CHAPTER XVII

PROOFS

In that strange mental disease called jealousy the intervals between the attacks are periods of delight. For some days or for some hours the feelings of love regain their divine sweetness, like a return to strength in convalescence. Suzanne had so fully convinced René of the absurdity of his suspicions that he did not wish to be behind her in generosity, and refused to avail himself of the permission to call in the Rue Murillo for which he had so earnestly entreated. Two or three phrases uttered in the right manner and with the right expression will always overcome the deepest distrust of a devoted lover, provided he has not had ocular proofs of treason--and even then? But here the elements of which this first suspicion was composed were so fragile!

It was therefore with absolute good faith that the poet said to Suzanne, who was herself quite delighted with this unexpected result, 'No, I shall not come to your house. It was foolish of me to desire any change in our relations. We are so happy as we are.'

'Yes, until some wretch libels me again,' she replied. 'Promise me that you will always tell me.'

'I swear I will, love,' said he. 'But I know you now, and I am more sure of myself.'

He said so, and he thought so. Suzanne thought so too, and gave herself up to the delights of her paradise regained, though fully aware that she would have a second battle to fight when Claude returned. But could Larcher say more than he had already said? Besides, René would tell her of his return, and if the first meeting of the two men did not result in a definite rupture it would be time to act. She would make her lover choose between breaking entirely with Claude or with herself, and about his choice she had no doubt whatever. In spite of his protests, the poet seemed to be less sure of himself, for his heart beat fast when, on his return home from the Bibliothèque one evening about a week after the scene with Suzanne, his sister said to him, 'Claude Larcher is back.'

'And has he dared to call here?' cried René.

Emilie was visibly embarrassed and said, 'He asked me when he could see you?'

'You should have answered "Never,"' replied the poet.

'René!' exclaimed Emilie, 'how could I say that to an old friend who has been so kind and devoted to you? I think I had better tell you----' she added; 'I asked him what had taken place between you. He seemed so surprised--so painfully surprised--that I will swear he has never done you any harm. There is some misunderstanding. I told him to come to-morrow morning, and that he would be sure to find you in.'

'Why don't you mind your own business?' cried René angrily; 'did I ask you to meddle in my affairs?'

'How unkind you are!' said Emilie, deeply hurt by her brother's words, and almost in tears.

'All right, don't cry,' replied the poet, somewhat ashamed of his roughness; 'perhaps it is better that I should see him. I owe him that. But after that, I never want to hear his name again. You understand--never!'

In spite of his apparent firmness, René did not sleep much that night, but lay awake thinking of the approaching meeting. Not that he had much doubt about the issue, but, try as he would to increase his resentment against his old friend, he could not get as far as hating him. He had grown extremely fond of this peculiar individual who, when not intentionally disagreeable, commanded affection by his sincere though frivolous nature, by his originality, by those very faults which only harmed himself, and above all by a kind of innate, indestructible, and invincible generosity.

On the eve of severing their friendship René recalled to mind how it had originated. Claude, then very poor, was a tutor in the Ecole Saint-André when René himself was a scholar in the sixth form. A curious legend concerning the eccentric professor was told in this well-conducted and eminently religious institution. Some of the boys declared they had seen him seated in an open carriage next to a very pretty woman dressed in pink. Then one day Claude disappeared from the school, and René did not see him again until he turned up at Fresneau's wedding as best man, and already on the road to fame. After some talk over old times, Claude had asked to see his poems. The writer of thirty had shown as much indulgence as an elder brother in reading these first essays, and had immediately treated the aspiring lad as an equal. With what tact had he submitted these rough sketches to the processes of a higher criticism--a criticism which encourages an artist by pointing out his defects without crushing him beneath their weight. And then had followed the episode of the 'Sigisbée,' in which Claude had displayed unusual devotion for one who was himself a dramatic author.

The poet was sufficiently well acquainted with literary life to know that even simple kindness is rarely met with between one generation and the next. His rapid success had already procured him what is perhaps the bitterest experience of the years of apprenticeship--the jealousy of those very masters he admired most, in whose school he had formed his style, and at whose feet he would so gladly have laid his sprig of laurel. Claude Larcher's delight in another's talent was as spontaneous and as sincere as if he had not already wielded the pen for fifteen years. And now this valuable, nay, unique friendship was to be severed. But was it his fault, René asked himself, as he tossed about in his bed, and recalled all these things one after another? Why had Larcher spoken to this wretched girl as he had done? Why had he betrayed his young friend, who looked up to him as a brother? Why?

This distressing question again led René's mind to ideas from which he turned instinctively. Basilio's famous phrase--'Slander, slander--some is sure to stick'--expresses one of the saddest and most indisputable truths concerning the human heart. René would, it is true, have despised himself for doubting Suzanne after their reconciliation, but every suspicion, even a groundless one, leaves behind it some poisonous remnant of distrust, and had he dared to look into the very depths of his soul he would have recognised that fact in the unhealthy curiosity he felt to learn from Claude what reasons had led him to make his lying accusation. This curiosity, the reminiscences of a long friendship, and a kind of fear of the man who, by his age alone, had always had an advantage over him--all tended to lessen the anger of the wounded lover. He tried to work himself up to the same degree of fury that had possessed him on leaving Colette's dressing-room, but he was not successful. Like all who know themselves to be weak, he wished to rear an insurmountable barrier between Claude and himself at once, and when Larcher made his appearance at nine o'clock, and held out his hand in friendly greeting, the poet kept his own hand in his pocket.

The two men stood for a moment facing each other, both very pale. Claude, though tanned by his travels, looked thin and careworn, and his eyes blazed at the insult offered him. René knew to what lengths Larcher's anger would lead him, and expected to see the hand he had refused raised to strike a blow. But Claude's will was stronger than his offended pride, and he spoke in a voice that trembled with suppressed passion.

'Vincy, do not tempt me. You are only a child, and it is my duty to think for both of us. Come, come! Listen, René--I know all. Do you understand? All--yes, all. I arrived yesterday. Your sister told me that you were angry with me, and a good many other things that opened my eyes. Your silence had frightened me. I thought that you had betrayed me with Colette. Fool that she is! Fortunately she hadn't the sense to guess that there was my vulnerable point. On leaving here I went to her house. I found her alone. She told me what she had done--what she had told you, and gloried in it, the hussy. Then I did what was right.' Here he began to march up and down the room, absorbed in recollections of the scene he described and almost oblivious of the poet's presence. 'I beat her--beat her like a madman. It did me good. I flung her to the ground and rained blow upon blow until she cried "Mercy! mercy!" I could have killed her--and taken a delight in it. How beautiful she looked, too, with her hair all tumbling about and her dress hanging in shreds where I had torn it from her snowy shoulders. Then she grovelled at my feet, but I was relentless, and left the house. She can show the marks on her body to her next lover if she likes, and tell him from whom she got them. How it relieves one to be a brute sometimes!' Then, suddenly stopping before René, he said, 'And all because she had touched you. Yes or no,' he cried, in his same angry tone, 'is it on account of what this jade told you that you are angry with me?'

'It is on that account,' replied René coldly.

'Very well,' said Claude, taking a seat, 'then we can talk. There must be no misunderstanding this time, so I shall be as plain as I possibly can. If I understand rightly, this wretch of a girl has told you two things. Let us proceed in order. This is the first--that I told her you were intimate with Madame Moraines. Excuse me,' he added, as the poet made a gesture. 'Between us two, in a matter affecting our friendship, I don't care a rap for the conventionalities that forbid us to mention a woman's name. I am not conventional myself, and so I mention her. Infamy number one. Colette told you a lie. This was exactly what I had said to her--I recollect the words as though it were yesterday, and regretted them before they had left my mouth--"I think poor René is falling in love with Madame Moraines." The only thing I went by was your embarrassed manner when mentioning her to me. But Colette had seen you sitting next to her at supper and paying her great attention. We had joked about the matter--as people will joke about these things--without attaching much importance to it. At least, I didn't--but all that's nothing. You were my friend. Your feeling might have been a serious one--it was, as it happened. I was wrong, and I frankly apologise in spite of the insult which, on the word of this vile drab, you have just offered me--me, your best and oldest friend!'

'But then why,' cried René, 'did you give me away to this creature, knowing what she was? And again, had you spoken only of me, I would have forgiven you----'

'Let us pass on to this second point,' said Claude, in his calm, methodical tone, 'that is to say, to the second lie. She told you that I had informed her of Madame Moraines' relations with Desforges. That is false. She had heard of them long ago from all the Salvaneys with whom she dined, supped, and flirted. No, René--if there is anything with which I reproach myself, it is not for having spoken to her about Madame Moraines--I could not have told her anything she didn't know. It is for not having spoken to you openly when you came to see me. I was fully acquainted with the depravity of this second but more fashionable Colette, and I did not warn you of it while there was yet time. Yes, I ought to have spoken--I ought to have opened your eyes and said: "Woo this woman, win her and wear her, but do not love her." And I held my peace. My only excuse is that I did not think her sufficiently disinterested to enter into your life as she has done. I said to myself: "He has no money, so there is no danger."'

'Then,' cried René, who had scarcely been able to contain himself whilst Claude was speaking of Suzanne in such terms, 'do you believe this vile thing that Colette has told me of Madame Moraines and Baron Desforges?'

'Whether I believe it?' replied Larcher, gazing at his friend in astonishment. 'Am I the man to invent such a story about a woman?'

'When you have paid a woman attentions,' said the poet, uttering his words very slowly, and in a tone of deepest contempt, 'attentions which she has repulsed, the least you can do is to respect her.'

'I!' cried Claude, 'I! I have paid Madame Moraines attentions? I understand--this is what she has told you.' He broke into a nervous laugh. 'When we put such things into our plays these harlots accuse us of libelling them. Of libelling them! As if such a thing were possible! They are all the same. And you believed her! You believed me, Claude Larcher, to be such a villain as to dishonour an honest woman in order to avenge my wounded pride? Look me well in the face, René. Do I look like a hypocrite? Have you ever known me to act as one? Have I proved my affection for you? Well--I give you my word of honour that this woman has lied to you, like Colette. The hussies! And there was I dying of grief, without a word of pity, because this woman, who is worse than a prostitute, had accused me of this dirty thing. Yes--worse than a prostitute! They sell themselves for bread--and she, for what? For a little of the wretched luxury that _parvenus_ indulge in.'

'Hold your tongue, Claude, hold your tongue!' cried René, in terrible accents. 'You are killing me.' A storm of feelings, irresistible in its fury, had suddenly burst forth within him. He could not doubt his friend's sincerity, and this, added to the assurance with which Claude had spoken of Desforges, forced upon the wretched lover a conviction of Suzanne's duplicity too painful to endure. He could restrain himself no longer, and, rushing upon his tormentor, seized him by the lapels of his coat and shook him so violently that the material gave way.

'When you tell a man such things about the woman he loves you must give him proofs--you understand--proofs!'

'You are mad!' replied Claude, disengaging himself from his grasp; 'proofs!--why, all Paris will give you them, my poor boy! Not one person, but ten, twenty, thirty, will tell you that seven years ago the Moraines were ruined. Who got the husband into the Insurance Company? Desforges. He is a director of that company, as he is also a director in the Compagnie du Nord, and a deputy and an ex-Councillor of State, and Heaven knows what besides! He is a big man, this Desforges, although he doesn't look it, and one who can indulge in all kinds of luxuries. Whom do you always find in the Rue Murillo? Desforges. Whom do you meet with Madame Moraines at the theatre? Desforges. And do you think the fellow is a man to play at Platonic love with this pretty woman married to her ninny of a husband? Such nonsense is all very well for you and me, but not for a Desforges! Wherever are your eyes and ears when you go to see her?'

'I have only been to her house three times,' said René.

'Only three times?' repeated Claude, looking at his friend. Emilie's plaintive confidences on the preceding evening had left him no doubt concerning the relations between Suzanne and the poet. René's imprudent exclamation, however, opened his eyes to the peculiar character these relations must have assumed.

'I don't want to know anything,' he went on; 'it is an understood thing that honour forbids us to talk of such women, just as if real honour did not call upon us to denounce their infamy to the whole world. So many fresh victims would then be spared! Proofs? You want proofs. Collect them for yourself. I know only two ways of getting at a woman's secrets--by opening her letters or having her watched. Madame Moraines never writes--you may be sure of that. Put some one on her track.'

'You are advising me to commit an ignoble action!' cried the poet.

'Nothing is noble or ignoble in love,' replied Larcher. 'I have myself done what I advise you to do. Yes, I have set detectives to watch Colette. A connection with one of these hussies means war to the knife, and you are scrupulous about the choice of your weapon.'

'No, no,' replied René, shaking his head; 'I cannot.'

'Then follow her yourself!' continued the relentless logician. 'I know my Desforges. He's a character, don't you make any mistake. I made a study of him once, when I was still fool enough to believe that observation led to talent. This man is an astonishing compound of order and disorder, of libertinism and hygiene. Their meetings are no doubt regulated, like all else in his life,--once a week, at the same hour,--not in the morning, which would interfere with his exercise,--not too late in the afternoon, which would interfere with his visits and his game of bézique at the club. Watch her. Before a week is over you will know the truth. I wish I could say that I had any doubt concerning the result of the experiment And it is I, my poor boy, who led you into this mire! You were so happy here until I took you by the hand and introduced you to that wicked world where you met this monster. If it hadn't been she it would have been another. I seem to bring misfortune on all those I love. But tell me you forgive me! I have such need of your friendship. Come, don't say no!'

Then, as Claude held out his hands, René grasped them fervently, and sinking down into a chair--the same in which Suzanne had sat--he burst into tears and exclaimed, 'My God, what suffering this is!'

* * * * *

Claude had given his friend a week. Before the end of the fourth day René called at the Sainte-Euverte mansion in a state of such agitation that Ferdinand could not repress an exclamation as he opened the door.

'My poor Monsieur Vincy,' said the worthy man, 'are you going to kill yourself with work like master?'

Claude was seated at his writing-table in the famous 'torture-chamber,' smoking as he worked, but, on seeing René, he threw down his cigarette, and a look of intense anxiety came into his face as he cried, '_Mon Dieu!_ What has happened?'

'You were right,' replied the poet, in a choking voice, 'she is the vilest of women.'

'Except one,' remarked Claude bitterly, and, parodying Chamfort's celebrated phrase, added, 'Colette must not be discouraged. But what have you done?'

'What you advised me to do,' replied René, in accents of peculiar asperity, 'and I have come to beg your pardon for having doubted your word. Yes--I have played the spy upon her. What a feeling it is! The first day, the second day, the third day--nothing. She only paid visits and went shopping, but Desforges came to the Rue Murillo every day. I was in a cab stationed at the corner of the street, and when I saw him enter the house I suffered agonies of torture. At last, to-day, about two o'clock, she goes out in her brougham. I follow her in my cab. After stopping at two or three places, her carriage draws up in front of Galignani's, the bookseller's, under the colonnade in the Rue de Rivoli, and she gets out. I see her speak to the coachman, and the brougham goes off without her. She walks for a short distance under the colonnade, and I see that she is wearing a thick veil. How well I know that veil! My heart beat fast and my brain was in a whirl. I felt that I was nearing a decisive moment. She then disappears through an archway, but I follow her closely and find myself in a courtyard with an opening at the other end, affording egress into the Rue du Mont-Thabor. I look up and down the latter street. No one. She could not have had time to get out of sight. I decide to wait and watch the back entrance. If she had an appointment there she would not go out the same way she came in. I waited for an hour and a quarter in a wine-shop just opposite. At the end of that time she reappeared, still wearing her thick veil. The dress, the walk, and the veil--I know them all too well to be mistaken. She had come out by the Rue du Mont-Thabor. Her accomplice would therefore leave by the Rue de Rivoli. I rush through to that side. After a quarter of an hour a door opens and I find myself face to face with--can you guess? Desforges! At last I have them--the proofs! Wretch that she is!'

'Not at all! Not at all!' replied Claude; 'she is a woman, and they're all alike. May I confide in you in return--that is, make an exchange of horrors? You know how Colette treated me when I begged for a little pity? The other night I flogged her till she was black and blue, and this is what she writes me. Read it.' And he handed his friend a letter that was lying open on the table. René took it and read the following lines:

'2 A. M.

'I have waited for you till now, love, but you haven't come. I shall wait for you at home all day to-day, and to-night after I come from the theatre. I only act in the first piece, and I shall make haste to get back. Come for the sake of our old love. Think of my lips. Think of my golden hair. Think of our kisses. Think of her who adores you, who is wretched at having given you pain, and who wants you, as she loves you--madly.

'Your own COLETTE.'

'That's something like a love letter, isn't it?' said Larcher with a kind of savage joy. 'It's more cruel than all the rest to have a woman love you like that because you've beaten her to a jelly. But I'll have no more to do with them--neither with her nor anyone else. I hate love now, and I'm going to cut out my heart. Follow my example.'

'If I could!' replied René, 'but it's impossible. You don't know what that woman was to me.' And again yielding to the passion that raged within him, he wrung his hands and broke into a fit of convulsive sobs. 'You don't know how I loved her, how I believed in her, and what I've given up for her. And then to think of her in the arms of this Desforges--it's horrible!' A shudder of disgust ran through him. 'If she had chosen another man, a man of whom I could think with hatred or rage--but without this feeling of horror! Why, I can't even feel jealous of him. For money! For money!' He rose and caught hold of Claude's arm frantically. 'You told me that he was a director of the Compagnie du Nord. Do you know what she wanted to do the other day? To give me a few good tips in shares. I, too, would have been kept by the Baron. It's only natural, isn't it, that the old man should pay them all--the wife, the husband, and the lover? Oh! if I only could! She is going to the Opera to-night--what if I went there? What if I took her by the hair and spat in her face, before all the people who know her, telling them all that she is a low, filthy harlot?'

He fell back into his chair, once more bursting into tears.

'She occupied my thoughts every hour, every moment of the day. You had told me to be on my guard against women, it is true. But then you were beguiled by a Colette, an actress, a creature who had had other lovers before you--whilst she---- Every line in her face swears to me that it is impossible--that I have been dreaming. It is as if I had seen an angel lie. And yet I have the proof, the undeniable proof. Why did I not confront her there in the street, on the threshold of that vile place? I should have strangled her with my hands, like some beast. Claude, my dear fellow, how I wronged you! And the other! I have crushed and trodden under foot the noblest heart that beat in order to get to this monster. It is but just--I have deserved it all. But what can there be in Nature to produce such beings?'

For a long, long time these confused lamentations continued. Claude listened to them in silence, his head resting on his hand. He too had suffered, and he knew what consolation it gives to tell one's sorrow. He pitied the poor youth who sat there sobbing as if his heart would break, and the clear-sighted analyst within him could not help observing the difference between the poet's grief and that which he himself had so often felt under similar circumstances. He never remembered having suffered this torture, even when hard hit, without probing his wounds, whilst René was the picture of a young and sincere creature who has no idea of studying his tears in a mirror. These strange reflections upon the diversity of men's souls did not prevent him from sympathising most deeply with his friend, and there was a note of true feeling in his voice when he at last took advantage of a break in René's lament to speak.

'It is as our dear Heine said--Love is the hidden disease of the heart. You are now at the period of inception. Will you take the advice of a veteran sufferer? Pack up your traps and put miles upon miles between you and this Suzanne. A pretty name and a well-chosen one! A Suzanne who makes money out of the elders! At your age you will be quickly cured. I am quite cured myself. Not that I know how and when it happened--in fact, it amazes me! But for the past three days I have been rid of my love for Colette. Meanwhile, I'm not going to leave you alone; come and dine with me. We shall drink hard and be merry, and so avenge ourselves upon our troubles.'

After his fit of passion had spent itself René had fallen into that state of mental coma which succeeds great outbursts of grief. He suffered himself to be led, like one in a trance, along the Rue du Bac, then along the Rue de Sèvres and the boulevard as far as the Restaurant Lavenue at the corner of the Gare Montparnasse, long frequented by many well-known painters and sculptors of our day. Claude led the way to a _cabinet particulier_, in which he pointed out to René Colette's name, scratched on one of the mirrors amidst scores of others. Rubbing his hands, he exclaimed: 'We must treat our past with ridicule,' and ordered a very elaborate meal with two bottles of the oldest Corton. During the whole of the dinner he did not cease to propound his theories on women, whilst his companion hardly ate, but sat lost in mental contemplation of the divine face in which he had so fully believed. Was it possible that he was not dreaming, and that Suzanne was really one of those of whom Claude was speaking in terms of such contempt?

'Above all,' said Larcher, 'take no revenge. Revenge in love is like drinking alcohol after burning punch. We become attached to women as much by the harm we do them as by that which they do us. Imitate me, not as I used to be, but as I am now, eating, drinking, and caring as much for Colette as Colette cares for me. Absence and silence--these are the sword and buckler in this battle. Colette writes to me, and I don't answer. She comes to the Rue de Varenne. No admission. Where am I? What am I doing? She cannot get to know. That makes them madder than all the rest. Here's a suggestion: To-morrow morning you start for Italy, or England, or Holland, whichever you prefer. Meanwhile Suzanne thinks you are piously meditating upon all the lies she has told you, but in reality you are comfortably seated in your compartment watching the telegraph poles scud past and saying to yourself, "We are on even terms now, my angel." Then in three, four, or five days' time the angel begins to get uneasy. She sends a servant with a note to the Rue Coëtlogon. The servant comes back:--"Monsieur Vincy is travelling!" "Travelling?" The days roll on and Monsieur Vincy does not return, neither does he write--he is happy elsewhere. How I should like to be there to see the Baron's face when she vents her fury upon him. For these equitable creatures invariably make the one who stays behind pay for the one who has gone. But what's the matter with you?'

'Nothing,' said René, though Claude's mention of Desforges had caused him a fresh fit of pain. 'I think you are right, and I shall leave Paris to-morrow without seeing her.'

It was on that understanding that the two friends separated. Claude had insisted on escorting René back to the Rue Coëtlogon, and, as he shook hands with him at the gate, said, 'I will send Ferdinand to-morrow morning to inquire what time you start. The sooner the better, and without seeing her, mind--remember that!'

'You need not be afraid,' replied René.

'Poor fellow!' muttered Claude, as he returned along the Rue d'Assas. Instead of going towards his own home he walked slowly in the direction of the cab rank by the old Couvent des Carmes, turning round once or twice to see whether his companion had really disappeared. Then he stopped for a few minutes and seemed to hesitate. His eyes fell upon the clock near the cab rank, and he saw that it was a quarter-past ten.

'The piece began at half-past eight,' he said to himself, 'and she's just had time to change. I should be an ass to miss such a chance. _Cocher!_' he cried, waking up the man whose horse seemed to have most speed in him, 'Rue de Rivoli, corner of Jeanne d'Arc's statue, and drive quickly.'

The cab started off and passed the top of the Rue Coëtlogon. 'He is weeping now,' said Claude to himself; 'what would he say if he saw me going to Colette's?' He little thought that as soon as he had entered the house René had told his sister to get out his dress suit. Astonished at such a request, Emilie ventured upon an interrogation, but was met with, 'I have no time to talk,' uttered in such harsh tones that she dared not insist.

It was Friday, and René, as he had told Claude, knew that Suzanne was at the Opera. He had calculated that this was her week. Why had the idea that he must see her again and at once taken such a firm hold upon him that, in his impatience to be off, he quite upset both his sister and Françoise? Was he about to put his threat into practice and insult his faithless mistress in public? Or did he only wish to feast his eyes once more on her deceptive beauty before his departure? On the occasion of his visit to the Gymnase a week ago, after his interview with Colette, his aim had been clear and definite. It was the outward similarity of that visit with the step he was now taking that made him feel more keenly what a change had come over him and his surroundings in such a short space of time. How hopefully had he then betaken himself to the theatre, and now in what mood of despair! Why was he going at all?

He asked himself this question as he ascended the grand staircase, but he felt himself impelled by some force superior to all reason or effort of will. Since he had seen Suzanne leave the house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor he had acted like an automaton. He took his seat in the stalls just as the ballet scene from 'Faust' was drawing to a close. The first effect produced by the music on his overstrung nerves was a feeling of almost morbid sadness; tears started to his eyes and dimmed his vision as he turned his opera-glasses upon Suzanne's box--that box in which she had looked so divinely modest and pretty on the morrow of Madame Komof's _soirée_, though not more so than she did now.

To-night she was in blue, with a row of pearls round her fair throat and diamonds in her golden hair. Another woman, whom René had never seen, was seated beside her; she was a brunette, dressed in white, and wore a number of jewels. There were three men behind them. One was unknown to the poet, the other two were Moraines and Desforges. The unhappy lover gazed upon the trio before him--the woman sold to this aged libertine, and the husband who profited by the bargain. At least, René believed that it was so. This picture of infamy changed his feelings of sadness into fury. All combined to madden him--indignation at finding such ideal grace in Suzanne's face when but that afternoon she had hurried home from her disgusting amours, physical jealousy wrought to its highest pitch by the presence of the more fortunate rival, lastly a kind of helpless humiliation at beholding this perfidious mistress happy and admired, in all the glamour of her queenly beauty, whilst he, her victim, was almost dying of grief and unavenged.

By the time that the ballet was over René had lashed himself into that state of fury which in every day language is expressively styled a cool rage. At such moments, by a contrast similar to that observed in certain stages of madness, the frenzy of the soul is accompanied by complete control of the nerves. The individual may come and go, laugh and talk; he preserves a perfectly calm exterior, and yet inside him there is a whirlwind of murderous ideas. The most unheard-of proceedings then seem quite natural as well as the most pronounced cruelties. The poet had been struck with a sudden idea--to go into Madame Moraines' box and express to her his contempt! How? That did not trouble him much. All he knew was that he must ease his mind, whatever the result might be. As he made his way along the corridor, just then filled with the gilded youth of Paris, he was so beside himself that he came into collision with several people, but strode on unheedingly and without proffering a word of excuse. On reaching the _ouvreuse_, he asked her to show him the sixth box from the stage on the right.

'The box belonging to Monsieur le Baron Desforges?' said the woman.

'Quite right,' replied René. 'He pays for the theatre, too,' he thought; 'that's only as it should be.' The door was opened, and in a trice he had passed through the small ante-room that leads to the box itself. Moraines turned round and smiled at him in his frank and simple way. The next moment he was shaking hands with René in English fashion and saying, 'How d'you do?' as though they were accustomed to meet every day.

Then, turning to his wife, who had witnessed René's entrance without betraying the slightest surprise, he said, 'My darling, this is Monsieur Vincy.'

'I haven't forgotten Monsieur Vincy,' replied Suzanne, receiving her visitor with a graceful inclination of her head, 'although he seems to have forgotten me.'

The perfect ease with which she uttered this phrase, the smile that accompanied it, the painful necessity of shaking hands with this husband whom he regarded as an accessory to his wife's guilt, and of bowing to Baron Desforges as well as to the other persons present in the box--all these details were so strangely out of keeping with the fever consuming the poet that for a few moments he was quite taken aback. Such is life in the world of fashion. Tragedies are played in silence, and amidst an interchange of false compliments, an assumption of meaningless manners, and an empty show of pleasure. Moraines had offered René a seat behind Suzanne, and she sat talking to him about his musical tastes with as much apparent indifference as if this visit were not of terrible significance for her.

Desforges and Moraines were talking with the other lady, and René could hear them making remarks concerning the composition of the audience. He was not accustomed to impose upon himself that self-control which permits women of fashion to talk of dress or music whilst their hearts are being torn with anxiety. He stammered forth replies to Suzanne's words without the least idea of what he was saying. As she bent slightly forward he inhaled the heliotrope perfume she generally used. It awakened tender memories within him, and at last he dared to look at her. He saw her mobile lips, her fair, rose-like complexion, her blue eyes, her golden hair, her snow-white neck and shoulders over which his lips had often strayed. In his eyes there was a kind of savage delirium that almost frightened Madame Moraines. His bare coming had told her that something extraordinary was taking place, but she was under the watchful eye of Desforges, and she could not afford to make a single mistake. On the other hand, the least imprudence on René's part might ruin her. Her whole life depended upon a word or gesture of the young poet, and she knew how easily such word or gesture might escape him. She took up her fan and the lace handkerchief she had laid on the ledge of the box, and rose.

'It is too warm here,' she said, passing her hand over her eyes and addressing René, who had risen at the same time. Will you come into the ante-room? It will be cooler there.'

As soon as they were both seated on the sofa she said aloud, 'Is it long since you last saw our friend Madame Komof?' Then, in an undertone, 'What is the matter, love? What does this mean?'

'It means,' replied René, in a suppressed voice, 'that I know all, and that I am come to tell you what I think of you. You need not trouble to answer. I know all, I tell you--I know at what time you went into the house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, at what time you left it, and whom you met there. Don't lie; I was there--I saw you. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you, but you understand--you are a wretch, a miserable wretch!'

Suzanne was fanning herself whilst he flung these terrible phrases at her. The emotions they aroused did not prevent her from perceiving that this scene with her enraged lover, who was evidently beside himself, must be cut short at any price. Bending forward, she called her husband from the box.

'Paul,' she said, 'have the carriage called. I don't know whether it's the heat in the house, but I feel quite faint. You will excuse me, Monsieur Vincy?'

'It's strange,' said Moraines to the poet, who was obliged to leave the box with the husband, 'she had been so bright all the evening. But these theatres are very badly ventilated. I am sure she is sorry at being unable to talk to you, for she is such an admirer of your talent. Come and see us soon--good-bye!'

And with his usual energy he again shook hands with René, who saw him disappear towards that part of the vestibule where the footmen stand in waiting. The orchestra was just attacking the first bars of the fifth act of 'Faust.' A fresh fit of rage seized the poet, and found vent in the words which he almost shouted in the now deserted corridor: 'I will be revenged!'