Books: Fromont and Risler, v3
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Alphonse Daudet >> Fromont and Risler, v3
He might have talked the entire day and Claire would not have interrupted
him. She felt that the slightest effort would cause the tears that
filled her eyes to overflow, and she was determined to smile to the end,
the sweet, brave woman. From time to time she cast a sidelong glance at
the road. She was in haste to go, to fly from the sound of that spiteful
voice, which pursued her pitilessly.
At last he ceased; he had told the whole story. She bowed and walked
toward the door.
"Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" said the grandfather,
following her outside.
At heart he was a little ashamed of his savagery.
"Won't you breakfast with me?"
She shook her head, not having strength to speak.
"At least wait till the carriage is ready--some one will drive you to the
station."
No, still no.
And she walked on, with the old man close behind her. Proudly, and with
head erect, she crossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs of her
childhood, without once looking behind. And yet what echoes of hearty
laughter, what sunbeams of her younger days were imprinted in the tiniest
grain of gravel in that courtyard!
Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were still in the same place. She
had not a glance for them, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor even
for the great dog Kiss, who followed her docilely, awaiting the caress
which she did not give him. She had come as a child of the house, she
went away as a stranger, her mind filled with horrible thoughts which the
slightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past could not have failed
to aggravate.
"Good-by, grandfather."
"Good-by, then."
And the gate closed upon her harshly. As soon as she was alone, she
began to walk swiftly, swiftly, almost to run. She was not merely going
away, she was escaping. Suddenly, when she reached the end of the wall
of the estate, she found herself in front of the little green gate,
surrounded by nasturtiums and honeysuckle, where the chateau mail-box
was. She stopped instinctively, struck by one of those sudden awakenings
of the memory which take place within us at critical moments and place
before our eyes with wonderful clearness of outline the most trivial acts
of our lives bearing any relation to present disasters or joys. Was it
the red sun that suddenly broke forth from the clouds, flooding the level
expanse with its oblique rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunset
hour in August? Was it the silence that surrounded her, broken only by
the harmonious sounds of nature, which are almost alike at all seasons?
Whatever the cause she saw herself once more as she was, at that same
spot, three years before, on a certain day when she placed in the post a
letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass a month with her in the country.
Something told her that all her misfortunes dated from that moment.
"Ah! had I known--had I only known!" And she fancied that she could
still feel between her fingers the smooth envelope, ready to drop into
the box.
Thereupon, as she reflected what an innocent, hopeful, happy child she
was at that moment, she cried out indignantly, gentle creature that she
was, against the injustice of life. She asked herself: "Why is it? What
have I done?"
Then she suddenly exclaimed: "No! it isn't true. It can not be
possible. Grandfather lied to me." And as she went on toward the
station, the unhappy girl tried to convince herself, to make herself
believe what she said. But she did not succeed.
The truth dimly seen is like the veiled sun, which tires the eyes far
more than its most brilliant rays. In the semi-obscurity which still
enveloped her misfortune, the poor woman's sight was keener than she
could have wished. Now she understood and accounted for certain peculiar
circumstances in her husband's life, his frequent absences, his
restlessness, his embarrassed behavior on certain days, and the abundant
details which he sometimes volunteered, upon returning home, concerning
his movements, mentioning names as proofs which she did not ask. From
all these conjectures the evidence of his sin was made up. And still she
refused to believe it, and looked forward to her arrival in Paris to set
her doubts at rest.
No one was at the station, a lonely, cheerless little place, where no
traveller ever showed his face in winter. As Claire sat there awaiting
the train, gazing vaguely at the station-master's melancholy little
garden, and the debris of climbing plants running along the fences by the
track, she felt a moist, warm breath on her glove. It was her friend
Kiss, who had followed her and was reminding her of their happy romps
together in the old days, with little shakes of the head, short leaps,
capers of joy tempered by humility, concluding by stretching his
beautiful white coat at full length at his mistress's feet, on the cold
floor of the waiting-room. Those humble caresses which sought her out,
like a hesitating offer of devotion and sympathy, caused the sobs she had
so long restrained to break forth as last. But suddenly she felt ashamed
of her weakness. She rose and sent the dog away, sent him away
pitilessly with voice and gesture, pointing to the house in the distance,
with a stern face which poor Kiss had never seen. Then she hastily wiped
her eyes and her moist hands; for the train for Paris was approaching and
she knew that in a moment she should need all her courage.
Claire's first thought on leaving the train was to take a cab and drive
to the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix, who had, as her grandfather
alleged, supplied Georges with a diamond necklace. If that should prove
to be true, then all the rest was true. Her dread of learning the truth
was so great that, when she reached her destination and alighted in front
of that magnificent establishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To give
herself countenance, she pretended to be deeply interested in the jewels
displayed in velvet cases; and one who had seen her, quietly but
fashionably dressed, leaning forward to look at that gleaming and
attractive display, would have taken her for a happy wife engaged in
selecting a bracelet, rather than an anxious, sorrow-stricken soul who
had come thither to discover the secret of her life.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At that time of day, in winter,
the Rue de la Paix presents a truly dazzling aspect. In that luxurious
neighborhood, life moves quickly between the short morning and the early
evening. There are carriages moving swiftly in all directions,
a ceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, a rustling
of silks and furs. Winter is the real Parisian season. To see that
devil's own Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one must
watch the current of its life beneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow.
Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak. No wind, no sunlight.
Just enough light for the dullest colors, the faintest reflections to
produce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gray tone of the monuments
to the gleams of jet which bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre and
concert posters shine resplendent, as if illumined by the effulgence of
the footlights. The shops are crowded. It seems that all those people
must be preparing for perpetual festivities. And at such times, if any
sorrow is mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the more terrible
for that reason. For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdom worse than
death. Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of the
deserted fields, her despair spread out as it were in the sharp air and
seemed to enfold her less closely. Here she was stifling. The voices
beside her, the footsteps, the heedless jostling of people who passed,
all added to her torture.
At last she entered the shop.
"Ah! yes, Madame, certainly--Monsieur Fromont. A necklace of diamonds
and roses. We could make you one like it for twenty-five thousand
francs."
That was five thousand less than for him.
"Thanks, Monsieur," said Claire, "I will think it over."
A mirror in front of her, in which she saw her dark-ringed eyes and her
deathly pallor, frightened her. She went out quickly, walking stiffly in
order not to fall.
She had but one idea, to escape from the street, from the noise; to be
alone, quite alone, so that she might plunge headlong into that abyss of
heartrending thoughts, of black things dancing madly in the depths of her
mind. Oh! the coward, the infamous villain! And to think that only last
night she was speaking comforting words to him, with her arms about him!
Suddenly, with no knowledge of how it happened, she found herself in the
courtyard of the factory. Through what streets had she come? Had she
come in a carriage or on foot? She had no remembrance. She had acted
unconsciously, as in a dream. The sentiment of reality returned,
pitiless and poignant, when she reached the steps of her little house.
Risler was there, superintending several men who were carrying potted
plants up to his wife's apartments, in preparation for the magnificent
party she was to give that very evening. With his usual tranquillity he
directed the work, protected the tall branches which the workmen might
have broken: "Not like that. Bend it over. Take care of the carpet."
The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-making which had so revolted her a
moment before pursued her to her own house. It was too much, after all
the rest! She rebelled; and as Risler saluted her, affectionately and
with deep respect as always, her face assumed an expression of intense
disgust, and she passed without speaking to him, without seeing the
amazement that opened his great, honest eyes.
From that moment her course was determined. Wrath, a wrath born of
uprightness and sense of justice, guided her actions. She barely took
time to kiss her child's rosy cheeks before running to her mother's room.
"Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We are going away. We are going
away."
The old lady rose slowly from the armchair in which she was sitting,
busily engaged in cleaning her watch-chain by inserting a pin between
every two links with infinite care.
"Come, come, hurry. Get your things ready."
Her voice trembled, and the poor monomaniac's room seemed a horrible
place to her, all glistening as it was with the cleanliness that had
gradually become a mania. She had reached one of those fateful moments
when the loss of one illusion causes you to lose them all, enables you to
look to the very depths of human misery. The realization of her complete
isolation, between her half-mad mother, her faithless husband, her too
young child, came upon her for the first time; but it served only to
strengthen her in her resolution.
In a moment the whole household was busily engaged in making preparations
for this abrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurried the bewildered
servants, and dressed her mother and the child, who laughed merrily amid
all the excitement. She was in haste to go before Georges' return, so
that he might find the cradle empty and the house deserted. Where should
she go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to her aunt at Orleans,
perhaps to Savigny, no matter where. What she must do first of all was-
go, fly from that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood.
At that moment she was in her bedroom, packing a trunk, making a pile of
her effects--a heartrending occupation. Every object that she touched
set in motion whole worlds of thoughts, of memories. There is so much of
ourselves in anything that we use. At times the odor of a sachet-bag,
the pattern of a bit of lace, were enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Suddenly she heard a heavy footstep in the salon, the door of which was
partly open; then there was a slight cough, as if to let her know that
some one was there. She supposed that it was Risler: for no one else had
the right to enter her apartments so unceremoniously. The idea of having
to endure the presence of that hypocritical face, that false smile, was
so distasteful to her that she rushed to close the door.
"I am not at home to any one."
The door resisted her efforts, and Sigismond's square head appeared in
the opening.
"It is I, Madame," he said in an undertone. "I have come to get the
money."
"What money?" demanded Claire, for she no longer remembered why she had
gone to Savigny.
"Hush! The funds to meet my note to-morrow. Monsieur Georges, when he
went out, told me that you would hand it to me very soon."
"Ah! yes--true. The hundred thousand francs."
"I haven't them, Monsieur Planus; I haven't anything."
"Then," said the cashier, in a strange voice, as if he were speaking to
himself, "then it means failure."
And he turned slowly away.
Failure! She sank on a chair, appalled, crushed. For the last few hours
the downfall of her happiness had caused her to forget the downfall of
the house; but she remembered now.
So her husband was ruined! In a little while, when he returned home, he
would learn of the disaster, and he would learn at the same time that his
wife and child had gone; that he was left alone in the midst of the
wreck.
Alone--that weak, easily influenced creature, who could only weep and
complain and shake his fist at life like a child! What would become of
the miserable man?
She pitied him, notwithstanding his great sin.
Then the thought came to her that she would perhaps seem to have fled at
the approach of bankruptcy, of poverty.
Georges might say to himself:
"Had I been rich, she would have forgiven me!"
Ought she to allow him to entertain that doubt?
To a generous, noble heart like Claire's nothing more than that was
necessary to change her plans. Instantly she was conscious that her
feeling of repugnance, of revolt, began to grow less bitter, and a sudden
ray of light seemed to make her duty clearer to her. When they came to
tell her that the child was dressed and the trunks ready, her mind was
made up anew.
"Never mind," she replied gently. "We are not going away."
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Abundant details which he sometimes volunteered
Exaggerated dramatic pantomime
Void in her heart, a place made ready for disasters to come
Would have liked him to be blind only so far as he was concerned