A Tragic Idyl by Paul Bourget - HTML preview

CHAPTER XII
 THE DÉNOUEMENT

The Archduke's threat was uttered in a way that betrayed an inflexible resolution. It did not cause the young woman to flinch or to lower her gaze. She did not remember anything of this scene, one, nevertheless, that was momentous for her, since it called down upon her the hatred of the most vindictive and unjust of men. She did not remember anything that had passed when she regained her room save one thing, and that was quite foreign to herself. As she had listened to the Archduke's passionate cry, wrung from him by wounded friendship, she saw, as though in a flash of blinding revelation, what had been the strength of the bonds uniting Olivier and Pierre. She realized keenly the sentiment that linked them in their revolt against her—the revolt of suffering Man against Woman and against Love. She understood at last the impulse that had made them take refuge in a virile fraternal affection, the one fortress which the fatal passion cannot subdue. She had seen the passions of Love and Friendship in conflict.

In Verdier's heart love had conquered. He had for the Prince only the affection of a pupil for his master, of a debtor for his benefactor. It was a sentiment made up of deference and gratitude. Besides, Verdier esteemed the woman he loved. How different would have been his attitude had he returned his protector's friendship with a similar sentiment, had he felt for the Prince the affection that Olivier had for Pierre, that Pierre had for Olivier! And, above all, what a change there would have been in him had he had to condemn Miss Marsh as Pierre had been forced to condemn his mistress!

This analogy and its contrast forced themselves upon Ely's notice, when she left the laboratory, with an intensity that completely exhausted all the physical strength that was left in her. She was no longer supported by the necessity of working for the sake of others. She was now alone, face to face with her grief. And, as often happens after any violent emotion that has been followed by too energetic efforts, she succumbed under the shock. Hardly had she reached her room than she was overpowered by an agonizing nervous headache. Such a crisis is really the shattering of the nervous system, whose strength has been exhausted by the force of will, and which has finally to surrender.

Ely did not try to struggle any longer. She lay down on her bed like some one in death agony, at one o'clock, after having sent off a despatch to the one woman whose presence she felt she could support, the one woman upon whom she could rely—to Louise Brion, whose devotion she had almost forgotten during the past weeks.

"She is my friend," she thought, "and our friendship is better than theirs, for the friendship of those men is made up of hate!"

In the extremity of her distress she, therefore, also had recourse to the sentiment of friendship. She was mistaken in thinking that Louise was more devoted to her than was Pierre to Olivier, or than was the Archduke to Verdier. But she was not mistaken in thinking the devotion of her friend was of a different character. In reality, feminine friendship and masculine friendship have a striking difference. The latter is almost always the mortal foe of love, while the former is most often only love's complacent ally. It is rare that a man can regard with any indulgence the mistress of his friend, while a woman, of even the most upright character, has almost always a natural sympathy for her friend's lover so long as he makes her friend happy; it is because the majority of women have a tender feeling for love, for all love, for that of others as well as for that which concerns them more closely. Men, on the contrary, have an instinct which remains in them, a relic of the savage despotism of an earlier barbarism. They do not sympathize with any love that they do not feel, that they do not inspire.

Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued, had been even accentuated.

Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore.

She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting, provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with indulgence for all and in the secret of all!

For a day and a half Ely was helpless with a severe headache. Then she asked her friend to assist her in her plans. Like all people of vigorous frame, Ely was never either well or ill in extremes. When at last she was able to sleep the heavy slumber that follows such a shock, she felt as well, as energetic, as strong-willed as upon the day her happiness had been so completely destroyed. But she did not knowhow to employ her recovered energy. Again and again she asked herself the question, upon whose answer her movements depended: "Is Pierre still in Cannes?"

She hoped to see some one in the afternoon who would inform her, but none of the visitors who came to see her even uttered Hautefeuille's name. Upon her part she had not the courage to speak of the young man. She felt that her voice could not utter the beloved syllables without her face suffusing with blood, without her emotion being apparent to every one.

And yet there were only very dear friends who called upon her that afternoon. Florence Marsh was one of the first. Her eyes were bright with a deep, contented happiness. Her pleasant smile wreathed her lips at every moment.

"I felt that I had to come to thank you, my dear Baroness. I am engaged to Monsieur Verdier. I shall never forget all that I owe you. My uncle asked me to excuse him to you. He has so many things to do, and we leave to-morrow upon the Jenny. My fiancé comes with us."

How could Ely mingle any of the pain which oppressed her heart with the joy whose innocence caused her deep suffering? How could she let Andryana, who came in smiling at the footman's announcement, "Madame la Comtesse de Corancez"—how could she let Andryana suspect her pain?

"Well," said the Venetian, "Alvise took it very calmly. How childish it was to be afraid! We might have spared ourselves so much trouble if I had only spoken to him from the first. But," she added, "I do not regret our folly. It is such a pleasant memory. And I had told such tales about Alvise to Marius that he was afraid. What could he do to us now?"

Next the Chésys arrived, Madame Chésy quivering with her new-found gayety, while Gontran was simply astoundingly impertinent as he spoke with aristocratic nonchalance of his rôle of horse-breeder in the West.

"When horses are in question, poor Marsh is simply a child," he said. "But he is such a lucky fellow. At the very moment that he undertakes such an enterprise he finds me ready to hand!"

"I am glad I am going to see the Americans at home," said Yvonne. "I am not sorry to be able to give them a few lessons in real chic."

How was Ely to trouble this little household of childlike Parisians? How could she stop their amusing babble? She congratulated herself that they did not even speak of the subject that lay so close to her heart. She listened to them talking of their American expedition with a gayety that gave the impression that they were once more playing at housekeeping, forgetful of the terrible trial they had just gone through.

Ely could not help envying them these faculties of forgetfulness, of freshness, of illusion. But were not the destinies of Marsh, of Verdier, and of Corancez all alike? Had they not all before them space, and the future? Did they not resemble ships sailing upon a vast flood carrying them toward the open ocean? Her destiny, on the contrary, was like that of a boat locked in the narrow turn of a river, arrested and imprisoned by some barrier beyond which lie the rapids, the cataract, the precipice! A word uttered by Yvonne, who was wild with joy at the idea of seeing Niagara, brought this simile up in Ely's mind. The idea pleased her. It was a true image of her sentimental isolation. And while her visitors stayed she looked incessantly at Louise as if she wished to convince herself that there was one witness to her emotions, that there was one heart capable of understanding her, of pitying her, of serving her. Above all, of serving her!

In spite of the conversation she listened to, notwithstanding the questions to which she replied, her thoughts followed one idea. She felt she must know if Pierre had left Cannes. And this was the question that came quite naturally to her lips the instant she was alone with Madame Brion.

"You heard all they said?" she said to her. "I know no more than I did before. Is Pierre still here? And if he is, when is he going away? Ah! Louise!"

She did not finish. The service she wanted to ask of her friend was of too delicate a nature. She was ashamed of her own desire. But the tender creature to whom she spoke understood her and was grateful to her for her hesitation.

"Why do you not speak frankly?" she said. "Would you like me to find out for you?"

"But how can you?" replied Ely, without feeling any astonishment at the facility with which her weak-minded friend lent herself to a mission that was so opposed to her own character, to her principles, and to her reason.

What result could possibly come from this inquiry about Pierre's presence and about his approaching departure? Was not this the occasion for Louise to repeat, with still more energy, the counsels she had given to Ely after her first confidence? There could be nothing but silence and forgetfulness between Madame de Carlsberg and Hautefeuille in future. For them to see each other again would be simply to condemn them to the most useless and painful explanations. For them to recommence their relations would be purgatory. Louise Brion knew all this very well. But she also knew that if she obeyed Ely's wishes, those dear eyes, now so sad, would be brightened by a gleam of joy. And the only reply she gave to the question was to rise and say:—

"How can I arrange it? That is the simplest thing in the world. In half an hour I shall know all you want to know. Have you the list of visitors here?"

"You'll find it on the fourth page of one of the papers," said Ely. "Why do you wish to see it?"

"In order to find the name of a person whom I know and who is staying at the Hôtel des Palmes. I have it. Here it is, Madame Nieul. Try and be patient until I get back."

"Well," she said, re-entering the salon about half an hour later, as she had said she would, "they are both here, and they do not leave for a few days. Madame du Prat is very ill. It cost me little to find that out," she added, with a little nervous smile. "I went to the Hôtel des Palmes and asked if Madame Nieul was there, and sent up my card. Then I looked through the list of visitors and questioned the secretary with an indifferent air. 'I thought Monsieur and Madame du Prat had already left,' I said to him. 'Do they stay much longer?' And his answer told me all I wanted to know."

"How good you were to take all that trouble for me!" replied Ely, taking her hand and stroking it lovingly. "How I love you! It seems to have given me a fresh lease of life. I feel that I shall see him again. And you will help me to meet him. Promise me that. I must speak with him once more, only once. I feel that I must tell him the truth, so that he may know at least how well I have loved him, how sincere and passionate and deep is my love for him! It is so hard not to know what he thinks of me."

Yes! What did Pierre Hautefeuille think of the mistress whom he had idolized only a few days before, of the mistress who had stood so high in his esteem, and who was suddenly convicted in his eyes so shamefully?

Alas! The unhappy youth did not even know himself. He was not capable of finding his way among the maze of ideas and of contradictory impressions that crowded, jostled, and succeeded each other in his soul. If he had been able to leave Cannes at once, this interior tumult might have been less intense. It was the only plan to be followed after the vow that Olivier and he had exchanged. They ought to have gone away, to have put distance and time and events between them and the woman they both loved, and that they had sworn to give up to their friendship. But what can the will do, no matter what its strength, against imagination, sentiment, against the emotion in the troubled depths of the heart? We are only masters of our acts. We cannot govern our dreams, our regrets, and our desires. They awake, quiver, and increase by themselves. They bring back memories until recollection becomes an obsession. All the charm of looks, of smiles, of a face, all the splendor of outline, the beauty of form of a beloved creature, is made a living reality, and the old fever once more burns in our veins. The mistress whom we have abandoned stands before us. She wishes for us, she calls for us, she recovers possession of us. And if we are in the same city with her, if it only requires a quarter of an hour's walk to see her again, what courage is needed in order not to yield!

Pierre and Olivier felt the necessity of this saving flight, and they had taken a resolution to go away. Then an unfortunate event kept them in the hotel. As the secretary had told Louise Brion, Madame du Prat was really ill. She had felt the influence of a shock too great for her strength, and she could not recover from it. A weakness of the heart remained, of such intensity that even when she could leave her bed and stand erect, the least movement brought on palpitations that seemed to suffocate her. The doctor studying her case forbade her to even attempt to travel for several days.

Under these circumstances, if Hautefeuille had been wise, he would have gone away alone. This he did not do. It was impossible for him to leave Du Prat alone in Cannes. He said to himself that it was because he could not leave his friend at such a moment. If he had gone down to the bottom of his heart, if he had probed the place where we dissemble thoughts of which we are ashamed, where lie hidden plans and secret egoism, he would have discovered that there were other motives that kept him there, motives that were much more degrading. Although he had the most complete confidence in Olivier's word, he trembled at the idea of his remaining alone in the same town as Ely de Carlsberg. In spite of the heroic effort to preserve a friendship that was so dear to them both, notwithstanding the esteem, the tenderness and pity they felt for each other, in spite of so many sacred recollections, in spite of honor, a woman stood between them. And that woman had introduced with her all the fatal influence that so quickly creeps into friendly relations, all the instinctive jealousy, the quivering susceptibility and uneasy taciturnity that destroys all.

They were not long in feeling this. Each understood how deeply the fatal poison had eaten into their souls. And soon they understood a thing that is both strange and monstrous in appearance, and yet is really so natural—they realized that the love whose death they had vowed in the name of their friendship was now bound up in that friendship by the closest ties!

Neither one nor the other could think of his friend, could look at him, or hear him, without immediately seeing Ely's image, without immediately thinking of the mistress who had belonged to them both. They were in the grasp of an idea that turned the few following days of intimacy into a veritable crisis of madness, a madness that was all the more torturing because they both avoided the name of the woman out of fidelity to their promise.

But was it necessary for them to speak of her, seeing that each knew the other was thinking of her? How painful these few days were! Although they were not many, they seemed interminable!

They met the morning following their conversation about ten o'clock in Olivier's salon. To hear them greet each other, to hear Pierre ask about Berthe, to listen to Olivier's replies, and then to hear the two speak of the paper they had been reading, of the weather, of what they were going to do, one would never have thought their first meeting so painful. Pierre felt that his friend was studying him. And he was studying his friend. Each hungered and thirsted to know at once if the other had had the same thoughts, or rather the same thought, during the hours they had been separated. Each read this thought in the eyes of the other, as distinctly as though it had been written upon paper like the horrible sentence that had enlightened Pierre. The invisible phantom stood between them, and they were silent. And yet they saw through the open window that the radiant Southern spring still filled the sky with blue, still beautified the roads with flowers and sweetened the air with perfume.

One of them proposed a walk, in the vain hope that a little of the luminous serenity of nature might enter their souls. They used to like to walk together formerly, thinking aloud, keeping step in their minds as in their bodies. They went out, and after ten minutes conversation came to an end between them. Instinctively, and without prearrangement, they shunned the quarters in Cannes where they ran the risk of meeting either Ely or any one of her set. They kept away from the Rue d'Antibes, La Croisette, and the Quai des Yachts. They avoided even the pine forest near Vallauris, where they had spoken of her upon the day that Olivier arrived.

Behind one of the hills which served as outposts to California, they found a deserted valley, quite neglected on account of its northern situation. In this valley there was a kind of wild park, which had been for sale for years. There, in this ravine without horizon, they came almost like two wounded animals taking refuge in the same fold. The roads were so narrow that they could no longer walk abreast. This gave them a pretext for ceasing to talk. The branches stung their faces, their hands were torn with thorns before they arrived at the little rivulet running at the bottom of the gorge. They sat down upon a rock among the tall ferns, and the savageness of this corner of the world, so solitary, and yet so close to the charming city, soothed their suffering for a few moments. The fresh humidity of the vegetation growing in the shadow recalled to their minds similar ravines in the woods of Chaméane. And then they could speak again together, could recall their childhood and their distant friendly souvenirs. It seemed as though they felt their friendship dying away, and that they sought desperately the place whence it had sprung in order to revive its force. From their childhood they passed to their youth, to the years spent together in college, to the impression the war had made upon them.

But there was something forced in these glances backward. There was something conventional, something prearranged, that arrested all freedom of intercourse between them. They felt too keenly in comparison with their former talks in the same way that the spontaneity, the plenitude that had been the charm of their most unimportant conversations formerly was now lacking.

Was their affection any less than at that distant period? Would their friendship never be happy again? Would it never be delivered from this horrible taint of bitterness?

In addition, during their morning and afternoon walks, they only were witnesses to their suffering. If they did not speak freely of their thoughts, at any rate there was no deception. There was no necessity to act before each other. This was all changed during the meal times. They lunched and dined in the salon so that Berthe could be present.

The immediate recommencement of a daily familiarity after such scenes as those which had taken place between the two friends and the young woman appeared at first impossible. In reality it is quite simple and easy. Family life is made up of that only. Olivier and Pierre forced themselves to talk gayly and incessantly out of delicacy toward their companion. The effort was a painful one. And then even the most guarded conversation may be full of danger. A phrase, a word even, was sufficient to send the minds of both back to their relations with Ely. If Olivier made any allusion to something in Italy, Pierre's imagination would turn to Rome. He could see Ely, his Ely of the terrace covered with white and red camellias, his Ely of the garden of Ellenrock, his Ely of the night he had spent at sea. But instead of coming to him she was going toward Olivier. Instead of pressing him to her heart, she flung her arms round Olivier and kissed him. And the vision, prompted by a retrospective jealousy, tortured him.

And if, on his part, he made the most innocent allusion to the beauty of the promenades around Cannes, he saw his friend's eyes dim with a pain which recalled his own sufferings. Olivier could see him in thought walking with Ely, taking her in his arms, kissing her lips. This communion of suffering in the same thought, while it wrung their souls, attracted them with a morbid fascination. How they wished at such moments to question each other about the most secret details of their reciprocal romance! How they wished to know all, to understand all, to suffer at every episode!

When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration, at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away all power to act.

Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict between their love and their friendship.

It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow.

Olivier would begin to walk about from his room to that of his wife when Pierre had left him, talking to her, trying to utter affectionate words, fighting against the haunting idea which he knew would completely possess him shortly. Immediately he entered his room, what he called "his temptation" grasped him, bound him, and dominated him. All his Roman souvenirs recurred to his imagination. He saw Ely again. Hot the proud, coquettish Ely of former times, not the woman he had brutalized while desiring her, hated while loving her, through despair of never possessing her completely, but the Ely of the present moment, the woman whom he had seen so tender, so passionate, so sincere, with a soul that resembled her beauty. And all his soul went out toward this woman in an impulse of love and longing. He spoke to her aloud, appealing to her like a madman. The tone of his own voice would awake him from his dream. He felt all the horror and madness of this childishness. He realized the crime of his cowardly yearning. He thought of his friend, saying to himself, "If he only knew!" He would like to have begged his pardon for the impossibility of ceasing to love Ely, and also pardon for having made the vow he had not the power to keep. He knew that at the same moment Pierre was suffering as he was himself. The idea was dreadful. At these moments of his martyrdom one thought recurred again and again to Olivier's mind, one idea possessed his heart. He felt that he ought to go to Pierre and say: "You love her, and she loves you. Remain with her, and forget me."

Alas! when such a project, with all its supreme magnanimity, occurred to him, he felt strongly that Pierre would reply, No! and that he himself was not sincere. He understood it with a mingling of terror and shame. In spite of all it was a joy for him—a savage, hideous joy, but still a joy—to think that if Ely was no longer his mistress she would nevermore be the mistress of his friend.

They were cruel moments. The time was not less miserable for Pierre. He also, the moment he was alone, tried not to think of Ely. And in trying he felt that he was yielding. In order to drive her image away he would call up in his mind the image of his friend, and this formed the very nature of his suffering. He would tell himself that Olivier had been this woman's lover, and this fact, which he knew to be the truth, which he knew to be of the most complete, the most, indisputable verity, took possession of his brain. He felt as though a hand had taken him by the head, a hand that would never let him go again.

While Olivier was thinking about his mistress in Rome, a softened, ennobled mistress, transformed by the love that Pierre inspired in her, Pierre perceived, beyond the sweet and gentle Ely of the past winter, the woman whom Olivier had described to him without naming her. He saw her again, coquettish and perverse, with the same beautiful face in which he had believed so sincerely. He told himself that she had had two other lovers, one when she was Olivier's mistress and one before then. Olivier, Pierre, and those two men made four, and probably there were others of whom he did not know. The idea that this woman, whom he had believed he possessed in all the purity of her soul, had simply passed from one adultery to another, the idea that she had come to him sullied by so many intrigues, maddened him with pain. All the episodes of his delightful romance, of his fresh and lovely idyl, faded away and became vile in his eyes. He saw nothing in it now save the lustful desire of a woman, wounded in her pride, who had attracted him by one artful plan after another.

Then he would open the drawer in which he preserved the relics of what had been his happiness. He would take out the cigarette case he had bought at Monte Carlo with such happiness. The sight of this foreign trinket wounded his soul, for it brought back to him the words uttered by his friend in the woods of Vallauris, "She had lovers before me; at any rate she had one, a Russian, who was killed at Plevna."

It was probably this lover who had given Ely the object around which he, Pierre, had woven so many cherished ideas, which he had worshipped almost with a scrupulous piety. This ironical contrast was so humiliating that the young man quivered with indignation.

Then he would see in another corner of the drawer the packet of letters from his mistress. He had not had strength to destroy them. Other words spoken by Olivier recurred to his memory—words in which he had affirmed, had vowed that she had loved him, Pierre, truly and sincerely. Did not every detail of their romantic intimacy prove that Olivier was right? Was it possible that she had lied upon the yacht, at Genoa, and in so many other unforgetable hours? A passionate desire to see her again took possession of Pierre. It appeared to him that if he could only see her, question her, understand her, his sufferings would be soothed. He imagined the questions that he would ask and her replies. He could hear her voice. All his energy melted away before the fatal weakness of his desire, a degraded desire whose sensuality was sharpened by scorn. And at such moments the young man hated himself. He remembered his vow. He remembered all he owed to his self-respect, all he owed to his friend. What he had said at the moment of the sacrifice was true—he felt that it was true. If ever he again saw Ely, nevermore could he meet Olivier. He had a confused impression already that he hated them both. He had suffered so much from him on her account; so much from her on his account. Honor finally always won the day, and he would hold himself erect, strengthen himself in the renunciation he had resolved upon. "It is only a trial," he said to himself, "and it will not last forever. Once I am far from here I shall forget it."

This singular existence had lasted five days, when two incidents happened, one after the other, one caused by the other—two incidents that were to have a decisive influence upon the tragic dénouement of the tragic situation.

The first was a visit from the jovial and artful Corancez. Pierre had, in fact, expected him before. In order to put a bar to any tentative at reconciliation, the young man had given strict orders that he was at home to no one. But Corancez was one of those people who have the gift of triumphing over the most difficult obstacles. And on the morning of the sixth day, a morning as bright and radiant as the one upon which they had visited the Jenny together, Hautefeuille saw him again enter his room, the everlasting bunch of pinks in his buttonhole, a smile on his lips, a healthy color in his face, and his eyes bright with happiness. A patch of dry collodion upon his temple bore witness to the fact that he had received a severe blow either the night before or very recently. The purple swelling was still v