For an hour all that could be heard in this temple to modern paganism were long broken sighs and the regular sounds of kissing; then, all at once, a heartrending cry rang out, like the scream of a demon vanquished.
"Raoule!" Jacques exclaimed, his face twisted, his teeth clenched on his mouth, arms outstretched as if he had been crucified in a spasm of pleasure, "Raoule, you are not a man? You cannot be a man?"
And a sob of lost illusions, for ever dead, rose from his loins to his throat.
For Raoule had unfastened her waistcoat of white silk, and the better to hear the beating of Jacques' heart she had pressed one of her naked breasts on his skin; a breast rounded as a globe with its bud closed, never to bloom in the sublime delight of giving suck. Jacques had been awakened to a violent revolt of all his passion. He thrust Raoule away with a clenched fist:
"No! No! Keep on these clothes," he screamed, quite out of his senses.
But once only had they played their parts sincerely, sinning against their love, which, to thrive, had to look the truth in the face while fighting it with its own strength.
They stayed in the heart of Paris to fight and make a stand. Public opinion, so famously prudish, refused to engage in battle. No one went near the Venerande mansion. Gradually, Madame Silvert was struck off the list of sought-after women; doors were not closed to her, but even the daring no longer crossed her threshold. The winter parties did not require her presence, no one asked her opinion about the latest plays, the latest novel, the latest fashions. Jacques and Raoule went frequently to the theatre, but their box never welcomed a friend; they had friends no longer, they were the outcasts of Eden, at their backs not an angel with a flaming sword, but an army of the fashionable set. Raoule's pride held fast.
The business of her aunt's departure for the convent on the very night of their wedding supplied a topic of plentiful conversation, and just as no one had pitied the canoness while she led a life that was not the one she dreamt of, she was greatly pitied once she had fulfilled her dearest wish.
As for Marie Silvert, she did not reappear. In a class that had no connection with Raoule's circle it was merely known that a certain establishment had been set up in luxury style, and certain habitues of this kind of establishment knew that a certain Marie Silvert was in charge.
It goes to show that saintly alms rarely sanctify those who receive them.
But in Raoule's entourage no news of this transpired, and she herself remained ignorant of the shameful fact. She was treated with respect, nothing more. And when she passed by people stood aside, as if before a woman threatened by imminent catastrophe.
One evening Jacques and Raoule by unspoken agreement delayed the hour of pleasure. They had been married for three months, three months when every night found them oblivious with caresses beneath the blue dome of their temple. But that evening they talked by a dying fire; who knows what it is that draws us sometimes within those dying embers. Jacques and Raoule had need of fireside talk, without feminine ecstasies or voluptuous cries, like good friends who meet again after a long time.
"Whatever has become of Raittolbe?" asked Raoule, blowing ceilingwards the smoke from a Turkish cigarette.
"It's true," murmured Jacques, "he has no manners!"
"You know I'm not afraid of him now," Raoule laughed.
"But I would enjoy playing your husband to his bristling moustache."
"Would you! What a conceited little creature!"
Gaily she added:
"Shall we invite him to take tea tomorrow ... we shan't go to the Opera nor read old books."
"If you see no objection."
"Things don't come out of the blue on honeymoon, madame," said Raoule, bringing Jacques' white hand to her lips.
He blushed, and gave an imperceptible shrug of impatience.
The following evening the samovar was steaming in front of Raittolbe, who had made no objection to Raoule's invitation.
On both sides the first words spoken were laced with sarcasm. Jacques barely stopped short of impertinence, Raoule went beyond it, Raittolbe made no bones about it.
"You are vexed with us," said Jacques, pointing at him as if in condescension.
"Might the dear baron be jealous of our happiness?" Raoule enquired, erect like an offended nobleman.
"Good gracious! My admirable friend," said Raittolbe, affecting confusion and speaking only to Madame Silvert, "I am always fearful of nervous women's whims; if by chance my pupil," - and he indicated Jacques - "had surpassed himself and removed the button from one of his foils, you realise ..."
As they took tea yet more blood was spilled in conversation.
"You know that the likes of Sauvares, Rene, the d'Armonville, even the likes of Martin Durand avoid us," Raoule blurted, in between two evil fits of laughter whereon a fiend might have seen the proof of his damnation.
"They err ... I take it upon myself to replace them all the better ... Either one has friends who are close or one does not have friends," parried Raittolbe.
From then on he returned to the Venerande mansion every Tuesday. Fencing lessons were vigorously resumed; once even, Jacques went with the baron to try out a newly purchased horse. The marriage seemed to have filled all the gulfs that had once yawned beneath the feet of the exofficer of the hussars.
He treated Jacques on an equal footing, and when he saw him firm in the saddle, with a bold look and a cigar at the corner of his mouth, he thought:
"Perhaps a man could be shaped from this clay ... if Raoule wished it."
And he thought of how rehabilitation might be possible were it to be inadvertently occasioned by a real mistress whom Raoule would be compelled to fight by means of the usual feminine tactics.
On their return from the Bois, Jacques wished to visit Raittolbe's apartment. They went all the way to the rue d'Antin.
When they were inside, Jacques wrinkled up his nose.
"Oh!" he said, "there's an awful smell of tobacco!"
"Gracious, my pet," Raittolbe protested maliciously, "I'm no turncoat! I hold on to my beliefs."
Abruptly, Jacques let out an exclamation; he had just recognised each and every piece of furniture from his old apartment on the boulevard Montparnasse.
"I say," he said, "I had left them to my sister."
"Yes, she sold them to me; though it wasn't for lack of buyers, but ..."
"What?" the young man enquired, intrigued.
"I wanted to have them because they are so many chapters in a novel that was lived but is not for publication."
"Ah! You are very kind!" burbled Jacques, taking a seat on his former oriental couch.
This banal phrase was all he could think of to thank the baron for his delicacy. The latter sat down beside him.
"Those days are done with, are they not Jacques?"
And in gentlemanly fashion he slapped him on the thigh.
"What makes you think that?" murmured Jacques, with a backward tilt of the head.
"What? Surely Madame Silvert will soon be handing round the christening bonbons. I myself should have them ordered kirsch flavoured, since that's the only way that I can swallow them."
"Enough of your bad jokes, will you be silent?"
"Huh?" growled Raittolbe.
"Yes, I mean it. Don't you wish me to give birth into the bargain?"
The baron seized the first thing to hand, a superb porcelain hookah, and sent it crashing against the wall.
"Thunderation!" he roared, "Are you a fool? So my eyes did not deceive me that night."
"Bah!" Jacques snorted immoderately, "It's easy to fall into bad habits!"
Raittolbe stamped back and forth.
"Jacques," he said, "would you like to try something different, without your female executioner knowing?"
"Perhaps ..."
And Jacques smiled strangely.
"At dusk, go and see what goes on at your sister's establishment."
"Libertine!" said Raoule's husband, shaking his pretty redhaired head
.
"You refuse?"
"No! I want an explanation."
"Oh!" declared Raittolbe, full of mock embarrassment, "I cannot take it upon myself to advertise such establishments; they are all charming and competent, nothing more."
"It's not enough."
"My word! A baseless rumour then?" muttered Raittolbe in a fury.
Jacques looked up in astonishment at the indelicate pleasure-seeker's words, all wide-eyed innocence.
"What are you saying baron?"
"Ali, that's droll, hang it! Hang it all!"
And Raittolbe clutched at his temples; then he regarded the face before him, weary but with such delicacy in its sensual, fair-skinned woman's features.
"But I cannot tell you something you will then repeat to our impetuous Raoule ... That girl who isn't one."
"No! I shall say nothing ... You can tell me everything ... If it's funny."
And, gripped by this unhealthy curiosity, Jacques forgot who he was dealing with; ever confusing men with Raoule and Raoule with men, he got up and put his hands around Raittolbe's shoulders.
For a moment his perfumed breath stroked the baron's neck. Trembling to the marrow of his bones, the latter turned away and looked at the window, which he would gladly have liked to open.
"Jacques, little one, no seduction or I call the vice police."
Jacques burst out laughing.
"Seduction in a riding habit? Oh! How sordid and depraved! Baron, you are improper I think ...
But Jacques' laughter had become uneasy.
"Ha ha! I would seem to you less so if you were wearing velvet!" Raittolbe retorted recklessly.
Jacques pouted. When he saw the monster's puckered mouth Raittolbe leapt to the window:
"I'm suffocating," he gasped.
When he turned again to Jacques the latter was rolling about on the couch, laughing uncontrollably.
"Leave, Jacques!" he said, raising the riding-crop, then lowering it.
"Leave, Jacques!" he said, raising the riding-crop again and well-nigh bringing it down, "for this time you could get yourself killed."
Jacques took hold of his arm.
"We don't fight well enough yet," he said, dragging him out to their horses who were pawing at the ground by the pavement.
They dined at the Venerande mansion, side by side, without any reference to the afternoon's scene that might alarm Raoule.
One night Madame Silvert entered the azure temple alone. Venus's bed was empty, the perfume-burner unlit, and Raoule did not wear her suit of black clothes ...
Jacques had left after lunch to watch a fencing bout between renowned masters and had not come back.
Midnight approached and Raoule still doubted the likelihood of betrayal. Unthinkingly, her eyes fastened upon the cupid who held back the curtain; she thought his look mocked her.
She felt her blood run cold with an unknown fear ... She ran to the other end of the room to seek a dagger hidden behind her portrait and pressed it to her breast.
The noise of footsteps could be heard in the dressing room.
"Monsieur!" Jeanne called out.
The maid took it upon herself to announce him, in order to calm Madame, whose stricken features had scared her.
Monsieur did indeed enter the room within seconds.
Raoule rushed to him with a cry of love; but Jacques pushed her away harshly.
"What's wrong?" stammered Raoule dementedly ... "You look as though you are drunk!"
"I come from my sister," he said in clipped tones. "My sister the prostitute ... and not one of those girls, do you hear me? Not one was able to bring to life what you have killed, damnation ...!"
He fell heavily onto the nuptial couch, disgust on his face as he repeated:
"I hate women, oh, I hate them!"
Crushed, Raoule moved back against the wall; there she collapsed in a swoon.
"My dearest sister-in-law,
Come this evening at eleven to the house of your friend Monsieur de Raittolbe; you will see things that will please you there.
Marie Silvert."
The note was laconic as a slap on the face. When Raoule read it she felt horrified; yet her valiant man's nature got the upper hand.
"No!" she cried, "he could wish to deceive his wife ... but he is incapable of betraying his lover!"
For the last month Jacques had virtually not left their love sanctuary, and a month since, as the dawn broke, he had asked forgiveness as a repentant adulteress, kissing her feet, covering her hands in his tears. She had forgiven because perhaps in her heart she was happy that he had proved to himself that he was at the mercy of her infernal power. Was yet a new insult to rise from the mire to assault her merciful passion?
Oh! But ... and she knew it too well, healthy young flesh rules the world. She said it so often in their wild nights that, ever since Jacques' night of debauchery, had became ever more voluptuous and exquisite. Raoule burned the note. But the words of this note appeared on the walls of her salon in letters of fire. She did not wish to read it but she saw it everywhere, from floor to ceiling. One by one Raoule summoned her servants and asked them this question:
"Do you know where Monsieur went this evening after riding in the Bois?"
An answer came from the little groom who had held the bridle of Jacques' horse: "I believe Monsieur took a hansom cab ...!"
This information gave no indication of her husband's purpose; yet why had he not returned to include her in his escapade?
My word, she was becoming a fool ...! Why hesitate? Is not human nature always ready to succumb to the most extravagant of temptations? Did not she herself one day a year ago exactly go in search of Jacques instead of meeting Raittolbe?
Then, thought the fierce philosopher, he has gone where his destiny calls him; he has gone where I saw he would go, for all my fiendish caresses! Raoule, for you the hour of expiation has struck; look the danger in the face, and if it is too late, punish the guilty one!
She gave a start, for as she donned her men's clothes so as not to be recognised in rue d'Antin, she spoke out loud.
"Guilty! Is he? Who knows? Should not I bear the weight of a crime too often foreseen by my suspicions and of which his base instincts have accustomed him to think?"
As she reached the service stairs adjoining their chamber, she added:
"I shall not punish him, I shall merely destroy the idol, for fallen idols cannot be adored!" And she left, her face calm and clear-eyed, her heart torn ...
At rue d'Antin the concierge told her:
"Monsieur de Raittolbe is not receiving."
Then, seeing that this elegant young man must be a close friend, he winked:
"There's a lady with him."
"A woman!" gasped Madame Silvert.
At once a dreadful idea came into her head. He must have gone first to his sister ... his sister's house, where there were costumes in all sizes!
"Well my friend, it is for that very reason that I wish to see him ...!"
"It's impossible, Monsieur the baron does not give such instructions lightly."
"He has instructed you ...
"No ... but ... It is obvious ...!"
Without deigning to turn her head Raoule mounted the stairs and knocked at the door of the mezzanine. Monsieur de Raittolbe's valet appeared, with a finger raised to his lips.
"Monsieur is not receiving just now!"
"Here is my card, I must be received!"
In her coat pocket she had one of her husband's cards.
"Monsieur Silvert," stammered the astonished servant, "but ...
"But," said Raoule with a forced laugh, "my wife is here, I know it! You fear that I wish to make a scene? Rest assured, the commissaire of police is not on my heels ..."
She slipped a banknote into his hand and closed the door behind them.
"It is true, Monsieur," the poor fellow whispered in terror, "I announced Madame Silvert scarcely fifteen minutes since, I swear to you ..."
Raoule sped through the dining-room and entered the smoking-room, taking care to close each door behind her.
The smoking room was illuminated by a single candle set upon a corbel. Monsieur de Raittolbe stood beside this corbel with a pistol in his hand.
Raoule started forward. Did he too wish to kill himself? Who or what had betrayed him? Was it a beloved creature or was it strength of character ...?
She seized the pistol in a movement so sudden and unforeseen that Raittolbe let it go; the weapon slid across the rug.
"Is it you?" the ex-officer stammered, deathly pale.
"Yes, you must speak before you blow your brains out, I demand it. Later ... do what you will ...!"
She appeared so calm that Raittolbe thought she knew nothing.
"Jacques is here!" he said in a choked voice.
"So I surmised, since your servant just announced him."
"In women's dress!" Raittolbe exclaimed, his words erupting in a maddened explosion of rage.
"Good lord!"
And they stared at one another for a moment with terrifying fixity.
"Where is he?"
"In my bedroom!"
"What is he doing?"
"Weeping ...
"You refused!"
"I wanted to strangle him," roared Raittolbe.
"Ah! But then you wanted to blow your brains out?"
"I admit it ...!"
"The reason?"
Raittolbe had no answer. Numbed, the pleasure seeker sank onto a sofa.
"My honour is more sensitive than yours!" he said at last.
Then Raoule went to the bedroom. A few moments, that to the baron seemed like centuries, went by in the most profound silence.
Then a woman emerged dressed in a long gown of plain black velvet, her head enshrouded in a mantilla. This woman was Madame Silvert, nee Raoule de Venerande. Ghastly pale and walking unsteadily, she was followed by her husband, who had turned up the collar of his coat to hide the red marks on his neck.
"Baron," said Madame Silvert in a steady voice, "I have been surprised in flagrante, but my husband does not wish a public scandal. He will expect you at six tomorrow morning with his seconds at Le Vesinet, on the edge of the wood."
Monsieur de Raittolbe bowed. He did not turn to look at Jacques, whose head was lowered.
Monsieur Venus (Decadence from Dedalus) Page 13