As she sat on the edge of the bed, the soft light fell upon her fair fluffy hair, the milk-white skin of her sloping shoulders, and her pretty but somewhat drooping breast.
“I am sure I shall be late again,” she said. “Tell me the time, mort petit, and don’t make a mistake. It’s really important!”
“Why do you always call me ‘mon petit’? Ten past six,” he returned in a surly voice.
“Ten past six? Are you quite sure? I call you ‘mon petit’ because I love you. What would you have me call you?”
“I call you Clotilde, you might occasionally call me Philippe.”
“I never do call people by their names.”
“Oh, well! no matter!” he said bitterly. “I don’t presume to imagine that I shall change your habits.”
She picked up her stockings from the floor, stretching her back like a cat about to pounce upon a mouse.
“What does it matter? I never think of calling you by your Christian name, as I do my husband, or my brother, or my cousins.”
“All right! all right!” he replied. “I will conform to custom.”
“What custom?”
Jumping up with her stockings in her hand, she came across the room and kissed him upon the neck.
Though by no means a clever man, he was suspicious, and an idea that had lately struck him was worrying him; he suspected that Madame de Gromance was careful to avoid making use of his name, or of the name of any other lover, for fear of getting mixed in a moment of supreme excitement, for she was a sensitive soul!
He was not exactly jealous, but he had a certain amount of proper pride. Had he known that Madame de Gromance was unfaithful to him, his vanity would have suffered. On the other hand, the desire he had for the pretty creature was proportionate only to the desire he believed her to inspire in others. He was not at all sure that it was considered necessary to be the lover of Madame de Gromance, or of any other society woman; many of his intimate friends preferred an automobile to a mistress. He liked her well enough, and had no objection to being her lover so long as it was considered the thing, but if it was not, he could not see why he should persist in the matter. The deep animal instinct in him and his outlook as a man of the world scarcely agreed, and he was not clever enough to conciliate such conflicting elements, the result being that there was an imperfect, indeterminate tone about his remarks that rather fascinated Madame de Gromance, who would not take the trouble of finding the solution and making things clear. If it came to the point, his charmer would say to him, “Of course I’ve never loved any man but you!” but that was less in the hope of convincing him than in the desire to say the thing most fitting the occasion. And at such moments when reflection is at a disadvantage the tremendous difficulty presented by belief in such a statement never occurred to him. Later, when he began to reason, doubt assailed him.
His doubt found expression in cruel and sarcastic remarks, and he practised the art of keeping his mind in a state of vague unrest. On this particular occasion he was less sulky and bitter than usual, and hardly even jealous or mistrustful. He merely displayed the ill-humour that naturally follows gratified desire.
Madame de Gromance, on the contrary, was quite prepared for the blackest fit of spite and unkindness, for on that very day her strength, combined with her weakness, her natural inspiration and deep artifice, had obtained from him a more liberal display of affection than that which on principle he usually vouchsafed. She had led him to overstep the bounds of moderation, a thing he did hot easily forgive, for he was solicitous of his health, and keen on keeping in condition for exercise and sport. Whenever Madame de Gromance led him further than he wished, he afterwards avenged himself by unkind words and a still more unkind silence. She did not mind, for she loved love, and experience had taught her that all men are disagreeable as soon as they get what they want. So she calmly awaited the reproaches she knew she deserved. She was disappointed in her expectations, however, for a remark from Philippe showed her that his mind was quiet and at rest.
“My shirtmaker is an ass,” he said.
He carefully dressed himself before the glass, and turned great thoughts over and over in his mind. After a few moments of silence he asked in quite a pleasant tone:
“You know Loyer, don’t you?”
Fresh-complexioned and slightly flushed with her white figure thrown into relief by the dark velvet of the arm-chair, she was sitting buttoning her boots. As she sat there, with her head and neck bent over her crossed legs, the light shone upon her hair and upon the bare limbs revealed by the short garment she wore, making one think of an allegorical figure from some painted Venetian ceiling. This resemblance did not, however, strike Philippe. He repeated his question:
“Do you know Loyer?”
She lifted her head, dangling the buttonhook from the tips of her fingers.
“Loyer, the Cabinet Minister? Yes, I know him.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Not very well, but I do know him.”
The man under discussion, Loyer the senator, keeper of the seals and Minister of Public Worship, was an insignificant-looking old bachelor, honest enough outside politics, a bit of a lawyer, and a philosopher, whose hair had turned grey in the enjoyment of clandestine love and tavern nights. As he had not made his entry into society until somewhat late in life, the women he met there were a continual source of wonder to him, as he devoured them with gold-spectacled eyes.
He was very young for his sixty years, and had known how to appreciate Madame de Gromance at her true value when he had first met her in the drawing-rooms of the préfecture. That was seven years ago.
Loyer had come to the town of M. Worms-Clavelin to unveil a statue to Joan of Arc, and had then pronounced the memorable speech that terminated magnificently with a comparison between the Maid and Gambetta, each of whom was transfigured, said the orator, “by the sublime light of patriotism.” The Conservatives, who already were secretly siding with the Radicals, because of their financial policy, were grateful to the minister for binding them anew to the old régime with the honourable bonds of a generous sentiment.
M. de Gromance had offered him his hand, saying: “As an old Royalist, Monsieur le Ministre, I thank you for Jeanne and for France!”
When Loyer walked that evening with Madame de Gromance in the gardens of the préfecture, lighted up by hundreds of Chinese lanterns, fixed to the trees — trees that had been planted in 1690 by the Benedictines of Sillé, so that two centuries later Madame Worms-Clavelin might enjoy their shade — the minister, who had been told by the Préfet himself that the “old Royalist” was the most deluded husband in the Department, whispered a few gallantries into the young woman’s pink ear. He was a Burgundian, and prided himself on being a daring one at that. Impressed by the beauty of the historic evening, he remarked as he took leave of Madame de Gromance that the illuminations made him inclined to dream. Madame de Gromance liked Loyer, and subsequently begged of him several little favours on behalf of her parish and district, which the old fellow granted, demanding nothing in return, quite content with being allowed to pat the arms and shoulders of the beautiful ralliée and to ask in a jocular manner after her “Old Royalist.”
She could therefore quite well allow that she knew Loyer, who was in the Radical Cabinet as Minister of Public Worship.
“I know Loyer as one knows a person who does not belong to the same set as oneself. Why do you ask?”
“Because if you know him well enough, I want you to ask him to do something for me.”
“What! Do you want to bear off the academic honours like M. Bergeret?”
“No,” said Philippe seriously. “It is something more important. I want you to speak to him about Abbé Guitrel.”
In her surprise she stood up, revealing a glimpse of dazzling flesh above her stockings. Astonishment gave her the semblance of innocence.
“Why?” she demanded.
He was carefully knotting his tie.
“I
want Loyer to make him bishop.”
“Bishop!”
The word produced abundant and definite ideas in the mind of Madame de Gromance.
For years and years she had seen the short, fat figure, mitre-crowned and covered with the gold-embroidered cope, rubicund, shapeless, dignified, of Monseigneur Chariot, officiating on fete-days at the cathedral. She had often dined with him and had received him at her own table. In common with all the other ladies of the diocese, she admired the clever repartee and handsome red-stockinged calves of the cardinal-archbishop. She also knew a considerable number of bishops, all of whom were worthy men, but she had never reflected on the influences that confer episcopal dignity upon a priest. It seemed to her strange that a kind-hearted but common and coarse-minded man like Loyer should have the power to create a prelate like Monseigneur Chariot.
She sat there, thoughtful, looking around the room, from the tumbled bed to the little table, upon which were placed a bottle of sherry and some biscuits; from the chair on which she had thrown some of her garments to the untidy dressing-table, her beautiful, unintelligent eyes wandered, seeing nothing but lace rochets, crosiers, crosses, and amethyst rings. Feeling absolutely at a loss, she inquired:
“Do you think bishops are made like that?”
“Of course,” he replied with assurance.
“And so you think, mon petit, that if I were to ask Loyer to make Abbé Guitrel a bishop—”
He assured her that Loyer, who was an old gallant, would not refuse that to a pretty woman.
She fixed her pink silk knickers to a hook on her silk stays. Then, as he pressed for a reply, and insisted upon her going immediately to see the minister, she grew exceedingly curious, and not a little suspicious.
“But, mon petit, why do you want Abbé Guitrel to be made a bishop? Why?”
“To please Mother. And because I like the fellow; he is intelligent and up to date — there aren’t so many like him. Yes, he really is advanced and in the Pope’s good books besides. And Mother would be so delighted.”
“Then why doesn’t she go herself and settle the business with Loyer?”
“In the first place, darling, it wouldn’t be at all the same. Besides, my parents are not in very great favour with this Cabinet. My father, as President of the Chambre Syndicale des Métaux, has been protesting against the new tariffs. You cannot imagine how irritating these economic questions can be.”
But she knew quite well that he was deceiving her, and that it was not filial love that made him dabble in ecclesiastical affairs.
She went round the room in her pink knickers of flowered silk, lithe, agile, and pliable, stooping here and there over the scattered garments, searching for her petticoat.
“Mon petit, I want your advice—”
“What about?”
After spending an unconscionable time arranging his tie in front of the glass, and lighting a cigarette, he complacently sat watching her as she flitted about the room in a costume that exaggerated so prettily all that was feminine in her exceedingly feminine body. He did not know whether to think her graceful or ridiculous. He did not know whether he ought to think such things really unbeautiful, or whether he should experience some slight artistic pleasure in beholding them. His doubt arose from the recollection of a long discussion which had taken place the winter before in the smoking-room at his father’s house, between two old gallants, M. de Terremondre, who could think of nothing more adorable than a pretty woman in her knickers and stays, and Paul Flin, who, on the contrary, pitied a woman for her ungraceful appearance at this particular stage of her toilet. Philippe had followed this entertaining discussion, and could not make up his mind which of the two was right. Terremondre was a man of experience, but he was old-fashioned and too artistic. Paul Flin was considered less clever, but very smart. Philippe’s natural malevolence and elective affinities were making him incline to the latter’s theory when Madame de Gromance put on her pink silk petticoat.
“Mon petit, do advise me. This year fur dresses are all the rage, but what do you say to a red cloth dress — a rich red, say ruby — a fur coat and a fur toque with a bunch of Parma violets?” He did not speak, and only betrayed his thought by a nod of the head. At last he opened his mouth, whence issued, instead of words, the smoke of his cigarette.
Deep in her dream she continued:
“With buttons of old paste, very narrow sleeves and a tight skirt.”
He spoke at last:
“A tight skirt — yes, that would be all right.” Then she remembered that he knew nothing about skirts or bodices. An idea flashed into her mind and matured.
“It is funny!” she cried. “Only the men who do not care about women are interested in women’s dress. And the men who like them never notice what they wear. Now you, for instance. I am sure you could not tell me what dress I had on last Saturday at your mother’s, while little Suequet, whose tastes, as everybody knows, are different, talks lingerie and chiffons quite prettily. He is a born dressmaker and milliner, that boy! Tell me, how do you account for it?”
“It would take too long.”
“You are sitting on my skirt, mon petit. While I think of it, Emmanuel says that you are neglecting him. Yesterday he expected you to come and see a horse that he wants to buy, and you didn’t turn up. He’s awfully annoyed!”
At these words Philippe broke into a torrent of abuse.
“Your husband bores me to tears! He’s a grotesque fool — and the most awful bore! You must admit yourself that pottering about all day in his stables, his kennels, and his kitchen garden — for he goes in for gardening too, the duffer — looking at the dogs’ food, the horses, and such-like isn’t what you might call exciting. And then when one comes to think of you and me, I must say it is a bit thick for your husband to hang on to me as he does. He’s such a fool that he makes people talk. It’s perfectly true, I tell you, people are beginning to talk.”
She answered him gently and seriously while she slipped on her skirt.
“Don’t abuse my husband, Philippe. As I am obliged to have a husband of some sort, it is a very good thing mine is like he is. Just think for a moment, mon petit, we might have somebody much worse to deal with.”
Philippe’s anger would not be calmed.
“And he loves you, the beast!”
She made a little grimace and shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply that that was not worth mentioning. That is how Philippe chose to interpret it, for he went on to enlarge upon the subject.
“As far as that goes, any one can see at a glance that he’s not much of a man with the women, but, even then, some things don’t bear thinking about.” Madame de Gromance turned to Philippe a beautiful look full of happiness and peace, a look that counselled the banishment of all painful thoughts, and going up to him placed full upon his lips a kiss, magnificent as a royal scarlet seal.
“Mind my cigarette,” he said.
By this time she was clothed in a very simple grey dress, and was arranging her toque upon her fluffy hair. Suddenly she broke into a laugh, and he inquired the cause of her amusement.
“Oh, nothing!”
Then, as he persisted in his inquiry:
“Well, I was only thinking that when your mother went to see her lover — years ago, you know — she must have found her hair a terrible nuisance, that is if she wore it as it is in that portrait you have of her at home.”
He made no reply, not quite knowing how to treat a joke of this description, which inwardly shocked him.
“You’re not angry, surely,” she went on. “You do love me, don’t you?”
No, he was not angry; yes, he loved her; and she returned to her original idea.
“It is strange, you know. Sons always believe in the virtue of their mothers; daughters, too, but not so implicitly. And yet the fact of a woman having had children is surely not sufficient to prove that she has never had lovers.”
She reflected a moment, and then went on:
“Things
are complicated in this world. Good’ bye, mon petit. I am walking, and have only just time to get there.”
“Why are you walking?”
“Because it is good for my health, and then it explains my not having the carriage. And it’s rather fun.”
She scrutinised herself in the looking-glass, first three-quarter-ways, then sideways, finally glancing at her back view.
“At this hour of the day, for instance, I am sure to collect a good number of followers.”
“Why?”
“Because I look rather nice.”
“What I mean is, why at this hour specially?”
“Because it is evening. The streets are always full just before dinner-time.”
“But who follows you? What sort of people?”
“All sorts. Men about town, workmen and priests. Yesterday a nigger followed me. He had on a hat that shone like a mirror. He was awfully sweet.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Oh, yes. He said: ‘Madame, will you go for a drive with me? Or are you afraid of losing your reputation’?”
“What a silly remark!”
“Some of them say much sillier things,” she answered gravely. “Adieu, mon petit, we’ve had a lovely time to-day.”
Her hand was already on the key of the door when he stopped her.
“Clotilde,” said he, “promise me you will go and see Loyer, and that you will say to him very nicely, ‘M. Loyer, you have a vacant see to dispose of. Make Abbé Guitrel bishop, you cannot do better. The Pope thinks very highly of him.’”
She shook her pretty head.
“Go and see Loyer for that? Can you imagine me in the cage of that old gorilla? We must make some special arrangement, meet him at some friend’s house, or something of the sort.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 159