II The First Judges
The Molay-Norrois lived on the Quai de la République on the first floor of a spacious apartment, whose eight windows looked out on the Isère. Because of the rapidity of the current and the continual variation of volume, the water of this river, flowing from the glaciers of the great Aiguille Rousse, sometimes shallow and sometimes overflowing, is not clear, but is undoubtedly fresh and cold. Above the bridge is a narrow section of the right bank, backed by the ramps of Mont Rachais and dominated by the fortress and the Monastery of Sainte-Marie-d’En-Haut. The mountains of Vercors on the left and the Saint-Eynard on the right complete the outline of a fairly wide horizon. One feels surrounded by plenty of space and splendid air.
This apartment formed a part of the old house that Lesdiguières prepared for his mistress, Marie Vignon, who was the wife of a silk merchant: the husband, not taking kindly to this luxury, was assassinated, and his wife, who welcomed it gladly, was married somewhat later and installed in the Constable’s house. But as is the custom in Grenoble, the past has left no trace, and one would take the old house for new. This historical relic had attracted Albert Derize in former times, and so led him to meet Elizabeth Molay when she was still a child.
Philippe Lagier, who had called in the afternoon to fulfill his delicate mission to Mme. Derize in accordance with his promise to the lawyer, met M. Molay-Norrois coming downstairs.
“What a pleasant surprise! The visit of an enemy!” said the latter.
M. Molay-Norrois at sixty was by no means an old man. His scanty hair and beard à la Henry IV framed his ruddy face in white. Eyes of faded blue suggested a certain melancholy which belied his smile and the natural sprightliness of his expression and movements. He was dressed with care, a gray overcoat, gray high hat, patent leather shoes half hidden by fawn-colored spats, and from military habit—he had been a cavalry officer—he held himself very upright and rather stiff. He was slender and aristocratic-looking, and easily maintained an air of youth, of which he availed himself in the presence of women.
“I have not come as an enemy,” said Philippe. “I want to arrange with your daughter to avoid this unhappy trial. You could help us.”
“My daughter has gone out. The ladies are both at Mme. Passerat’s; it is her day at home.”
Philippe Lagier, who was standing on a lower step, looked up at the speaker. The latter showed a gracious, pleasant face, as innocent as a child’s. Had not his well-known liaison with the beautiful Mme. Passerat become respectable with time, and did he not know better than anyone what is correct in society and what is not?
“Perhaps the ladies would receive me some other day,” began the lawyer—
“But if you will come with me,” answered M. Molay-Norrois, “we will go together. It is only across the Isère.”
“With pleasure—”
There was in fact only the Isère to cross. The Villa Passerat stands on the opposite bank, almost at the entrance to the stone bridge. It consists of a building with a wing at the right and a turret at the left. This little turret, seemingly so useless and of doubtful architecture, had nevertheless played its modest part as watch tower: they said that one of its windows, usually closed, stood ostentatiously open during the occasional absence of M. Passerat, who was president of a local Academy of Art and Letters and director of several industrial societies. From the Quai de la République there is a very good view of the Quai de France. The house, smart and new, though in an old neighborhood, has a certain picturesqueness, due to its situation, but could have been greatly improved by being treated with more simplicity. It is ensconced, so to speak, in the rock which shelters it from the wind, and it is reached by a grated gate on the street level leading to a passage connecting with the outer buildings and the garage. The walls are covered with a wild vine. The terrace, overlooking the quay, is laid out as a garden, and from the entire façade, but more particularly from the upper stories (for some acacias planted at the edge of the river partially obstruct the view), one sees the magnificent panorama of the Dauphiné Alps, all the group of Belledonne and the Sept-Laux, snow-covered even in summer and glistening under the rays of the sun. On clear winter evenings when that snow, warmed by the glow of the sunset, takes on the color of almond flowers, this view charms the eye with more delicate shades than even Spring can offer.
At the bridge M. Molay-Norrois, stopping to open his sunshade, observed:
“Formerly when you married off your daughter, all responsibility ceased. Nowadays the children are constantly bringing their troubles into court, and parents have no rest.”
“Yes,” agreed Philippe, “nothing is permanent.”
“Indissoluble marriage was considered the safeguard of the family. Even if there were some obstacles, it was respected. But good breeding is out of date. Democracy has destroyed it.”
“Perhaps it is because we have less time to devote to it.”
“That time was not wasted, young man.”
Flattered by this designation, the lawyer was tempted to agree, but the old beau went on:
“Discretion, tact, ingenuity in living are all lost qualities. People cry from the housetops what ought to be kept quiet. You will see the paper that has been drawn up by your colleague, the austere Salvage, an old friend of my family. Ah, those old friends of ours, the lawyers, barristers, doctors, what a nuisance they are, my dear fellow! You have to consult them in the name of the venerable usages which they keep up, and they take advantage of it to ruin you, to drag you into law-suits, to crush you—”
“I saw the petition.”
“Well, what do you think of it? The truth—they are all for the truth. As if truth is necessary to civilization: as if a highly organized society, eager for enjoyment, could get on without hypocrisy! And you take the whole world into your confidence. Formerly silence was a rule of good taste.”
“Let us reconcile them.”
“It is impossible. I went to Paris to see my son-in-law; he was off to Germany with the young woman. My sons Oliver and Victor wished to challenge him. It was foolish of them, but generous. I had great difficulty in restraining them. Would you have believed it? A scholar, an ambitious man to compromise his career and lose all chance of election to the Academy! One does not wreck one’s home for such follies. He used to love Elizabeth: perhaps he still loves her. Who has not loved two women at the same time? But there you are, he is proud. When he was caught in an awkward situation, instead of denying, he defended himself. I know him: he will not come back. They call that showing character, whereas life is made up of concessions.”
“And Mme. Derize?”
“The ladies are greatly wrought up. They excite each other: they talk about it all the time. Their patience, which I have kept alive for two months, is at an end.”
“Then this is final?”
“I am afraid so.”
They had reached the Passerat villa. Philippe did not care to go in.
“Could you not tell your daughter that I should like to see her? It is four o’clock. I shall come at about six.”
“No, no, come in;—you can make your arrangements with her.”
He did the honors of the house, as if he were at home. Madame Tabourin had not lost any time! There were seldom so many people at Madame Passerat’s in the month of June, for then the heat seems to concentrate in the valleys, and people begin to leave town for their country places near by,—shady Uriage, or stations farther on. M. Passerat, whose only passion was archæology, presented to society the frightened manner of a library rat, disturbed while gnawing old books: but on Thursday afternoons, he had less difficulty in appearing sociable, as a matter of gratitude to those guests who took only a glass of syrup or a cup of tea and a small cake, while at the evening functions, being very niggardly despite his wealth, he calculated the expense of the refreshments and grumbled about it. Not only was he not master in his own house, but, on the pretext that his ideas were old-fashioned, he was no longer consulted about anything; whereas M. Molay-Norrois, with his taste for traditions modified by an exact sense of modern requirements, enjoyed an influence which had given rise to the story of the unfastened turret window. Gossip about the two had been even more general since Mme. Passerat, surrounded by her enemies had to struggle at the same time against her years—forty-five in all—and a tendency to shrivel and grow thin, which, if it looked attractive with high-necked gowns, was most trying in evening dress. She was on a fattening diet, but missed the benefit of it because of her physical activity and her irritability of mind. She was a handsome brunette with a curved nose, a quick decisive manner and a loud voice. She loved to bestow pleasure after she had secured a goodly share for herself. Domineering and charitable, she treated life with an assumed frankness, which in reality she lacked, and her husband, naturally fussy, was carried away willy-nilly by these hussar tactics which paid no regard to his indecision.
The two new-comers found the room full. People had gathered around Mme. Derize, congratulating, kissing, flattering her, until she did not know to whom to listen, swamped by the chorus of “dear creature,” “poor little thing”—“these monsters of men,” to all of which she passively submitted. Neither her mother, who had scarcely left her since her trouble, nor she herself had any idea of their lawyer’s breach of trust. The two women had come to call unsuspectingly.
“Society always considers the absent one to be in the wrong,” Mme. Molay-Norrois had assured her daughter. “Preserve the dignity of your position, but be strong in your own right. Mme. Passerat is very influential and she is our friend.”
Mme. Molay-Norrois, with charm, straightforwardness and a devotion to her daughter so complete as to be an annoyance, was withal not in any sense far-sighted. Quite well preserved for her fifty years, and very modest in appearance, except for too much powder on her face, she combined, as often happens, a great deal of physical energy with an undeveloped personality. She could read a book twice within a few weeks without recognizing it. Very docile and amenable to the influence of the moment, she readily confused values, and so a social call seemed to her as important as a decision affecting the future of her children. For the time being, she was entirely taken up with Elizabeth’s law-suit, which she raised to the importance of a battle, implying a touching confidence in her daughter’s victory.
Somewhat astonished by the present social success, she could at least assist her daughter’s triumph, and being very deferential to public opinion, she congratulated herself on having brought about this social acclaim. There was still justice in the world to laud the innocent and to brand the guilty. Transformed into a heroine, Mme. Derize blushed like a young girl. But women soon grow accustomed to ceremonies: this new importance was perhaps in keeping with divorce, just as it is customary to hurry to the vestry after a marriage, and as one, with a sorrowful air, shakes hands with the relatives upon leaving the church after a funeral. She conformed to this unexpected situation as well as she could, and society approved of her quietness. The “dear child” did not complain, did not blame anyone. Her beauty spoke for her.
Rather tall, with a tendency to fullness of figure, which spoiled somewhat the graceful lines of her shoulder, of her bosom and of her hips, she was wearing a gown and a hat of dark violet, the fitness of the color being favorably commented upon as quite the proper thing for a woman, who, although not in mourning, has known care, sorrow and the cruelty of fate. Her small head was crowned with beautiful, silky blonde hair, naturally curly like a child’s, but too tightly drawn back by the comb; her eyes were black, softened by the shade of her hair and contrasting with it, her nose well-shaped, somewhat thin and pointed, her complexion like that of an English woman, her features clear-cut, and with her appearance of good health, and passive virtue, she expressed nothing more than a contented, stunned youthfulness—contented with itself, and stunned by the unexpected complications of a life, which without doubt, she had expected to pass through peacefully, as over a flat road in a comfortable carriage. At twenty-seven, Mme. Derize looked only twenty and always gave the impression of just beginning life.
It would certainly require great kindness or a determining influence on the part of Mme. Passerat to protect this young woman, who possessed all the physical blessings which are the envy of age and which form such an attraction to a certain type of men.
When they saw the pitiless monocle of Philippe Lagier, both Mme. Molay-Norrois and Mme. Derize experienced the same feeling of constraint, and quietly withdrew from the circle of their many voluble admirers. He tried to talk to the younger woman alone and finally succeeded, after countless attempts, just as she was leaving.
“An interview?” she replied to his request, in her high-pitched voice which so soon became annoying and seemed unsuited to serious conversation. “But you are not on our side.”
“I have a message which I must give you.”
“From whom?”
“From Albert.”
“I no longer know him.”
This was said in a hard peremptory tone.
“It concerns your children—their custody. Have you lost your confidence in me?”
She could not mistrust his intentions. Either from curiosity or because the past still had a greater hold upon her than even she herself realized, she brusquely consented without further request on his part.
“Very well, in an hour you can find me at my mother’s house, at my home—”
And her exit, with her mother as a diligent chaperon on one side, and on the other, her father, who had understood the necessity for giving her his public support, was an apotheosis befitting people of distinction.
This departure relieved the strain. Society, lavish with its compliments and flatteries, must occasionally forsake this state of exaggerated enthusiasm which is rather wearing to all concerned. But it is not for the purpose of regaining the truth. Society sees everything in a distorted fashion and manages so to confuse issues, that after completely justifying its victims to the world, it turns and rends them.
“Do they know her name?” inquired Mme. Bonnard-Basson timidly. She was a wealthy parvenu, whose money had been made in cement, and who was received in society for her wealth, her pleasant ways and her meekness.
“Whose name?”
“Why... the corespondent’s.”
“Anne de Sézery”: everybody knew it—above all things everybody wished to appear to know it, for it is humiliating to receive information rather than to give it. Somebody named her and everyone agreed with an understanding air. How should they judge her? The title of nobility made them hesitate for a second. Before anyone spoke, a mysterious thought-current, pointing in a definite direction was established. One or another of the women recalled the young girl, formerly proud and independent, who had considered herself beyond all conventions. She had not left a very sympathetic impression behind her. Penniless, reduced to the point of accepting a position as a teacher—yes, as a governess—almost a servant, there was no possible defense for her. She had lost her social position. They made her out to be an adventuress. Those who meet with great obstacles in life and must seek work and recommendations from others easily pass for such. They accused her of wild flirtations,—oh, of course, with the purpose of finding a husband. For she was furious at being an old maid; at thirty-four or thirty-five (they were generous with her) it becomes difficult to marry. This addition to the number of her years, hurled insultingly into the discussion by some unkind gossip, caught the attention of a large part of the company. But no one denied it.
“Thirty-one,” corrected Philippe Lagier, simply. “That is adolescence nowadays.”
He received several angry glances, and they continued with the story of an English lord, an old rheumatic millionaire with whom she had traveled, but the narrator confused places and dates at will, did not cite her authorities, and depended on a vague suspicion. And during all this gossip, Philippe saw even more distinctly than on the evening before, the beautiful disillusioned face and the sad eyes in which flashed golden lights.
They consulted him as to the future.
“Could she marry him?” inquired, in one breath, Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, who had become bosom friends since the busy husband of the latter had provided the remunerative position of director for the useless husband of the former.
“Who?”
“M. Albert Derize, of course.”
“Madame Derize is merely seeking a separation,” someone explained.
“Ah, yes; that is customary—an absurd custom,” interjected a young feminist—“One ought to be able to begin life again.”
“Many times?”
“As often as necessary.”
A former Court Counselor, M. Prémereux, a permanent fixture at Mme. Passerat’s receptions, hastened to display his learning:
“Nowadays a separation becomes a divorce after a certain lapse of time.”
“Ah, you see,” someone exclaimed, “of course she knows all about that.”
The Magistrate resumed his explanation:
“Article 298, relating to the statutory grounds for divorce, forbade the guilty party to marry the corespondent, but that has just been repealed.”
“She knew it,” said one of the women with conviction.
Philippe Lagier, without moving a muscle, added:
“Surely. Nowadays before falling in love, we consult a lawyer.”
M. Prémereux, somewhat subdued by his thirty or forty years on the bench, envied him this insolence. The women, not appreciating the irony, attached no importance to this remark, and by a sudden turn of conversation, spoke of the case of Albert Derize. M. Lagier had just been talking in a low tone to the pretty Mme. Derize: was that not already a sort of infidelity? They hoped that he felt a secret passion for her. They foresaw it with that divination which is the attribute of certain hostesses, who are adepts in placing their guests at table, so as to arouse sympathies and provoke emotions, and thus succeed in giving an added brilliance to their receptions. So they spoke in favor of the wife before beginning the chapter concerning the husband. They praised her intelligence more than her beauty, and her resignation more than her youth.
“Now,” said Mme. de Vimelle at last, taking the lead in the pursuit—“why, with so many fine qualities that we know of, should she have married a husband of such inferior origin?”
“That’s what I say!” agreed Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was descended from prosperous tradesmen—
Nevertheless they agreed upon some extenuating circumstances.
“He was well-known, a member of the Legion of Honor, almost famous.” But an old lady asserted:
“For a writer the Academy is the only thing that counts.”
They might have objected on the score of his age, but this was a subject which had already been too much discussed.
“These differences of position between husband and wife!” went on the angular Mme. de Vimelle. “There is nothing more dreadful. That an adventurer and an adventuress should meet and be mutually attracted. Nothing is more natural!”
And to outdo her friend of one season’s standing, Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was naturally servile and sought every opportunity to flatter her, took courage because of her hyphenated name, to add:
“Say what you will; only the old-established families know how to avoid scandals.”
She was forgetting the rôle that the Sézery family had played in the history of Dauphiné, notably in the religious wars in which they had taken part with Lesdiguières. But logic is not a factor in social gossip.
Philippe Lagier had borne all these attacks with difficulty. To be silent was to approve of them, and how could he answer everyone at once? The women’s principal argument he well knew concerned the humble birth of Albert Derize, but to him this seemed the most preposterous of all, for one had but to enter the house of the elder Mme. Derize to be surrounded at once by the atmosphere of order, work, honor and moral strength that had formed his past—but to realize this one must be worthy of appreciating distinction of mind and character.
“Have you read the second volume of the ‘History of the Peasant?” he asked, in order to reënter the conversation. “One might apply to the author the epigram of Mme. de Staël concerning our compatriot Monnier, whom she found ’passionately sensible.’”
“Passionately,” echoed one of the women insinuatingly.
“It is glowing and accurate. It has had great success and has been translated into every language, like his ‘History of the Workman.’”
Mme. Passerat interrupted:
“We are not questioning his talent.”
“The Duchess of Béard who is very clever, uses it as her prayer book. M. and Mme. Derize used to dine with her.”
“He knows how to plead,” thought Counselor Prémereux.
“The Béards are one of the great families of France and one of the oldest. But how do we distinguish the great families nowadays? Not always by titles; that would be a great mistake. They are known by their traditions of honor and of gentleness. And it is exactly that which one meets while in the home of the Derizes.”
This daring was answered by a chorus of protest:
“You are M. Derize’s friend!”
“His lawyer!”
“You are defending him!”
“That is your profession!”
Mme. de Vimelle, her nose as sharp as a razor blade, had given vent to this last answer.
“At your service,” replied Philippe. “But who is there that does not need to be defended?”
And he took advantage of the movement toward the refreshments to take his leave. M. Prémereux rejoined him on the staircase.
“I fear you have made some enemies,” suggested the prudent counselor.
The barrister, who had been amused by the fencing match smiled complacently:
“That is preferable to women’s indifference.” To prolong the conversation he added:
“I will go with you as far as the Place Grenette.” And he immediately resumed:
“Why this haste in judging? They praise one, crush another without understanding even the underlying principles of debate.”
“That all comes from Mme. Derize’s call,” explained M. Prémereux. “Nothing more is necessary to focus their criticism.”
They reached the City Park, the shade of which, after the sunny roads, brought them a breath of cool air. It is a little park like those of England, where the trees, young elms and plane trees, mingle their branches above the damp green lawns. A black swan with a red beak was swimming on a little pond to reach the tiny island where his little house was built. Water could be heard trickling from a fountain. An avenue of lime trees in flower shed their intoxicating scent like a fine dust. At this warm hour of the day, the garden was a refuge of peace, softness and sweet reveries.
The counselor took off his hat to enjoy this pleasant sensation, but Philippe Lagier resisted these natural influences.
“No,” said he, without removing his hat, “I will tell you what shocks society. It is when one presumes to ignore it.”
“You are right,” agreed the old judge. But Philippe did not hear him.
“Just think: to hold as worthless the prejudices of public opinion and the art of reconciling duty and pleasure. So the world detests every emotion that is sincere. What can they think of Mme. Passerat who finds a means of having two husbands—one for his money, and the other to be in the style.”
“For heaven’s sake, be quiet. I dine with her every Saturday and her cuisine is the very best in Grenoble.”
“Or that stout Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who from sheer snobbishness is on the lookout for a titled lover.”
“That is the way commerce renders homage to aristocracy.”
“Or that crabbed Mme. de Vimelle who knows it, and makes use of her knowledge to further the good of her family.”
“She is a good manager.”
“That is, without taking into account all that we don’t know.”
With an indulgent, disillusioned air, the old man soothed his companion.
“You are irritable. The hardest thing in life is to accept one’s fate. Everyone envies the lot of everyone else, and seeks to ameliorate his own by complicating it. This is a great source of error. What we need is a little philosophy and a few concessions; to offset our curiosity and greed by the cultivation of some of those harmless tastes which broaden our horizon without harming other people; that is to say: art, reading, travel, good food, conversation, even dissipation, or rather a little prodigality, a daily task, children to bring up! That will satisfy the most unreasonable or the most ambitious. As to passion, it is certainly detestable. It moves about in our civilized land like a blind man in a drawing-room full of knick-knacks, and it should be put out of the house. Added to that, it does not bring happiness even to the simpletons who hope to get it that way.”
“It is not happiness they seek in passion.”
“What then?”
“Intensity of living.”
M. Prémereux looked at him as at a curiosity from a museum.
“You are young—”
“They told me that only to-day.”
“Your eyes are not yet open.”
“Mine?” said Philippe, surprised and piqued; he prided himself on never being deceived.
“Yes, yours. In order to judge, one must not be concerned in the trial, and you are constantly summoning yourself to appear when you make your own estimates. But never mind, the greater part of mankind open their eyes only once.”
“Only once?”
“Yes—at death—and then they are quickly shut.”