“‘That’s still not a reason.’
“Little shrug of the shoulders.
“‘I’m very unfortunate then, for you have already given birth in me, Madame to a sentiment that merits some reciprocity. You will leave me with a persistent memory. I shall deplore not having known you. I shall not be able to console myself for it.’
“With a charming grace she made her hand rotate in front of her face, which meant: Get away! Your persistent memory will, go up in smoke.
‘That’s a very pretty gesture,’ I said to her, ‘but you’re mistaken if you think that I’ll forget you so quickly. How could I, with my turbulent imagination?’
“On that, she resumed walking in an impetuous manner. I observed her gait more closely than I had done previously. There was something jerky, nervous and almost automatic about it, which, combined with her real or simulated mutism, the mystery with which she enveloped her face and the gesture that she had shot at me—that’s the right word—to show me the crown, lent her a slightly frightening quality.
“We went out through the wicket-gate of the Théâtre-Français. She took the Rue de Richelieu, went along it as far as the Rue Villedo, and there made me another sign to go away. Enormous drops of rain were beginning to fall, while the black sky was split by immense lightning-flashes. She lifted the hood of her cloak, which was lined with white satin, over her hat. Instead of going away, I helped her with that little operation.
“In the Rue Villedo, as I said to her: ‘I don’t want to compromise you; I only want to see where you live…,” she stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, and, backing up against the wall of a house, she lowered her index finger toward the pavement.
“We were absolutely alone. Although it was not yet half past midnight, no one was about; we were alone amid the lightning. At the moment when she made the gesture, a flash of lightning spread over her veil, and I thought that I might glimpse the features of her face in the bright light, but the veil was too thick and I couldn’t. I was face to face with her. She could see my marvelously from behind a retrenchment that my gaze couldn’t penetrate and which a good education prevented me from breaking through. Ideas came to me that filled me with fear and gave me gooseflesh. At the sight of the obstinate veil I asked myself: Is the woman a hideous monster? And at the gesture by which, when I asked her where she lived, she pointed at the ground, I asked myself: Is the woman mad?
“However, in the most reassured tone that I could muster, I said: ‘Madame, I declare to you, even though you might think I lack propriety, mat it please God, I would like to know where you live, without having the slightest intention of coming to importune you in your home. Believe me, don’t wait here, go home. I’m very stubborn and I won’t give in.’
“She remained immobile for a few moments, then, making her decision, she went into the Rue Thérèse and rang the bell of a beautiful house.
“While someone came to open it I repeated my plea: ‘Give me a sign that we’ll see one another again, and tell me when. Tomorrow, perhaps?’
“Negative sign.
“‘So you don’t want ever to see me again?’
“Same sign.
“The door closed again heavily, and…here I am!”
III
I had listened to Méril’s story with a scrupulous attention and an increasing astonishment.
When he had finished...
“What do you think of that woman?” he asked me.
“What do I think of her? I think that I don’t know what to think of her.”
“Do you believe that she was veritably mute, or that she was pretending to be mute in order to amuse herself at my expense?”
“Well, what if she wasn’t really mute and only wanted to make fun of you, it seems to me that as she shut the door of her house in your face she would have burst out laughing and shouted in a mocking voice; ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur!’ given that when one plays tricks on people one usually likes to make them feel it.”
“That’s true. And what do you augur from that opaque and permanent veil?”
“Alas, I augur that your lady is at least ugly; for, if a woman is pretty, if it isn’t before hiding herself that she wants to be seen, like Galatea, you can be sure that it’s after she’s hidden. Now, this one kept her veil to the end. A bad sign.”
“I fear so. And what do you think of her marquise’s crown? Is it authentic? Is it apocryphal?”
“Oh, you’re embarrassing me a great deal. However, I wouldn’t see anything extraordinary in it being authentic. I know that it’s not very frequent to see a marquise, profoundly veiled, going to sit down all alone, by night, in the Champs-Élysées and the garden of the Palais-Royal, but after all, it could happen.”
“So, we’re admitting that she’s a real marquise?”
“Or at least believes herself to be one in good faith.”
“What do you mean? You’re scaring me. Do you suppose that she’s mad?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she were half way there.”
“Her gestures, no? Her gait?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But then it might enter into her madness to veil herself, without her having any reason to hide her features.”
“As you’d like her to be pretty, rogue? What does it matter to you, pray, since it’s understood that you’ll never see her again.”
“Of course, of course! Not much.”
“Right—and then, a mad woman, that wouldn’t be such a treat.”
“There are kinds of partial madness that might serve amour rather than posing an obstacle to it.”
“I know full well that amour is a kind of madness itself; but not all mad women are fitted for living together. So, in the lunatic asylums they’re carefully secluded.”
“You’re a disenchanter.”
“And what if she’s an old woman?”
“How can she possibly be an old woman? She was slim; an abundance of blonde hair was over flowing from her round hat, and the skin of her hand was smooth, with the pink whiteness that makes her no more than thirty—I say no more because I believe her to be younger.”
“You’re completely amorous, my dear Alphonse.”
“In truth, no; but I think that supposing the woman to be young, pretty, a marquise and, at the most, eccentric...”
“And mute....”
“Oh, mute! That’s almost a quality... Supposing all that, my dear, there would be a great romantic savor for both of us in the prelude to our amour.”
“Then you’re definitely not intending to leave it there? You intend to see her again, even though she’s declared that she doesn’t want to?”
“Because of that.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“Ah! That’s it! When I was twenty, I would have mounted watch on her door for entire hours every day, in order to take advantage of the moment when she went out. Now that I’m thirty, that would be too much for me. It will be necessary to find another means... What, I don’t know.”
Méril and I were neighbors. He lived in the Rue d’Assas; I lived in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. Thus, my fiacre took him home along with me. The reader will now understand why Méril got into my cab without any ifs and buts. As he quit me he shook my hand, and promised to inform me of the steps he would take in order to encounter the veiled woman again, and the result of those steps.
IV
A few days passed, during which I heard no mention of him, nor of the veiled lady. I wasn’t overly astonished, for I had known for a long time that there’s nothing in this miserable life that doesn’t end in a fish’s tail...desinit in piscem!11 Yes, even the most seductive things. The infinitely great, infinitely just, infinitely good but infinitely ironic Being treats us according to our merits and makes fools of us infinitely. Because we have the misfortune of having a soul and imagination, he tempts us in a thousand ways.
By means of I know not what Robin mirrors,12 he shows us the specter of objects that appeal to our desir
e. We stretch out our hand...
Empty! In sum, to employ an energetic expression of Parisian argot, we think we’ve “got it made,” but we never have; we never will in this word, which is all phantoms and simulacra.
However, Méril, less imbued than me with those discouraging thoughts, had not let go, and was striving to terminate his adventure. Fundamentally, he only wanted to satisfy a curiosity awakened by chance, and, expecting some disappointment, he wanted to know of what it would consist.
The day after the day when he had had his singular encounter, he went past the house inhabited by the mysterious woman repeatedly. He needed a pretext to get in, to talk to the concierge, above all to make him talk. An apartment to let furnished him with it. But I prefer to give him the floor and let him repeat to the reader what he told me.
V
“You have,” I said to the concierge, “A large apartment to let?”
“Yes, Monsieur, one the first floor, overlooking the courtyard.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand francs.”
“Composed of?”
“Six rooms.”
“Oh, damn! Six rooms isn’t very many. I’d need eight.”
“There are two large bright cabinets.”
“If there are two large bright cabinets, let’s see it anyway.”
My aplomb was sublime, given that I can scarcely pay my rent of five hundred francs...
“And who occupies the apartment at present?” I asked, in a distracted manner, as we went upstairs.
“It’s a lady; I’ve given her notice because her manners don’t suit me...”
“Aha! Some joker?”
“Monsieur, there are no jokers in my house.”
“Pardon me—I thought that’s what you meant. Anyway, I’m sure that if one slipped in by accident, you wouldn’t tolerate them for long.”
“To be sure. As for that one, one can’t say that she’s guilty of bad conduct, but she’s a little…you know.”
And he tapped his forehead.
“Oh dear.”
“Yes—and I don’t like that...no, I don’t like that at all.”
At the same time, he rang. A little dog stated yapping.
“I don’t like animals much either,” said the concierge.
You can imagine my difficulty…was the lady in question mine. I thought yes. Would I see her? I wanted that…and I dreaded it. Would she recognize me? Undoubtedly. What would she think of my trickery? It seemed to me that she ought to be flattered, in spite of the prohibition she had mimed against my seeing her again.
An aged domestic came to open the door.
“Monsieur,” the concierge said to him, “desires to see the apartment.”
Without breathing a word, the old domestic made an affirmative sign and I went in with the concierge.
“Monsieur Baptiste,” added the latter, “if you have things to do, don’t put yourself out. I’ll show Monsieur around.”
Thus addressed, Monsieur Baptiste was content to shake his head.
Is he mute too? I wondered.
Without articulating a syllable, he opened the doors one after another, and I traversed several beautiful and richly furnished rooms, where I noticed the particularity that all the corners were hidden by curtains, either of velvet, silk, or woolen damask. Furthermore, there was no one in any of the rooms, except for a black and white cat in one, which was sitting on a side-table, conscientiously licking the fur of its belly. I looked for Monsieur Baptiste. Disappeared.
I went straight to the cat in order to stroke it. A writer celebrated for his wit has made the fine and very just remark: “A cat does not stroke us; it strokes itself on us.” I’m very much afraid that we’re becoming similar to that cat—which is to say that in stroking one we’re absolutely in quest of an agreeable sensation. And when a tender woman stretches her husband’s beard between her delicate fingers; and when a man, with an emotional gaze, smoothes his wife’s tresses or plays with the little curl under her chignon... What is the tender woman doing? What is making the man’s gaze emotional? She’s caressing herself; he’s caressing himself. That’s amour!
“Isn’t that your opinion?” concluded Méril.
“Alas, yes, but what does it matter? Amour judged thus is still a very beautiful thing, a very desirable thing. Suppose that the cat, whose back you’ve stroked, prefers to stroke itself with you rather than someone else, even suppose that it’s preference is exclusive, and that it only wants to stroke itself with you—isn’t that already a great success? A complete success? What more do you want? Aren’t you enjoying the greatest joy that human nature permits? Be careful. There’s less egotism on the part of a person who loves in you the object of her joy than there would be on your part in claiming to be loved, according to other principles.”
“Undoubtedly,” Méril replied. “You’re right. Well, in order to continue my story...”
As the black cat raised its head, and then arched its back under the pressure of my hand, agitating its long silky tail, I perceived next to it on the side-table a partly written page. The temptation was strong; I did not, I confess, have the courage to resist it. I looked at it, while recognizing that it was acting badly, and I read these few lines, the last to be written:
I would be a woman like any other; I would be able to uncover my face; I wouldn’t have lost the faculty of saying that I judge it impossible to see him again. An honest and sensate woman would say to herself: What is a liaison commenced in such conditions worth, very probably with a libertine who is not in search of amour but a temporary intrigue, who only came to me because I happened to be in his path and he needs some woman with whom to amuse himself a little? However, when one wants to love, when one has sought in vain in one’s entourage for a man one can love, and one encounters one by chance one evening, to banish him once and for all by pronouncing the words “I never want to see you again…,” is perhaps stupid. He had such a benevolent gaze, such a frank voice! “I’m perfectly sincere,” he said, “without loving you yet, I experience a bizarre sympathy for you...” A bizarre sympathy! That’s what I experience too, for him. If I were a woman like any other, if I could uncover my face, if I hadn’t lost the faculty of speech, perhaps I wouldn’t have judged it impossible to see him again.
There the writing stopped, which I’ve reported to you the letter, or very nearly. It was neat, and large rather than delicate, with the consequence that I could read it very easily while stroking the cat.
I picked up the pen that was lying near the piece of paper and I wrote thereafter:
See me again anyway. Keep your veil on; don’t talk. If you believe that I’m a man of honor you have nothing to fear, have you? I’ll know your name in five minutes I already know your address, since I’m in your home. It’s therefore just that you also know my name and address, even if you don’t do anything. My name is Alphonse Méril and I live at no. 2 Rue d’Assas.
During the brief time that I took to write that, the concierge’s attention was distracted by a rather large crack that he had found in the ceiling, the ramifications of which he was following with a certain anxiety. I heard him grumbling loudly about the tenant in the apartment above, and the dancing soirées to which he attributed that damage.
I had finished writing before he had finished grumbling, so that, having not perceived anything, except that I had stroked the cat, he said to me: “Monsieur likes cats; that’s like my wife; me, I wouldn’t touch the beasts with a barge-pole...”
“What do you expect? Everyone has their own tastes, and it’s necessary not o hold it against your wife that she likes cats.”
And after having darted a last glance to the right and the left, I headed for the door of the apartment.
As I was crossing the threshold, he said: “Did you notice, Monsieur, the curtains that were in the four corners of every room?”
“Yes,” I replied. “So what?”
“Well, it’s an invention of that old madwoman...”<
br />
At the phrase “old madwoman,” I shivered.
“It’s an invention of that old madwoman in order to have somewhere to hide right away.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. She doesn’t show anyone the tip of her nose. As soon as anyone goes into her apartment, it appears that she hides behind one of those curtains, the first that comes to hand. And every time she goes out into the street she wears a veil so thick that I wonder how she can see where she’s going.”
“It’s necessary for you to have seen her, however,” I said, with a certain effort, “to know that she’s old...”
“Oh, old, I don’t know—but I think so. Or if she isn’t old, she must be horrible, for it isn’t natural that a young and pretty woman would hide like that.”
“You’re right, it isn’t natural...” And in pronouncing those words with the slowness of a disappointed man, I said to myself: How ridiculous I’m being! Where will my romantic intrigues end? I’m madder than this old madwoman. As long as she doesn’t take me at my word! What the devil possessed me to give her my name and address?
“What is her name?” I asked.
“She calls herself Madame Peyrol.”
“De Peyrol!” I exclaimed. “The Marquise de Peyrol.”
“Marquise, I never heard any mention of that. On the letters that come for her, which only come rarely, there’s just Madame Peyrol.”
“Really? And her husband?”
“Her husband? Don’t know. Has she ever had a husband?”
“You haven’t seen a man with her sometimes?”
“My word, no. Who the devil could want that woman?”
“Indeed,” I said, forcing myself to smile.
As we had arrived at the door of the lodge, the concierge asked me whether I found the apartment to my taste.
“Oh, the apartment…,” I said. “Yes, undoubtedly, I like it well enough, but I can’t settle anything without consulting my wife. As I said, six rooms, even with cabinets, seems to me a little small, for I have a numerous family...”
Singular Amours Page 11