Hélène threw her travelling mantle on an armchair, and Mr. Haviland promptly took it up and folded it neatly. She turned impatiently to the window, and began to beat “The Turkish Patrol” on the glass. The dome of Les Invalides glimmered faintly under the foggy sky. All around was dull and grey, and she went sulkily away to her own room.
Groult announced Monsieur Fellaire de Sisac. The business man had come in haste to salute his son-in-law and embrace his daughter. He was buttoned up to the throat. His cracked and broken top-hat was beyond being treated with an iron, so water had been tried. It had been literally soaked, to make the rebellious nap lie down and to give it a little shine. The heels of Monsieur Fellaire’s boots were worn down to such an extent that he was forced to walk like a duck in order to maintain his equilibrium.
Haviland did not offer him his hand.
Fellaire tried every means to warm up “his dear islander”—” his most highly-respected son-in-law.” His metallic voice sounded like the striking of flint and steel, but he could get no spark out of Haviland. He said to himself that, after all, this devil of a man was naturally taciturn, and persisted obstinately in his efforts to electrify him. Seeing that no inquiry was made as to the state of his affairs, he said at last:
“By-the-bye, I won’t conceal from you the fact that I have been through some very rough times lately. I have been through what one might call a crisis.”
He could not very well conceal difficulties of this kind from Haviland, whom he had pursued with demands for money for the last four years. During the siege he had applied for a draft on a Paris banker by balloon, by carrier-pigeon, by advertisements in the Daily Telegraph. Haviland had satisfied the first demand, the others he had not even replied to.
So Fellaire presented himself at Mr. Charles Simpson’s bank, Rue de la Victoire, and by using the beloved and respected name of his son-in-law, borrowed a considerable sum. This artifice seemed to Haviland intolerably unworthy.
Fellaire therefore did not attempt to hide his troubles, but he said he had surmounted them, and had now a magnificent affair in hand. He assumed an attitude suited to the importance of the subject, stuck his arms akimbo, and drew a long breath.
“It is a matter,” he said, fixing a Napoleonic look on the ceiling, “the essentially beneficent aspect of which will not escape you. It is a question of opening a working-men’s bank on an entirely new basis. At an epoch when the over-rapid advance of the labouring classes has become embarrassing to the political economist, and presents, if I may say so, a permanent menace to society, the need becomes selfapparent for some institution which will inspire the proletariat with the sentiment of thrift. Freed now from the obstacles which the preceding government would certainly have put in the way of the foundation of an establishment of this nature, the moment has come in which to act—”
Just then a ray of sunlight — the only one in the salon, perhaps in the whole house — fell treacherously on Fellaire’s wretched hat, and showed it up in all its misery. He paused for a moment, then continued energetically:
“And to act quickly.”
He asked Haviland if he would like to hear the statutes of the proposed “working-men’s bank.”
Haviland answered, “No!”
Fellaire insisted that he should at least let him give a general idea of the way in which the bank was to be organised. He looked to his son-in-law for some valuable advice. And why not speak frankly? The business was worthy the attention of capitalists of the first rank, and he was anxious that Haviland should benefit by the advantages reserved for the original shareholders.
When he had finished speaking, Haviland rang the bell, the man-servant limped in.
“Groult,” he said, “take away that cigar.”
It was the stump of a much chewed penny cigar, which Fellaire on entering had deposited on the edge of a console table.
Haviland then looked Fellaire squarely in the face and said:
“I will not give you any advice, because you would not listen to it. I will not give you any money, because you would not pay me back. You are not a gentleman — no! I beg you never to enter my house again. You can see Madame Haviland when and where you please.”
And he left the room.
Fellaire, though upset and staggered by this blow, feeling that everything had come to an end, yet had the courage to kiss his daughter gaily and keep up a few moments’ chat about trifles. She received him with the tenderness of a child. In his easy-going nature there was something which corresponded with her laziness, and after all he was her father. With one glance of her woman’s eye she had noted the ragged edges of his linen, the worn collar of his coat, the shabby hat — all the sordid details of his costume. She guessed the truth. But seeing her suspicious, he smiled — poor man, he spoke of the vast enterprises which were absorbing him. He accused himself of becoming negligent of his appearance as he grew older. He asked if she were happy, and told her to love her husband. Then, having embraced her effusively, he went downstairs with a heavy step — his back bent, his eyes dull, his chin dropped, his head hanging under his everlasting hat; he had aged by at least ten years.
Hélène saw that her husband and father had disagreed, and, although she guessed the cause of the rupture, she took part against Haviland. From that moment husband and wife began to bicker and exchange bitter allusions; they would quarrel without any apparent motive, so that explanations were out of the question.
As she had sudden emotional outbursts, she transferred her wasted affections abruptly to her husband’s nephew, George Haviland — a smart, good-looking, blonde boy, with a loving but sulky nature. He was born at Avranches, and had been brought up in the Catholic religion, in the midst of the little English colony there. He was an orphan, and his uncle, who was also his guardian, had placed him as a day-scholar at the Collège Stanislas. Hélène spoilt him with the best intentions in the world. She would arrange his hair herself twenty times a day, to see which fashion suited him best. She would make him leave his studies in the evening to accompany her to a concert or to the theatre.
But her days were empty, and she often wept from sheer ennui. She would have liked to live in a garret alone with her father, and would run off in secret to visit him. He was living, for the time being, rent free—” drying the plaster” on the fourth storey of a new house in the Rue de Rome. These expeditions, on which she went trembling, and with her veil down, as though to a rendezvous, amused her immensely. Her father’s rooms looked like a bachelor’s lodgings; there were pipes among the papers on the table, the faded sofa was inviting and soft in spite of its broken springs. After she had kissed him on his big heavy cheeks, she would rummage in every corner. If she discovered some feminine object, such as a parasol or a veil, she would pass over it, and with tight lips but laughing eyes pretend not to notice it. Her father watched her, in mute admiration and love. When she had turned over the papers, eaten the cakes, had something to drink, laughed, and pulled his whiskers, she would heave a deep sigh and depart; and he, settling his disarranged smoking-cap, would go with her to the landing and whisper at parting, “Love your husband, my dear; love him with all your heart.”
As a matter of fact, she detested her husband. Leaning back in the cab, she would imagine him sitting in front of her, back to back with the cabman, with his lifeless eyes, and his cheeks like underdone beef, and would make a little grimace expressive of disgust.
Was there in the bottom of her soul, in the region of bygone days, the image of a countenance, half effaced by time, but still loveable, dear, the face of one who has departed never to return? Among the longings of this wearied woman were there perhaps some which groping out towards one being went a far far journey yet never reached their goal?
One day, when she had let a piece of embroidery, begun long since, fall to her knees as though it were too heavy a burden, she was noting with that fixed intentness associated with ennui the imperceptible irregularities of the glass in the window panes which, looke
d at sideways, seemed to waver into architectural outlines. Presently her maid brought her a visiting card from someone who had called and wished to see her.
She glanced at the card, sprang up, adjusted her curls, settled the pleats of her skirt, and went down to the drawing-room, transformed and animated, with a swan-like grace in the poise of her head, and a queenly sweep of her trailing robes.
CHAPTER V
RENÉ LONGUEMARE was standing before her. He was paler than formerly; his cheeks had filled out and his features softened, but his skin was sallow, and his eyes shone in a dark circle ploughed by fever contracted in the rice fields; he had still his old frank look, his wide affectionate smile, and his outspoken manner.
“You see,” she said to him, “the world is small, and one comes back from the furthermost parts of it. I am not surprised to see you, but I am very, very pleased.”
They were ill at ease at first. Each one had lived a long span of life, of the details of which the other knew nothing. They sought about for common ground. She was the first to risk a cordial phrase, perhaps because she felt it her duty as mistress of the house, perhaps because she was tempted by some secret sentiment.
“I have often thought of you,” she said. Then René plunged boldly into their mutual recollections. He spoke of the cups of tea at the house in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, of their walks at Meudon, of her pink and white muslin frocks which the brambles tore, of Monsieur Fellaire’s fine waistcoats, which they would make a rallying point on their excursions through the woods, as though it were the white plume of the Béarnais; and of all the nonsense they talked. She asked him if he still kept frogs in his pockets, and at the end of a quarter of an hour it seemed as though they had never been separated. When he began to tell her quietly of his travels, and of the monotonous fatigue of his service on an unhealthy station, she opened her beautiful humid eyes wide as she listened. Then she asked what he intended to do. He was tired, he said, of military service. He should send in his resignation, and settle down as a country doctor and village bone-setter: if some very innocent young girl had a fancy for raising poultry under his protection, he would marry her.
“Ah!” she said quickly, “you want to get married?”
But she knew from his answers that he was not serious; he had some great void in his heart, some sorrow, perhaps some souvenir.
George came back from school and burst in upon them with his lesson-books, then settled himself like a spoiled child to enjoy the distraction that this gentleman offered him. Hélène did not send him away, but told him to keep quiet and do his work. The doctor was relating an episode of his voyage, and the boy, noisily turning over the leaves of his dictionary, was biting his penholder and turning his head as he listened to a story of sea-spiders eaten alive by one of the sailors on the deck of the ship, when the maid came in to say that Mr. Haviland was ill, and begged Madame to go to him at once.
Mr. Haviland’s bedroom was very large, and filled with strange objects, all arranged in precise order. There was a cabinet full of sealed and labelled bottles. He had collected half a bottle of water from all the rivers he had crossed, and one could read on the labels — Tagus, Jordan, Simois, Eurotas,Tiber, Ohio. Another cabinet contained specimens of the marbles of the world. There was also a cupboard dedicated to historical souvenirs, and containing stones from Tasso’s prison, Shakespeare’s birthplace, Joan of Arc’s hut, the tomb of Héloïse, leaves from the weeping willow of Saint Helena, a piece of poetry written by Lacenaire in the Conciergerie, a travelling-clock stolen from the Tuileries in 1848, a comb which had belonged to Mademoiselle Rachel; and in a glass tube, a hair from the head of Joseph Smith the Mormon prophet, besides other relics too numerous to be specified. Several large tables, made of pine wood, such as architects use for drawing-tables, were covered with phials, and the whole place exhaled a very pronounced pharmaceutical odour.
Haviland was lying on a sofa near his iron bedstead, a travelling rug over his legs. He was livid, save for the red patches on his cheeks. His eyes, unnaturally sombre, seemed to be starting from their orbits. He took hold of his wife’s hands with the eager tenderness of a person who feels that everything is slipping away from him. He told her that he loved her, and was grateful to her; that he felt very ill, but hoped to recover, as he was well taken care of, and followed a treatment of his own which Groult knew how to apply. Then an attack of giddiness cut short his speech.
By-and-by he went on:
“I ought to warn you, Hélène, that I have wandering moments. They are a feature of my disease. You must take no notice of anything I may do at such times. Fortunately my affairs are in order. My will is with my notary.”
He then told her that he had left her the income accruing from his fortune for her life, but that the capital, as was only right, was to go to George Haviland. He had also made a disposition in favour of his servant Groult, and had told him about it. He pressed his wife’s hand, and fixing on her the strange and dolorous look he sometimes wore, begged her to listen carefully to what he was about to say.
“Out of respect for my memory if I die, my dear Hélène, look for Samuel Ewart, and execute my last wishes in his favour. In the name of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, who will come again to raise the dead, I conjure you to neglect nothing which may ensure that the last descendant of David Ewart shall receive the money I have bequeathed him. I know he is alive, for sometimes of nights I see him. I should recognise him were he to come, and he will come.”
Suddenly the sick man fixed his eyes on a dark curtain which hung in heavy folds before a door, stretched out his trembling arm, and cried:
“There! there! before that door! There he is, there’s Sam Ewart. You can see the mark he bears on his neck, under his sailor’s shirt; it is a red mark because of his great-grandfather, old David — Sam! Sam! Oh my God!”
He fell back on the sofa breathing heavily. Hélène, who felt helpless and lost among the many medicine bottles, rang for Groult, who pushed her aside, rudely enough, and took possession of the invalid.
That night she could not sleep. As she lay watching the moonlight, she saw her husband, wrapped in a plaid, come down through his bedroom window, and walk straight to a well by the stables.
As she watched him breathlessly, her face pressed against the glass, she was conscious of a sharp pain at the roots of her hair, but could neither move nor cry out. Then she saw Groult come, half-dressed, from the outbuilding where he slept, and follow his master on tiptoe. She saw the latter peering down into the depths of the well. After some time he raised his head, and stretched his hand out as though to feel from which quarter the wind was blowing, after which he went back through the window to his room. She saw Groult shrug his shoulders and slouch off to his outbuilding, with a contemptuous gesture.
Madam Groult had appeared for a moment in her everlasting bed-jacket and an enormous frilled night-cap at the door of the lodge. When the door had closed upon them both Hélène thought she heard Groult ill-treating her.
Haviland had become a somnambulist.
The next day she found him up and dressed, peacefully and silently occupied in labelling numerous little stones which he had taken from famous monuments. He was writing on gummed paper the words “Coliseum,”
“Catacombs,”
“Tomb of Cecilia Metella.” His eyes which had recovered their normal colour, a dull blue, were quite expressionless.
But she did not feel reassured. She wanted to remain by him, and determined to sit by him herself and send for doctors, although he had strictly forbidden her to do so.
Groult came into the room with a bottle and a glass, from which he poured some syrup and handed it to his master, looking fixedly at Hélène the while. He watched her with a cynical familiarity, an audacious effrontery, that made her blush. A little while after drinking the syrup, Haviland was seized with giddiness and stupor. His pupils once more became extraordinarily dilated.
From this day, Hélène was tormented wit
h a vague uneasiness. One evening, about five o’clock, she noticed the tracks of nailed shoes on the carpet of the room. The steps went in an oblique line right across the room from the outer door to that of the dressing-room. The tracks were extremely faint, and only visible because the rays of the sun were at that moment falling on the carpet, showing up the slight signs of pressure and the specks of white dust on the rich, soft Smyrna tissue. She was startled and called her maid, and they inspected the dressing-room minutely, but everything was in order For some time she tried to explain to herself the meaning of these footsteps, but as she could find no solution to the problem, she tired of troubling herself, and fell back into her accustomed indifference.
When René Longuemare returned, Hélène, who was expecting him, had dressed her hair in the way in which she knew he liked it best. She could not hide her unhappiness from him, and weakly told him all the misery of her life, and how wretchedly her marriage had turned out. She knew that she loved him. She would have liked to be gathered to his broad, warm chest, to weep there, and forget everything. René remained very calm by the side of her. The more she confided in him, the more he felt that he must not abuse her confidence. He loved her respectfully; she represented the poetry of his bachelor’s existence, where prose was not wanting. He had taken up his old habits in Paris, and every night he went to some little theatre, and to supper afterwards. There was a spacious and lofty place in his soul for an ideal creature, and in this place he had put Hélène. On her side, though tired and weak, abased in her own eyes by a loveless marriage, but reserved according to the habits of her class and circumspect from preference, she kept well under when in René’s company whatever tendencies she might feel towards the too alluring or the too encouraging. So far exempt from all fault, it seemed to her quite impossible to contemplate committing one.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 288