II The Watch
Elizabeth hurried to her room, as a bird with heavy wings beaten down by a tempest rushes to find shelter. Her mouth somewhat twisted, her lips dry, her limbs wearied by the effort to climb the stairs, she fell into an armchair, where, alone with herself, she could better bear her state of fatigue, and uneasiness of heart. This scene had been surprising and terrifying to her, who disliked violent or even unexpected sensations, and sought nothing but peace, order and daily unvarying monotony. Darkness, kind charitable darkness, enveloping her like a veil which hangs lightly from the shoulders, lessened her indignation, but made her more self-pitying. She was confiding in herself as in a friend, and so found relief, when her mother came in, scarcely touching the door, as if in the intimacy of the family, it were almost unnecessary to announce oneself.
“Elizabeth,” called Mme. de Molay-Norrois.
Elizabeth did not answer at once, finding added vexation in the fact that she who was so seldom in need of it, was even at this time unable to have a corner in which she might take refuge undisturbed.
“You are tired—why did you not ring?”
“I am not tired, Mamma.”
How could she stem this maternal solicitude? Mme. Molay-Norrois had already lighted a lamp, closed the window to keep out the mosquitoes and the September breeze, and was studying the dear face, whose every expression she knew.
“You are flushed. You have been crying. And you have told me nothing.”
“I have a headache, that is all.”
“A headache? You were out all afternoon. It is not a headache. You have some trouble and you will not tell me.”
For the first time the young woman understood that even with those who love one best, one is often alone, and that any presence, even the dearest, may be intolerable. For the first time too, she really understood the tone of voice in which she was being addressed; the one which is suited to little girls, to encourage them, or quiet and control them. By what inexplicable mistake did they continue to use it in speaking to her? Misfortune itself had matured her, and yet they treated her like a little child. Her sadness was intensified by it, as is the pain of a wound that is inflamed by unskillful care.
“There is nothing the matter,” she reaffirmed.
Her mother, baffled, was surprised and sorry, and finally, to change the subject, said in an off-hand manner:
“We are dining with the Vimelles to-night; you have just about time to get ready.”
“I shall not go.”
“What? You have accepted their invitation. It is too late to refuse. Then, the other day you declined at the last minute. And you have just told me you are not ill—no, no, you must come; it is absolutely necessary.”
“Nevertheless, I shall not go,” Elizabeth repeated with a new note of authority.
For Mme. Molay-Norrois there were no small and great events. She valued equally social obligations and those which concerned the serious affairs of life. Her daughter’s defiance shocked her respect for the laws of society, as much as it offended her affection which she now considered to be of no avail. She tried to coax her with gentle insistence which she finally saw would produce no result.
After her departure and slight thought of regret concerning the misunderstanding, Elizabeth found joy in again indulging her melancholy. She was soon aroused out of it, however, by her father who did not even knock at the door, and came in quite unceremoniously, dashing, beaming, smiling, his eyes bright, his mustache curled and a rose bud in the buttonhole of his dinner coat.
“He, too!” she thought, irritated and cross.
He paid no attention to her unfriendly attitude. He never needed to exert himself with Elizabeth, who was always so tractable.
“Well, little one?” he asked, playfully. “You have nerves, you have asserted yourself, you have made your mother cry, and she is crying, on my word! She certainly needs very little to make her weep.”
Curled up in her chair, she did not deign to answer him, and to avoid saying too much, she drew her lips together, so that her mouth was tight shut. Despite his white hair, he was very lively in his evening attire. If he had had any idea of what she was thinking of him, he would have ceased to annoy her.
“Are you ill? No...? Besides, women’s nerves! Come along with us. The Vimelles will be so offended if you do not come. Philippe Lagier will amuse you. He is witty and lively. He is rather making love to you, Philippe Lagier, eh. Eh!”
“No one is making love to me.”
She said this in such a peremptory way that he stopped short in his teasing. This little girl was certainly in a bad temper; it was better after all to leave her to sulk as she would. The art of living was fast disappearing when people no longer knew how to conceal their troubles, to bear them with fortitude, in order not to burden their neighbors. Society would soon sanction discussing one’s private affairs publicly and wearing a sorrowful expression. And that was the inevitable result of a long period of democracy. So now he only thought of hastening his departure. Happily he found some comfort in seeing his face, still fresh, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe.
“Well, rest, little one, if you are tired.”
This expression of interest satisfied his paternal dignity, and as soon as he was out in the corridor, he cheered up.
Elizabeth, thus disturbed, was trying with difficulty to recover the lost trend of her reflections, when her children, having heard of her return, rushed into the room. They had just come in from their walk, and made a great noise with their hobnailed shoes. They were surprised not to see her in evening dress.
“You will be late,” declared Marie Louise.
“I am dining with you, my darlings.”
“Oh! Oh!” cried Philippe joyfully, using his big voice like a bell.
And the little girl was already calling from the staircase.
“Agatha, set three places.”
Nothing pleased her so well as giving orders, except listening to stories or teasing her brother.
At table she did the honors of the dinner, as if her mother were a guest. Elizabeth was amused, but not without a touch of bitterness, noting therein the result of her frequent evenings away from them. Her mind receptive, she also realized that her children, entrusted too much to the care of servants, were losing many of their good habits; the one being proud of all the luxury she enjoyed, and particularly of the Passerat’s beautiful motor with which to dazzle her less-favored playfellows; the other eating with his fingers and using kitchen slang in his conversation. Little disposed to scold them, she promised herself to look after them more carefully and to begin to put them to bed herself, a fact of which little Philippe took advantage to show her all the tricks he had learned to do in his night-shirt.
As soon as he was in bed, all curled up with his knees almost under his chin, the little man fell asleep, and, once asleep, he did not move any more than a trunk,—a habit for which Marie Louise took him to task. She, on the other hand, fought sleep with obstinate resistance, and only gave in at last when her eyelids could no longer keep open to see the light of the lamp.
“Tell me a story,” she asked when she was tucked in.
Elizabeth sat down beside her and thought her being there would soothe her.
“I don’t know one.”
“Papa always knew some.”
She rarely spoke of her father. This remembrance astonished the young woman and was not pleasant to her.
“Yes,” said the little girl, “the one about Jeanne d’Arc and about Cyclops.”
“About Cyclops?”
“Y es, the one who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead, and who let the sheep get away from him.”
Albert Derize had willingly pruned the forest of the epics, the Iliad, the Odyssey, the “Song of Roland” like any good woodman, to make of them playthings for his children.
“Go to sleep, darling, go to sleep.”
“Well, I shall have to tell you one, Mamma.”
“You must go to sleep.”
“The one about the cup of happiness, if you like. There was once a knight who had a very sad wife in his castle. And she went to sleep when he was away hunting. And then he saw fairies dancing—do fairies dance?”
“Of course, they do. Go to sleep.”
“And he saw one there who was the most beautiful of all, and she carried a golden cup with diamonds. It was not for champagne. It was the cup of happiness.”
Her mother bent over her, thinking she was asleep, but the little voice continued faintly after a moment.
“So the knight tore it from her hands and rode off on his horse and escaped, and he made a present of it.”
“To whom?” Elizabeth asked mechanically.
“To the lady... who was sad in the castle... and he went to sleep when he was hunting....”
The story went on like this in a circle, but at last the lids with their long lashes ceased fluttering like little wings, and after two or three nervous movements, the child went to sleep on her pillow of golden curls.
Elizabeth stood motionless for some time comparing the sleep of Marie Louise with that of her brother. She was a much more imaginative child, of finer sensibility, who had to be soothed and strengthened. This duty devolved on the mother alone—now that Albert was no longer there. Albert? Where was he now? Could he desert them? She did not love him now, but when he was there, she felt the house was stronger, better protected from all harm.
To escape this recollection which tormented her, close to her children, she got up and went to her room near by. She half closed the door after her without entirely shutting it, that she might hear the least sound and be out of the draught. After taking these precautions she hastened to open the window, as she was exceedingly warm.
The moon had risen, but was hidden by the roof, and its light resembled a cloth spread over the country. The numerous lawns, without a shadow, unfolded themselves in the distance, smooth, pale and even, only broken here and there by groups of trees, standing like mysterious conspirators in the dark. Scattered stars twinkled on the edge of the horizon, without forming very distinct constellations. And over the neighboring villa, where the Passerats were living, a larch tree stood out, its curved branches outlining the silhouette of a pagoda on the wall.
This silence, this peace which Elizabeth thought she would enjoy on the balcony with the scent of the rose bushes, was disturbed by the noise of fireworks that were being let off at the casino. Rockets sprang up with a loud report, disappeared into the air and fell back again in a colored rain, whose effect was half-destroyed by the moonlight. And this was the signal for shrieks, applause, the expression of festivity, mingled with the fanfare of trumpets.
She went back into the room. The noise of her heart was sufficient for her. Nothing could lessen the impression of disgust that Philippe Lagier’s avowal had left upon her, and which she could not forget, as she went from room to room. She drank a glass of water into which she had poured a few drops of ammonia and aniseed to take away the taste of ashes which her lips retained. But they were immediately dry again. A half forgotten, unexpected, almost ludicrous recollection of her childhood came suddenly, to give concrete meaning to her impressions. As a little girl she had read in mythology that there were men with goats’ hoofs called fauns. Amused at this peculiarity, she had spent an entire day gazing at the passers-by in the street. “Have you met any?” her best friend and confidante, Blanche Servin, asked incredulously. In order not to make her book seem untrue, she had replied: “How can one tell if they have shoes on?” Our dispositions exert so much influence upon our individual interpretation of things that this old recollection, instead of being a diversion to her, satisfied her desire for revolt and augmented her dislike. One must see life clearly. Well! she had opened her eyes, and saw about her only ignominy and the basest deception, not even glossed over by the outward decency. One woman had a lover, not for love, but to appear up-to-date. Another took advantage of her husband’s liaison. That old man—her father—allowed his mistress to be on friendly terms with his wife and daughter. And as to that honor—of which men pretend to make a religion, even if they have renounced every other law, she knew what to think of that, since the lawyer, the counsel, the most intimate friend of Albert hoped to profit by these services to offer himself as a comforter. There was no happy medium between the blindness of her mother, her own before her separation, and the recognition of this wickedness which haunted her like a nightmare. To see clearly was to gaze upon the ground, to find the cloven foot. Bah!
A sigh, then a half stifled cry which she heard from the adjoining room aroused her from the disgust into which she had sunk as into a quicksand, made her get up from her chair and walk softly with a mother’s consideration. The little boy had not stirred; he was still in the same uncomfortable position. It was Marie Louise who was sleeping restlessly. Elizabeth put back the blanket which the child had thrown off, and seated herself between the two beds. By the light of the lamp she looked for a long time from right to left, comparing the motionless features of the two little sleeping faces, one quite at ease, the other fidgety and, even in this semi-conscious state, restless, as if the imagination back of the closed eyelids had remained awake and continued to work even with the lights out and the stage darkened.
“What will become of these dear mites?” she thought, turning from thoughts of herself. And the fear of the future brusquely aroused her. Later on, very soon they would learn what life meant, alone, quite alone. Even a mother’s most tender devotion was powerless. They would live again the everlasting experience which each must live alone. They would meet the same sorrows, feel the same bitterness, know the same despair. For the world would not change for them. She had discovered it as it is in all its reality. Ah, at least, if she could not protect them, could not accompany them on the road, ought she not strengthen them by cultivating their understanding of disillusions, especially the little girl who took her little joys and sorrows with such intensity and was not able to distinguish, even in her games, the difference between fancy and fact, which was never sufficiently attractive to please her whims?
The night light gave to the objects in the room an animated appearance, and lengthened the shadows to the ceiling. Elizabeth felt herself surrounded by dangers and knew the necessity of protecting her children, threatened as she was. Since her departure from Paris she had given her entire time to the new life which was arranged for her, in the daily distraction of which she had forgotten her troubles. But this new life for herself and the children demanded constant attention and devotion. Now she was meeting it face to face and she feared it. Her arms hanging motionless at her side, she gave herself up to the discouragement of the minute, while she was beginning to grasp the importance of courage. Never, never would she, so unprepared, educated and trained as she was for a very ordinary lot, be able to adapt herself to the life before her.
“The cup of... happiness...” stammered Marie Louise in her dreams.
The cup of happiness! What irony this evening! Was it not too unjust that she should be thus punished for no reason; in the fullness of her youth be overwhelmed with so many burdens and have so little help! In her despair she detested Albert, who had deserted her in such cowardly manner. No doubt he was no worse than others, weak as they were, a slave to his desires and cruelly selfish. Now she knew him! How he had deceived her!
“What have I done to him? What have I done to him?” she kept repeating to herself as she wept.
She thought of the note-books which Philippe Lagier had brought her, which might furnish an answer to her question. What hypocritical answer? When the maid came to stay with the children, she went back and lit her lamp. Quite overcome with suffering and bitterness, her nerves trembling, she began the reading which kept her awake late into the night.