them. The cries of a few children playing at soldiers amongst the ruins at the back alone broke the silence. The strange appearance of the peaceful little street, the perils attending the step she was about to take, and the uncertainty of the result, all combined to bring Suzanne's excitement to its highest pitch, though she smiled as she thought to herself that there was no reason for believing René to be at home unless he were hopelessly waiting for a reply to his last letter. But when the _concierge_ had told her that M. René was in, and had pointed out the door, her wits at once came back to her.

Like all strong-minded women, she possessed the characteristics of a man of action. A plain and circumscribed course of events inspired her with determination and courage to carry out her plans. She rang the bell. Heavy footsteps were heard approaching, and the face of Françoise appeared in the doorway. At any other time she would have smiled at the look of amazement which the simple maid did not even try to conceal. Colette Rigaud had once called upon the poet to get him to make some slight alteration in her part, and Françoise, recovering somewhat from her surprise, no doubt thought that this was a similar visit, for Suzanne could hear her say, as she opened the last door on the right: 'Monsieur René, there's a lady asking for you. . . . A very pretty woman--probably some actress.'

She saw the poet come out of his room and turn as pale as death on recognising her. She glided quietly, along the passage which Raffet's prints had turned into a small Napoleonic museum and entered René's room. He was obliged to get out of the way to let her pass; the door closed, and they were alone.

'You--you here!' cried René. He could only gaze at her as she stood before him looking so slim and elegant in the dark costume she had chosen for this visit, for he was in that state of speechless agitation caused by some unexpected event that suddenly raises us from the depths of despair to the height of bliss. At such moments we are assailed by a whirlwind of ideas and sensations that threatens to turn our brain. Our legs give way beneath us and our hands tremble. It is happiness, and it gives pain. René was obliged to support himself against the wall, his eyes still fixed upon that handsome face that he had despaired of ever seeing again. A small detail completed the madness of his joy. He noticed that Suzanne's hands trembled a little too, and, as it happened, her emotion was sincere.

To the passionate feelings that inspired her there was now added the fear of displeasing the man she was resolved to win. On entering this chamber, where she was sure no woman had ever been before her, her plan of action was as clearly traced as plans of that kind can be. Room must always be left for the unforeseen. Suzanne felt that with René there would be many difficulties which with others might have been lightly and safely glided over. His simplicity both charmed and frightened her. In him she could rely, it was true, upon the impulse of the passions--more daring than cool calculation--but to arouse unnoticed that impulse in the poet when she was herself suffering its tortures was no easy matter.

Whilst he stood gazing at her after the door had closed she felt a momentary hesitation; then, almost forgetting her plans and her part, she threw herself upon his neck and stammered out, 'I was in such terrible fear. Your letter frightened me so that I could not help coming. I have had an awful struggle, and could not hold out any longer. My God, my God! What will you think of me?'

He held her in his arms, and a thrill ran through her. Then he lifted her lovely head and commenced to kiss her, first on her eyes, those eyes whose sadness had so touched him as she passed him in her brougham--next on her cheeks, those cheeks whose ideal form had so charmed him from the first--finally on her sweet mouth, which gave his kisses back. What did he think of her? How could any idea shape itself in his mind, absorbed as it was by that union of the lips which is in itself complete and intoxicating possession? What delight, too, that embrace was to Suzanne! Through all the horrible complexities of her feminine diplomacy one sincere desire had grown stronger and stronger within her--that of meeting with a fresh and spontaneous, natural and thrilling passion. This passion she found in René's breath; it stirred the very depths of her soul and made her almost faint with emotion. Ah! this was youth, with its complete and absolute abandonment, expressing neither thought nor word; oblivious of all, except the immediate present; effacing all, except the fleeting sensation whose sweetness and whose very outlines seem to lie in a kiss.

This woman, corrupted by the influence of a Parisian cynic of fifty and degraded by that horrible venality which has not the excuse of necessity--this Machiavelian courtesan, who had regulated her passion for René like a game of chess--tasted for one second that divine joy. The punishment of those who let calculation enter into their love lies in the remembrance of their calculation in the moment of ecstasy. Though intoxicated by the mad kisses she had given and received, Suzanne clearly saw that she could not abandon herself at once to her lover's arms. She therefore broke away from him and said, 'Let me go now that I have seen you and now that I know you are alive. I beg you to let me go. O René!'--she had never called him by this name before--'don't come near me!'

'Suzanne,' replied the poet, maddened by the burning nectar he had found on those lips--the certainty of being loved--'don't be afraid of me. When shall we have another hour like this to ourselves? Let me beg of you to stop. See,' he added, receding still farther from her, 'I will obey you. I obeyed you even when I found it so very hard. Ah! you believe me now!' he exclaimed, seeing that Suzanne's face no longer expressed such intense fear. 'Will you be very nice?' he continued, in that playful tone which takes so well with women, and which will make any one of them, be she a lady of high degree or a simple girl, call a man a 'darling.' 'Sit down there in that arm-chair, where I have so often sat at work, and then be nicer still, and try to look as though you were not on a visit.'

He had again come closer and had forced her into the chair; then he took away her muff and began to unbutton her coat. She submitted to this with a sad smile, like one who yields against her will. This smile was the death agony of the Madonna, the last act in the comedy of the Ideal performed by Suzanne. He also took off her bonnet, a _toque_ that matched her coat. He was now kneeling before her and gazing at her with that look of idolatry a woman is sure to provoke in her lover if she but give him one of those proofs of affection that flatter a man's vanity and love--the lower passions and the higher passions of the heart. The poet said to, himself: 'How she must love me to have come here, she whom I know to be so pure, so pious, and so devoted to her duty!'

All the lies she had so carefully told him came back to his mind like further proofs of her sincerity as he said: 'How delighted I am to have you here, and just now, too! Don't be afraid--we are quite alone. My sister has gone out for the whole afternoon, and the slave'--this was the name he gave Françoise, in order to amuse Suzanne--'the slave is busy in the kitchen. And I have you here! You see, this is my own little kingdom, this room--the place in which I have endured so much! There is not one of these corners, not one of these objects that could not tell you what I have suffered these past few days. My poor books'--and he pointed to his low bookcase--'were left unopened. These dear old engravings I scarcely looked at. The pen with which I had written to you I never touched. I sat just where you are sitting now counting the hours as they passed. God! what a week I have spent! But what does it all matter now that you are here and I can gaze at you? It is happiness to me to tell you even my troubles!'

She listened with half-closed eyes, giving herself up to the music of his words, and following out her plan in spite of the passions that welled up within her. Does the knowledge of danger as he faces his adversary drive from the mind of a skilful swordsman the lessons he learnt in the school? René's assurance that they were alone in the house had sent a thrill of joy through Suzanne, and the glance she had thrown round the little room, so neatly and carefully kept, had proved, to her delight and satisfaction, that she had not been mistaken concerning her lover's past. Everything here spoke of a studious and secluded life, the pure and noble life of an artist who surrounds himself with an atmosphere of beautiful dreams. Above all, the poet himself pleased her, with his love-lit eyes and the playful way in which he treated her, and she began to see that this exchange of confidences respecting their mutual sufferings would lead her to her goal without the least risk of diminishing her prestige in his eyes.

'And don't you think that I have suffered too?' she replied. 'Why should I deny it? You speak of your letters--God knows that I did not want to read them! I kept the first one in my pocket a whole day, having neither the courage to tear it open nor to burn it. To read your words was to hear you speak once more, and I had determined that it should not be! I had prayed to my guardian angel so long and so fervently for strength to forget you. How I struggled to do so!' Here the Madonna appeared for the last time. She lifted her eyes to heaven--or rather to the ceiling, from which hung two or three little Japanese dolls--and in her glorious orbs were reflected the wings of her guardian angel as he flew far, far away. . . .

Fixing her blue eyes once more on René, she sighed in that tone of abandonment that proves a conquered heart: 'I am lost now, but what of that? I love you so dearly that I do not care what happens--only I cannot bear to picture you in distress.'

Here she broke down, her bosom racked with convulsive sobs, and as the poet tenderly kissed her tears away her head once more fell upon his breast. She lay there for a few moments listening to the wild beating of his heart--then, like a tired child, she entwined her arms about his neck, and heaved a sigh of peace.