Books: Gerfaut, v3
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Charles de Bernard >> Gerfaut, v3
In the midst of all the contradictory sentiments of fear, remorse,
vexation, love, and jealousy, Clemence's head was so turned, at times,
that she did not know what she did want. She found herself in one of
those situations when a woman of a complex and mobile character whom all
sensations impress, passes, with surprising facility, from one resolve to
another entirely opposed to it. After being frightened beyond measure by
her lover's presence in her husband's house, she ended by becoming
accustomed to it, and then by ridiculing her first terror.
"Truly," she thought, at times, "I was too silly thus to torment myself
and make myself ill; I was wanting in self-respect to mistrust myself to
such an extent, and to see danger where there was none. He can not
expect to make himself so very formidable while scrawling this
genealogical tree. If he came one hundred leagues from Paris for that,
he really does not merit such severe treatment."
Then, having thus reassured herself against the perils of her position,
without realizing that to fear danger less was to embolden love, she
proceeded to examine her lover's conduct.
"He seems perfectly resigned," she said, to herself; "not one word or
glance for two days! Since he resigns himself so easily, he might, it
seems to me, obey me entirely and go away; or, if he wishes to disobey
me, he might do it in a less disagreeable manner. For really, his manner
is almost rude; he might at least remember that I am his hostess, and
that he is in my house. I do not see what pleasure he can take in
talking to this little girl. I wager that his only object is to annoy
me! He deceives himself most assuredly; it is all the same to me! But
Aline takes all this seriously! She has become very coquettish, the last
few days! It certainly is very wrong for him to try to turn this child's
head. I should like to know what he would say to justify himself."
Thus, little by little, she mentally reached the point to which Octave
wished to bring her. The desire for an explanation with him, which she
dared not admit to herself at first from a feeling of pride, became
greater from day to day, and at last Octave himself could not have longed
more ardently for an interview. Now that Octave seemed to forget her,
she realized that she loved him almost to adoration. She reproached
herself for her harshness toward him more than she had ever reproached
herself for her weakness. Her antipathy for all that did not concern him
increased to such a degree that the most simple of household duties
became odious to her. It seemed to her that all the people about her
were enemies bent upon separating her from happiness, for happiness was
Octave; and this happiness, made up of words, letters, glances from him,
was lost!
The evening of the fourth day, she found this torture beyond her
strength.
"I shall become insane," she thought; "to-morrow I will speak to him."
Gerfaut was saying to himself, at nearly the same moment: "To-morrow I
will have a talk with her." Thus, by a strange sympathy, their hearts
seemed to understand each other in spite of their separation. But what
was an irresistible attraction in Clemence was only a determination
resulting from almost a mathematical calculation on her lover's part.
By the aid of this gift of second sight which intelligent men who are in
love sometimes possess, he had followed, degree by degree, the variations
of her heart, without her saying one word; and in spite of the veil of
scorn and indifference with which she still had the courage to shield
herself, he had not lost a single one of the tortures she had endured for
the last four days. Now he thought that he had discovered enough to
allow him to risk a step that, until then, he would have deemed
dangerous; and with the egotism common to all men, even the best of
lovers, he trusted in the weakness born of sorrow.
The next day a hunting party was arranged with some of the neighbors.
Early in the morning, Bergenheim and Marillac started for the rendezvous,
which was at the foot of the large oak-tree where the artist's tete-a-
tete had been so cruelly interrupted. Gerfaut refused to join them,
under the pretence of finishing an article for the 'Revue de Paris',
and remained at home with the three ladies. As soon as dinner was ended,
he went to his room in order to give a semblance of truth to his excuse.
He had been busying himself for some time trimming a quill pen at the
window, which looked out upon the park, when he saw in the garden,
directly beneath him, Constance's forefeet and nose; soon the dog jumped
upon the sill in order to warm herself in the sun.
"The old lady has entered her sanctuary," thought Gerfaut, who knew that
it was as impossible to see Constance without her mistress as St.-Roch
without his dog.
A moment later he saw Justine and Mademoiselle de Corandeuil's maid
starting off, arm in arm, as if they were going for a promenade.
Finally, he had hardly written half a page, when he noticed Aline
opposite his window, with a straw hat upon her head and a watering-pot in
her hand. A servant carried a bucket of water and placed it near a mass
of dahlias, which the young girl had taken under her protection, and she
at once set about her work with great zeal.
"Now," said Gerfaut, "let us see whether the place is approachable." And
closing his desk, he stealthily descended the stairs.
After crossing the vestibule on the first floor, and a small gallery
decorated with commonplace pictures, he found himself at the library
door. Thanks to the genealogical tree which he had promised to compile,
he possessed a key to this room, which was not usually open. By dint of
preaching about the danger in certain reading for young girls,
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had caused this system of locking-up,
especially designed to preserve Aline from the temptation of opening
certain novels which the old lady rejected en masse. "Young girls did
not read novels in 1780," she would say. This put an end to all
discussion and cut short the protestations of the young girl, who was
brought up exclusively upon a diet of Le Ragois and Mentelle's geography,
and such solid mental food.
Several large books and numerous manuscripts were spread out upon the
table in the library, together with a wide sheet of Holland paper, upon
which was sketched the family tree of the Bergenheims. Instead of going
to work, however, Gerfaut locked the door, and then went across the room
and pressed a little knob which opened a small door no one would have
noticed at first.
Leather bands representing the binding of books, like those which covered
the rest of the walls, made it necessary for one to be informed of the
existence of this secret exit in order to distinguish it from the rest of
the room. This door had had a singular attraction for Gerfaut ever since
the day he first discovered it. After silently opening it, he found
himself in a small passage at the end of which was a small spiral
staircase leading to the floor above. A cat creeping to surprise a bird
asleep could not have walked more stealthily than he, as he mounted the
stairs.
When he crossed the last step, he found himself in a small room, filled
with wardrobes, lighted by a small glass door covered with a muslin
curtain. This door opened into a little parlor which separated Madame de
Bergenheim's private sitting-room from her sleeping-apartment. The only
window was opposite the closet and occupied almost the whole of the
woodwork, the rest of which was hung with pearl-gray stuff with lilac
figures upon it. A broad, low divan, covered with the same material as
the hanging, occupied the space in front of the window. It was the only
piece of furniture, and it seemed almost impossible to introduce even one
chair more.
The blinds were carefully closed, as well as the double curtains, and
they let in so little light that Octave had to accustom himself to the
obscurity before he could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim through the
muslin, curtains and the glass door. She was lying upon the divan, with
her head turned in his direction and a book in her hand. He first
thought her asleep, but soon noticed her gleaming eyes fastened upon the
ceiling.
"She is not asleep, she does not read, then she is thinking of me!" said
he to himself, by a logical deduction he believed incontestable.
After a moment's hesitation, seeing that the young woman remained
motionless, Gerfaut tried to turn the handle of the door as softly as
possible so as to make his entrance quietly. The bolt had just
noiselessly slipped in the lock when the drawing-room door suddenly
opened, a flood of light inundated the floor, and Aline appeared upon the
threshold, watering-pot in hand.
The young girl stopped an instant, for she thought her sister-in-law was
asleep; but, meeting in the shade Clemence's sparkling eyes, she entered,
saying in a fresh, silvery voice:
"All my flowers are doing well; I have come to water yours."
Madame de Bergenheim made no reply, but her eyebrows contracted slightly
as she watched the young girl kneel before a superb datura. This almost
imperceptible symptom, and the rather ill-humored look, foretold a storm.
A few drops of water falling upon the floor gave her the needed pretext,
and Gerfaut, as much in love as he was, could not help thinking of the
fable of the wolf and the lamb, when he heard the lady of his thoughts
exclaim, in an impatient tone:
"Let those flowers alone; they do not need to be watered. Do you not see
that you are wetting the floor?"
Aline turned around and looked at the scolder for a moment; then, placing
her watering-pot upon the floor, she darted toward the divan like a
kitten that has just received a blow from its mother's paw and feels
authorized to play with her. Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise at this
unexpected attack; but before she could sit up, she was thrown back upon
the cushions by the young girl, who seized both her hands and kissed her
on each cheek.
"Good gracious! how cross you have been for the last few days!" cried
Aline, pressing her sister's hands. "Are you going to be like your aunt?
You do nothing but scold now. What have I done? Are you vexed with me?
Do you not love me any longer?"
Clemence felt a sort of remorse at this question, asked with such a
loving accent; but her jealousy she could not overcome. To make up for
it, she kissed her sister-in-law with a show of affection which seemed to
satisfy the latter.
"What are you reading?" asked the young girl, picking up the book which
had fallen to the floor in their struggle--"Notre Dame de Paris. That
must be interesting! Will you let me read it? Oh! do! will you?"
"You know very well that my aunt has forbidden you to read novels."
"Oh! she does that just to annoy me and for no other reason. Do you
think that is right? Must I remain an idiot, and never read anything but
history and geography the rest of my life? As if I did not know that
Louis Thirteenth was the son of Henri Fourth, and that there are eighty-
six departments in France. You read novels. Does it do you any harm?"
Clemence replied in a rather imperative tone, which should have put an
end to the discussion
"When you are married you can do as you like. Until then you must leave
your education in the hands of those who are interested in you."
"All my friends," replied Aline with a pout, "have relatives who are
interested in them, at least as much as your aunt is in me, and they do
not prevent their reading the books they like. There is Claire de
Saponay, who has read all of Walter Scott's novels, Maleck-Adel, Eugenie
and Mathilde--and I do not know how many more; Gessner, Mademoiselle de
Lafayette--she has read everything; and I--they have let me read Numa
Ponzpilius and Paul and Virginia. Isn't that ridiculous at sixteen years
of age?"
"Do not get excited, but go into the library and get one of Walter
Scott's novels; but do not let my aunt know anything about it."
At this act of capitulation, by which Madame de Bergenheim doubtless
wished to atone for her disagreeableness, Aline made one joyous bound for
the glass door. Gerfaut had barely time to leave his post of observation
and to conceal himself between two wardrobes, under a cloak which was
hanging there, when the young girl made her appearance, but she paid no
attention to the pair of legs which were but imperfectly concealed. She
bounded down the stairs and returned a moment later with the precious
volumes in her hand.
"Waverley, or, Scotland Sixty Years Ago," said she, as she read the
title. "I took the first one on the shelf, because you are going to lend
them all to me, one by one, are you not? Claire says that a young girl
can read Walter Scott, and that his books are very nice."
"We shall see whether you are sensible," replied Clemence, smiling; "but,
above all things, do not let my aunt see these books, for I am the one
who would get the scolding."
"Do not worry;--I will go and hide them in my room."
She went as far as the door, then stopped and came back a few steps.
"It seems," said she, "that Monsieur de Gerfaut worked in the library
yesterday, for there are piles of books on the table. It is very kind of
him to be willing to make this tree, is it not? Shall we both be in it?
Do they put women in such things? I hope your aunt will not be there;
she is not one of our family."
Clemence's face clouded again at the name of Gerfaut.
"I know no more about it than you," she replied, a little harshly.
"The reason I asked is because there are only pictures of men in the
drawing-room; it is not very polite on their part. I should much prefer
that there should be portraits of our grandmothers; it would be so
amusing to see the beautiful dresses that they wore in those days rather
than those old beards which frighten me. But perhaps they do not put
young girls in genealogical trees," she continued, in a musing tone.
"You might ask Monsieur de Gerfaut; he wishes to please you too much to
refuse to tell you," said Clemence, with an almost ironical smile.
"Do you think so?" asked Aline, innocently. "I should never dare to ask
him."
"You are still afraid of him, then?"
"A little," replied the young girl, lowering her eyes, for she felt her
face flush.
This symptom made Madame de Bergenheim more vexed than ever, and she
continued, in a cutting, sarcastic tone:
"Has your cousin d'Artigues written you lately?"
Mademoiselle de Bergenheim raised her eyes and looked at her for a moment
with an indifferent air:
"I don't know," she said, at last.
"What! you do not know whether you have received a letter from your
cousin?" continued Clemence, laughing affectedly.
"Ah! Alphonse--no, that is, yes; but it was a long time ago."
"How cold and indifferent you are all of a sudden to this dear Alphonse!
You do not remember, then, how you wept at his departure, a year ago, and
how vexed you were with your brother who tried to tease you about this
beautiful affection, and how you swore that you would never have any
other husband than your cousin?"
"I was a simpleton, and Christian was right. Alphonse is only one year
older than I! Think of it, what a fine couple we should make! I know
that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband
should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you,
is he not?"
"Do you think that is too much?" asked Madame de Bergenheim.
"Quite the contrary."
"What age should you like your husband to be?"
"Oh!--thirty," replied the young girl, after a slight hesitation.
"Monsieur de Gerfaut's age?"
They gazed at each other in silence. Octave, who, from his place of
concealment heard the whole of this conversation, noticed the sad
expression which passed over Clemence's face, and seemed to provoke
entire confidence. The young girl allowed herself to be caught by this
appearance of interest and affection.
"I will tell you something," said she, "if you will promise never to tell
a soul."
"To whom should I repeat it? You know that I am very discreet as to your
little secrets."
"It is because this might be perhaps a great secret," continued Aline.
Clemence took her sister-in-law's hand, and drew her down beside her.
"You know," said Aline, "that Christian has promised to give me a watch
like yours, because I do not like mine. Yesterday, when we were out
walking, I told him I thought it was very unkind of him not to have given
it to me yet. Do you know what he replied?--It is true that he laughed
a little--It is hardly worth while buying you one now; when you are the
Vicomtesse de Gerfaut, your husband will give you one.'"
"Your brother was joking at your expense; how could you be such a child
as not to perceive it?"
"I am not such a child!" exclaimed Aline, rising with a vexed air;
"I know what I have seen. They were talking a long time together in the
drawing-room last evening, and I am sure they were speaking of me."
Madame de Bergenheim burst into laughter, which increased her sister-in-
law's vexation, for she was less and less disposed to be treated like a
young girl.
"Poor Aline!" said the Baroness, at last; "they were talking about the
fifth portrait; Monsieur de Gerfaut can not find the name of the original
among the old papers, and he thinks he did not belong to the family. You
know, that old face with the gray beard, near the door."
The young girl bent her head, like a child who sees her naughty sister
throw down her castle of cards.
"And how do you know?" said she, after a moment's reflection. "You were
at the piano. How could you hear at the other end of the room what
Monsieur de Gerfaut was saying?"
It was Clemence's turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the
girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of
indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave's words. As usual,
she concealed her embarrassment by redoubling her sarcasm.
"Very likely," said she, "I was mistaken, and you may be right after all.
What day shall we have the honor of saluting Madame la Vicomtesse de
Gerfaut?"
"I foolishly told you what I imagined, and you at once make fun of me,"
said Aline, whose round face lengthened at each word, and passed from
rose-color to scarlet; "is it my fault that my brother said this?"
"I do not think it was necessary for him to speak of it, for you to think
a great deal about the matter."
"Very well; must one not think of something?"
"But one should be careful of one's thoughts; it is not proper for a
young girl to think of any man," replied Clemence, with an accent of
severity which would have made her aunt recognize with pride the pure
blood of the Corandeuils.
"I think it is more proper for a young girl to do so than for a married
woman."
At this unexpected retort, Madame de Bergenheim lost countenance and sat
speechless before the young maiden, like a pupil who has just been
punished by his teacher.
"Where the devil did the little serpent get that idea?" thought Gerfaut,
who was very ill at ease between the two wardrobes where he was
concealed.
Seeing that her sister-in-law did not reply to her, Aline took this
silence from confusion for an expression of bad temper, and at once
became angry in her turn.
"You are very cross to-day," said she; "good-by, I do not want your
books."
She threw the volumes of Waverley upon the sofa, picked up her watering-
pot and went out, closing the door with a loud bang. Madame de
Bergenheim sat motionless with a pensive, gloomy air, as if the young
girl's remark had changed her into a statue.
"Shall I enter?" said Octave to himself, leaving his niche and putting
his hand upon the door-knob. "This little simpleton has done me an
infinite wrong with her silly speeches. I am sure that she is cruising
with full sails set upon the stormy sea of remorse, and that those two
rosebuds she is gazing at now seem to her like her husband's eyes."
Before the poet could make up his mind what to do, the Baroness arose and
left the room, closing the door almost as noisily as her sister-in-law
had done.
Gerfaut went downstairs, cursing, from the very depths of his heart,
boarding-school misses and sixteen-year-old hearts. After walking up and
down the library for a few moments, he left it and started to return to
his room. As he passed the drawing-room, loud music reached his ear;
chromatic fireworks, scales running with the rapidity of the cataract of
Niagara, extraordinary arpeggios, hammering in the bass with a petulance
and frenzy which proved that the 'furie francaise' is not the exclusive
right of the stronger sex. In this jumble of grave, wild, and sad notes,
Gerfaut recognized, by the clearness of touch and brilliancy of some of
the passages, that this improvisation could not come from Aline's
unpractised fingers. He understood that the piano must be at this moment
Madame de Bergenheim's confidant, and that she was pouring out the
contradictory emotions in which she had indulged for several days; for,
to a heart deprived of another heart in which to confide its joys and
woes, music is a friend that listens and replies.
Gerfaut listened for some time in silence, with his head leaning against
the drawing-room door. Clemence wandered through vague melodies without
fixing upon any one in particular. At last a thought seemed to captivate
her. After playing the first measures of the romance from Saul, she
resumed the motive with more precision, and when she had finished the
ritornello she began to sing, in a soft, veiled voice,
"Assisa al pie d'un salice--"
Gerfaut had heard her sing this several times, in society, but never with
this depth of expression. She sang before strangers with her lips; now
it all came from her heart. At the third verse, when he believed her to
be exalted by her singing and the passion exhaled in this exquisite song,
the poet softly entered, judging it to be a favorable moment, and enough
agitated himself to believe in the contagion of his agitation.
The first sight which met his eyes was Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
stretched out in her armchair, head thrown back, arms drooping and
letting escape by way of accompaniment a whistling, crackling, nasal
melody. The old maid's spectacles hanging on the end of her nose had
singularly compromised the harmony of her false front. The 'Gazette de
France' had fallen from her hands and decorated the back of Constance,
who, as usual, was lying at her mistress's feet.
"Horrible old witch!" said Gerfaut to himself. "Decidedly, the Fates
are against me to-day." However, as both mistress and dog were sleeping
soundly, he closed the door and tiptoed across the floor.
Madame de Bergenheim had ceased to sing, but her fingers still continued
softly to play the motive of the song. As she saw Octave approaching
her, she leaned over to look at her aunt, whom she had not noticed to be
asleep, as the high back of her chair was turned toward her. Nobody
sleeps in a very imposing manner, but the old lady's profile, with her
false front awry, was so comical that it was too much for her niece's
gravity. The desire to laugh was, for the moment, stronger than respect
for melancholy; and Clemence, through that necessity for sympathy
peculiar to acute merriment, glanced involuntarily at Octave, who was
also smiling. Although there was nothing sentimental in this exchange of
thoughts, the latter hastened to profit by it; a moment more, and he was
seated upon a stool in front of the piano, at her left and only a few
inches from her.
"How can a person sleep when you are singing?"
The most embarrassed freshman could have turned out as bright a speech as
this; but the eloquence of it lay less in the words than in the
expression. The ease and grace with which Octave seated himself, the
elegant precision of his manner, the gracious way in which he bent his
head toward Clemence, while speaking, showed a great aptitude in this
kind of conversation. If the words were those of a freshman, the accent
and pose were those of a graduate.
The Baroness's first thought was to rise and leave the room, but an
invincible charm held her back. She was not mistress enough of her eyes
to dare to let them meet Octave's; so she turned them away and pretended
to look at the old lady.
"I have a particular talent for putting my aunt to sleep," said she, in a
gay tone; "she will sleep until evening, if I like; when I stop playing,
the silence awakens her."
"I beg of you, continue to play; never awaken her," said Gerfaut; and, as
if he were afraid his wish would not be granted, he began to pound in the
bass without being disturbed by the unmusical sounds.
"Do not play discords," said Clemence, laughing; "let us at least put her
to sleep in tune."
She was wrong to say us; for her lover took this as complicity for
whatever might happen. Us, in a tete-a-tete, is the most traitorous word
in the whole language.