"Your life will scarcely be any different for it," Mademoiselle de Venerande jeered, moving towards the door and signing to Jacques to follow her.
Jacques still stood before his sister, pale-faced; his fists were clenched and he bit his lip. Perhaps there was but one dishonour for which the fast shock of his fall had left him unprepared ...
"I wish you a good journey!" Raoule called out sarcastically from the threshold of the room.
"Oh, we shall meet again sister-in-law," Marie retorted waggishly. "When they let me out for the day I'll come and show you my homework. Mustn't act so sniffy you know; even at a price Marie Silvert is worth just as much as Madame Silvert; at least Marie makes love like everybody else!"
She was cut short. Jacques was beside himself, and, before Raittolbe was aware of it, he had gripped his sister by the wrist and with all his might was shaking her frustratedly.
"Will you be silent, wretch?" he scolded in a hollow voice.
Then his muscles relaxed, and Marie twirled round and fell almost to her knees.
Marie got to her feet, went to the door, opened it, and there, turning to face her brother, either side of whom stood, like bodyguards, Raittolbe and Raoule, she said:
"Shouldn't get excited like that, little brother. You need those muscles of yours, need enough for two ... Got the same look on your face as the day you got the hiding. You know, the hiding Monsieur the baron gave you. Take care, you'll need to, you've got a screw loose, that's for sure: your good lady wife will make short work of things ... Isn't he nice like that, in between his two lovers!"
These final words were hurled with a savage laugh, the sound of which must have made the old house of Venerande shake to its very foundations.
Elisabeth and Marie Silvert, the long-suffering angel of good and the seething demon of debasement, both were fleeing, the one heavenward, the other towards the abyss, from that monstrous love whose pride could take it higher than the heavens, while its depravity led it deeper down than hell.
Around midnight, Jacques Silvert's wedding guests noticed something very strange: the young bride was still among them, but the young groom had disappeared. A sudden indisposition, a lover's tiff, a serious upset, all imaginable conjectures were made within the circle of intimates for whom to the last this union was cause for concern. The Marquis of Sauvares claimed that at the start of the wonderful meal that had been served to them, Jacques had found beneath his napkin a card bearing the escutcheon of a rejected rival. Rene averred that Aunt Elisabeth was to take her leave of the world that very evening and that she was handing over her powers to the husband. Martin Durand, the bridegroom's witness, was grumbling openly, because artists always have the right to be temperamental. He couldn't stand this Jacques any more now. Beside the great high mantelpiece of the drawing room, where the new-lit conjugal hearth was reduced to burning embers, in pensive mood the duchess of Armonville held her pince- nez in her slender fingers and observed Raoule, who sat opposite her. Raoule was absentmindedly shredding her orange blossom bouquet. In an undertone Raittolbe was insisting to the duchess that love was the only power truly able to smooth out political difficulties under the present government.
"But tell me," the duchess murmured, taking no notice of the baron's ramblings, "why has the dear bride had her hair coiffed today in such an ... original style? I have been puzzled about it ever since the religious ceremony."
"Doubtless for Madame Silvert the nuptials are a form of taking the veil," answered Raittolbe, restraining a sardonic smile.
Madame Silvert wore a long gown of silver white damask and a kind of high-necked doublet. Her veil had been raised at the start of the ball and there could be seen the headdress of orange blossom resting like a natural diadem upon curls cut close like a boy's; her bold features were admirably matched with these short curls, but they bore not a hint of the blushing bride, prompt to lower her eyes beneath the perfumed tresses which the eager and impatient husband would soon undo.
"I assure you," the duchess repeated, "that Raoule has had her hair cut off."
"A recent fashion that I shall make mine for once and all, dear duchess," answered Raoule, who had overheard and was aroused from her reverie.
Raittolbe applauded silently, clapping his nails against the other palm. Madame d'Armonville bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. With all her contrived masculine ways, poor Raoule would end up compromising her husband!
The maids of honour came round noisily offering the wedding cake, according to the new custom imported from Russia, which that year was all the rage in high society. The bridegroom still did not appear. Raoule had to keep her portion untouched. Midnight was struck; then, the young woman stepped haughtily through the vast salon. When she got to the triumphal arch bedecked with all the plants of the conservatory, she turned and gestured to the assembled company as would a queen dismissing her subjects. Gracefully but briefly, she thanked her female attendants, then backed out of the room, with a further gesture of farewell that was swift and elegant like that of a swordsman saluting with his weapon. The doors closed behind her.
The nuptial chamber was in the left wing, in the furthest reaches of the mansion. The block in which she found herself wound behind the rest of the building. In this part of the house there reigned the deepest darkness, a silence unalloyed.
The corridors were lit with blue gas-lamps of Bohemian crystal that had been dimmed, and in the library adjoining the bedchamber but a single candelabra, held by a bronze slave, served as a beacon. Just as Raoule entered the circle of light that fell into the centre of the room, a woman clad with the simplicity of a servant came forward out of the curtained gloom.
"What do you want from me?" whispered the bride, her supple form now erect and the vast train of her silvery gown unfurled at her feet.
"To bid you farewell, niece," replied Madame Elisabeth, whose pale face, suddenly in the light, seemed to rise up like a ghostly presence.
"You, Aunt! You are leaving!"
Touched, Raoule stretched out her arms.
"Will you not embrace your nephew one last time?" she said, in accents gentler and more respectful.
"No!" said the canoness with a shake of her head. "When I am in heaven above perhaps! But here I cannot be resigned to lay my pardon over the blemished honour of a lost young woman. Farewell, Mademoiselle de Venerande. But before I leave, know this: by the saintliness that God has bestowed on me, He has allowed me to learn of your dreadful debauchery. I know everything: Raoule de Venerande, I curse you."
The canoness spoke in a very low voice, yet Raoule thought she heard the sound of this curse echo into the hush of the nuptial chamber.
She gave a superstitious shudder.
"You know everything? Explain your words Aunt! Does the sorrow of seeing me bear a lowly name disturb your reason?"
"You are the sister-in-law of a prostitute. The girl was here just now, though unincluded on your guest list; she forced me to the edge of the abyss. You were not the mistress of Jacques Silvert, Raoule de Venerande, and I now regret this with all my soul! But remember, daughter of Satan! That desires against nature are never satisfied. When you think to have found happiness you will encounter despair! When you reach safety, God will cast you into doubt. Farewell ... Another roof will shelter my prayers."
Paralysed by the powerlessness of her fury, Raoule allowed her to withdraw without a word in answer.
When Madame Elisabeth had gone, the bride summoned her women servants, who were waiting to help her get ready to retire.
"Did someone come here to see my aunt?" she enquired dully.
"Yes Madame," answered Jeanne, one of her personal maids, "a heavily veiled woman who spoke to her for a long time."
"And what became of this woman?"
"She left carrying a small chest. I think that Madame the canoness had made a last donation of alms before leaving for her convent."
"Ah! Very well, a last donation of alms."
At that moment the w
indowpane in the library rattled faintly at the sound of a carriage.
"Your aunt ordered the brougham," said Jeanne, lowering her head to hide her emotion.
Pushing her away, Raoule went into her dressing-room:
"I want no one, be gone, and send word to the marquis de Sauvares, my godfather, that henceforth he alone is to do the honours in the drawing room."
"Yes, madame."
Jeanne left immediately, quite stunned. In the Venerande mansion the air seemed to become unbreathable.
One by one the guests filed before the marquis, who was more astounded than they by the permission he had just received; then, when only Raittolbe was left, Monsieur de Sauvares took his arm.
"Let us be on our way, dear fellow," he said with a burst of mocking laughter; "this house has verily become a tomb."
The footman in charge of the cloakroom extinguished the chandeliers and soon in the deserted salons throughout the mansion pitch darkness prevailed along with silence.
After turning the lock of the dressing-room, Raoule had stripped off her clothes in an overweening rage.
"At last!" she said, when the damask gown lay in its shimmering purity at her impatient feet.
She took a little copper key and opened a closet concealed among the draperies. From it she took a suit of black clothes, a complete outfit, from the highly polished boots to the laceworked shirtfront. Before the mirror, which returned to her the image of a man handsome as any fictional hero a young girl might dream of, through her short curls she passed a hand where now the wedding ring shone. Her lips, upon which lay an imperceptible dark down, were set in a bitter smile.
"Happiness, Aunt," she said coldly, "is as real as it is mad; if Jacques does not wake from the sensual slumber in which I bathed his docile limbs, I shall be happy despite your curse."
She approached a velvet curtain, raised it with a febrile hand, and as her palpitating chest heaved, stopped there on the threshold.
The decor was magical. From this pagan sanctuary erected amidst modern splendours there rose a subtle, inexplicable aura that made the head swim, that would have intoxicated any human being. Raoule was right ... love can be born in any cradle prepared for it. Mademoiselle de Venerande's former bedchamber, its corners curved, its ceiling domed, was hung with blue velvet, its panelling of white satin picked out in gold, and its flutings of marble.
A rug that had been designed to Raoule's specification covered the wooden flooring in all the beauty of oriental blues. This carpet was made of thick wool and had colours so bright and patterns so distinct that one trod there as if upon some enchanted bed of flowers.
At its centre, beneath the night-lamp on its four silver chains, the nuptial couch assumed the form of that artless vessel which bore Venus to Cythera. A profusion of naked Cupids squatted at the bedhead, pushing effortfully to raise the blue satin-padded conch shell. On a column of Carrara marble stood the statue of Eros, his bow on his shoulder, his plump arms holding ample curtains of Oriental brocade, whose voluptuous folds fell all around the shell. By the bedhead a tripod of bronze bore a perfume-pan studded with precious stones, where a waning roseate flame released a faint fragrance of incense. Facing the tripod was the bust of Antinous with his glazed enamel eyes. The windows had been remade with ogival arches and with wrought grilles like harem windows, behind stained glass of softened tints.
The only piece of furniture in the room was the bed. The portrait of Raoule signed by Bonnat was set against the hangings, and surrounded by emblazoned draperies. In this painting she wore a hunting dress of the time of Louis XV and a sandy-hued greyhound licked the handle of the whip in her splendidly drawn hand.
Jacques was stretched out on the bed; with the seductiveness of a courtesan who awaits the lover's imminent arrival, he had thrust away the fleecy blanket and the soft eiderdown. Besides, in the draughtless air of the closed chamber a tonic warmth prevailed.
With dilated pupils and a mouth inflamed, Raoule approached the altar of her god. She spoke in ecstasy:
"Beauty," she sighed, "you alone exist; I believe only in you.
Jacques was not asleep. He retained his indolent pose as he gently raised his body; against the azure background of the curtains his supple and marvellously formed torso was outlined roseate as the flame in the perfume burner.
"Then why did you wish to destroy it, this beauty that you love?" he answered, in low enamoured tones.
Raoule sat on the edge of the couch and took in her hands this torso's firm-held flesh.
"That night I punished an unintentional betrayal; imagine what I should do if ever you were truly to betray me."
"Listen, dear master of my body, I forbid you to conjure suspicion between these passions of ours, it frightens me so ... Not for myself]" he added, laughing his adorable infant laugh, "but for you."
He rested his bowed head on Raoule's lap.
"It is so beautiful here," he whispered with grateful eyes. "Here we are going to be very happy."
With the tip of a forefinger, Raoule caressed his flawless features and traced the impeccable arch of his eyebrows.
"Yes, we shall be happy here, and we need not leave this temple for a while, so that the wild caresses of our love might enter every object, every fabric, every ornament, as the perfume of this incense enters all the tented hangings that surround us. We had resolved upon a journey, we shall not go. I do not wish to flee the pitiless society whose hatred for us grows, I sense. We must show to it that we are stronger, because of our love ..
She thought of her aunt ... Jacques thought of his sister.
"Very well," he said firmly, "we shall stay. Besides, I shall complete my education as a worthy husband; once I know how to fight, I shall try to kill the worst of your enemies.
"I say, Madame de Venerande, you would kill!"
He turned over gracefully to reach her ear:
"She can ask only to put an end to a life since the means of creating life is wholly denied her."
They could not stop themselves from laughing loud and long; and in this gaiety that was both knowing and philosophical, they forgot that pitiless society that had claimed, in leaving the Venerande mansion, to be leaving a tomb.
Gradually, their insolent gaiety subsided, and their mouths, no longer stretched in laughter, were united. Raoule pulled the curtain to her, plunging the bed into an exquisite penumbra, in the midst of which Jacques' body glimmered starrily.
"I have a fancy," he said, his voice now low.
"This is the time for fancies," answered Raoule, bending one knee on the carpet.
"I wish you truly to court me, as a husband of your rank might do at a moment such as this."
And he wriggled coyly in Raoule's arms, that were joined beneath his naked waist.
"Oh!" she said, taking her arms away, "so I must be very proper?"
"Yes ... wait, I'm hiding, I'm a virgin ...
Then, with the vivacity of a schoolgirl who has just played a naughty trick, Jacques wrapped himself up in his sheets. A sea of lace fell upon his brow and all that could be glimpsed among it was the curve of a shoulder, which, covered in this way, seemed like the sturdy shoulder of a woman of the people, by chance admitted into the bed of a rich pleasureseeker.
"You are very cruel," said Raoule, drawing back the curtain.
"Ali no," said Jacques, not realising that she had already begun the game. "No, no, I am not cruel, I tell you it is only play I want, there ... gaiety fills my heart, I am thoroughly intoxicated, loving, full of mad desires. I wish to use my royal powers, I wish to make you cry in rage and bite my wounds as when you tore at me from jealousy. I wish, I too, to have my own ferocity."
"Have I not waited nights enough and asked in my dreams for the ecstasies that you refuse me?" Raoule continued, standing and looking at him darkly, the power of her gaze endowing her with the air of a human monster.
"Alas for you," Jacques retorted, the moist tip of his tongue appearing between his damson lips. "I am inclined to
mock your dreams, reality will be better, I beg you to begin without ado or I'll be angry."
"But this is the most dreadful torture you can inflict on me," Raoule replied in a trembling voice, weighted with masculine gravity: "To wait until I have supreme happiness within my reach; to wait until I am prouder than you can know to have you in my power; to wait until I have sacrificed all for the right to keep you by my side, day and night; to wait until untold joy would be mine were I just to hear you say: `I am happy with my head upon your breast, that is where I wish to sleep.' No, no, you will not dare!"
"I shall," Jacques declared, sincerely vexed to see that she would have none of the play-acting unless she were to enjoy the delights of voluptuousness. "It's a fancy, I tell you.
Raoule fell to her knees, her hands clasped together, delighted to see him the dupe, as ever, of the charade which he himself had asked for, without suspecting that for the last twenty minutes her impassioned words had been a part of it.
"Oh! How nasty you are. I find you quite vile," said Jacques with irritation.
Raoule retreated, her head thrown back.
"Because I cannot see you without going insane," she said, duped in her turn; "because your divine beauty makes me forget who I am and excites me like a lover; because I lose my mind before your flawless nakedness ... And what does the sex of our caresses matter to our frenzied passion? What matter the proofs of affection that can pass between our bodies? The memory of love throughout the ages, the censure of every living man and woman - do they signify ...? You are a beautiful woman ... I am a man, I adore you and you love me!"
Jacques had finally realised that she was on her knees before him. He raised himself on one elbow, his eyes brimming with a mysterious joy.
"Come ...!" he said with a dread shudder, "but keep on those clothes, for your lovely hands are enough to chain your slave ... Come."
Raoule hurled herself upon the satin bed, uncovering anew the lithe white limbs of this enamoured Proteus of whose virginal modesty nothing remained.
Monsieur Venus (Decadence from Dedalus) Page 12