Books: Madame de Treymes
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Edith Wharton >> Madame de Treymes
"His mother never tried to deprive him of any of those inestimable
advantages!"
Madame de Treymes unclasped her hands with a slight gesture of
deprecation.
"Not consciously, perhaps; but silences and reserves can teach so
much. His mother has another point of view--"
"Thank heaven!" Durham interjected.
"Thank heaven for _her_--yes--perhaps; but it would not have done
for the boy."
Durham squared his shoulders with the sudden resolve of a man
breaking through a throng of ugly phantoms.
"You haven't yet convinced me that it won't have to do for him. At
the time of Madame de Malrive's separation, the court made no
difficulty about giving her the custody of her son; and you must
pardon me for reminding you that the father's unfitness was the
reason alleged."
Madame de Treymes shrugged her shoulders. "And my poor brother, you
would add, has not changed; but the circumstances have, and that
proves precisely what I have been trying to show you: that, in such
cases, the general course of events is considered, rather than the
action of any one person."
"Then why is Madame de Malrive's action to be considered?"
"Because it breaks up the unity of the family."
"_ Unity--!_" broke from Durham; and Madame de Treymes gently
suffered his smile.
"Of the family tradition, I mean: it introduces new elements. You
are a new element."
"Thank heaven!" said Durham again.
She looked at him singularly. "Yes--you may thank heaven. Why isn't
it enough to satisfy Fanny?"
"Why isn't what enough?"
"Your being, as I say, a new element; taking her so completely into
a better air. Why shouldn't she be content to begin a new life with
you, without wanting to keep the boy too?"
Durham stared at her dumbly. "I don't know what you mean," he said
at length.
"I mean that in her place--" she broke off, dropping her eyes. "She
may have another son--the son of the man she adores."
Durham rose from his seat and took a quick turn through the room.
She sat motionless, following his steps through her lowered lashes,
which she raised again slowly as he stood before her.
"Your idea, then, is that I should tell her nothing?" he said.
"Tell her _now?_ But, my poor friend, you would be ruined!"
"Exactly." He paused. "Then why have you told _me?_"
Under her dark skin he saw the faint colour stealing. "We see things
so differently--but can't you conceive that, after all that has
passed, I felt it a kind of loyalty not to leave you in ignorance?"
"And you feel no such loyalty to her?"
"Ah, I leave her to you," she murmured, looking down again.
Durham continued to stand before her, grappling slowly with his
perplexity, which loomed larger and darker as it closed in on him.
"You don't leave her to me; you take her from me at a stroke! I
suppose," he added painfully, "I ought to thank you for doing it
before it's too late."
She stared. "I take her from you? I simply prevent your going to her
unprepared. Knowing Fanny as I do, it seemed to me necessary that
you should find a way in advance--a way of tiding over the first
moment. That, of course, is what we had planned that you shouldn't
have. We meant to let you marry, and then--. Oh, there is no
question about the result: we are certain of our case--our measures
have been taken _de loin_." She broke off, as if oppressed by his
stricken silence. "You will think me stupid, but my warning you of
this is the only return I know how to make for your generosity. I
could not bear to have you say afterward that I had deceived you
twice."
"Twice?" He looked at her perplexedly, and her colour rose.
"I deceived you once--that night at your cousin's, when I tried to
get you to bribe me. Even then we meant to consent to the
divorce--it was decided the first day that I saw you." He was
silent, and she added, with one of her mocking gestures: "You see
from what a _milieu_ you are taking her!"
Durham groaned. "She will never give up her son!"
"How can she help it? After you are married there will be no
choice."
"No--but there is one now."
"_ Now?_" She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands in dismay.
"Haven't I made it clear to you? Haven't I shown you your course?"
She paused, and then brought out with emphasis: "I love Fanny, and I
am ready to trust her happiness to you."
"I shall have nothing to do with her happiness," he repeated
doggedly.
She stood close to him, with a look intently fixed on his face. "Are
you afraid?" she asked with one of her mocking flashes.
"Afraid?"
"Of not being able to make it up to her--?"
Their eyes met, and he returned her look steadily.
"No; if I had the chance, I believe I could."
"I know you could!" she exclaimed.
"That's the worst of it," he said with a cheerless laugh.
"The worst--?"
"Don't you see that I can't deceive her? Can't trick her into
marrying me now?"
Madame de Treymes continued to hold his eyes for a puzzled moment
after he had spoken; then she broke out despairingly: "Is happiness
never more to you, then, than this abstract standard of truth?"
Durham reflected. "I don't know--it's an instinct. There doesn't
seem to be any choice."
"Then I am a miserable wretch for not holding my tongue!"
He shook his head sadly. "That would not have helped me; and it
would have been a thousand times worse for her."
"Nothing can be as bad for her as losing you! Aren't you moved by
seeing her need?"
"Horribly--are not _you?_" he said, lifting his eyes to hers
suddenly.
She started under his look. "You mean, why don't I help you? Why
don't I use my influence? Ah, if you knew how I have tried!"
"And you are sure that nothing can be done?"
"Nothing, nothing: what arguments can I use? We abhor divorce--we go
against our religion in consenting to it--and nothing short of
recovering the boy could possibly justify us."
Durham turned slowly away. "Then there is nothing to be done," he
said, speaking more to himself than to her.
He felt her light touch on his arm. "Wait! There is one thing
more--" She stood close to him, with entreaty written on her small
passionate face. "There is one thing more," she repeated. "And that
is, to believe that I am deceiving you again."
He stopped short with a bewildered stare. "That you are deceiving
me--about the boy?"
"Yes--yes; why shouldn't I? You're so credulous--the temptation is
irresistible."
"Ah, it would be too easy to find out--"
"Don't try, then! Go on as if nothing had happened. I have been
lying to you," she declared with vehemence.
"Do you give me your word of honour?" he rejoined.
"A liar's? I haven't any! Take the logic of the facts instead. What
reason have you to believe any good of me? And what reason have I to
do any to you? Why on earth should I betray my family for your
benefit? Ah, don't let yourself be deceived to the end!" She
sparkled up at him, her eyes suffused with mockery; but on the
lashes he saw a tear.
He shook his head sadly. "I should first have to find a reason for
your deceiving me."
"Why, I gave it to you long ago. I wanted to punish you--and now
I've punished you enough."
"Yes, you've punished me enough," he conceded.
The tear gathered and fell down her thin cheek. "It's you who are
punishing me now. I tell you I'm false to the core. Look back and
see what I've done to you!"
He stood silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then he took one
of her hands and raised it to his lips.
"You poor, good woman!" he said gravely.
Her hand trembled as she drew it away. "You're going to
her--straight from here?"
"Yes--straight from here."
"To tell her everything--to renounce your hope?"
"That is what it amounts to, I suppose."
She watched him cross the room and lay his hand on the door.
"Ah, you poor, good man!" she said with a sob.