Là-bas

by J.-K. Huysmans

  CHAPTER XII

  "Easy to find an excuse for this visit, though it will seem strange toChantelouve, whom I have neglected for months," said Durtal on his waytoward the rue Bagneux. "Supposing he is home this evening--and heprobably isn't, because surely Hyacinthe will have seen to that--I cantell him that I have learned of his illness through Des Hermies and thatI have come to see how he is getting along."

  He paused on the stoop of the building in which Chantelouve lived. Ateach side and over the door were these antique lamps with reflectors,surmounted by a sort of casque of sheet iron painted green. There was anold iron balustrade, very wide, and the steps, with wooden sides, werepaved with red tile. About this house there was a sepulchral and alsoclerical odour, yet there was also something homelike--though a littletoo imposing--about it such as is not to be found in the cardboardhouses they build nowadays. You could see at a glance that it did notharbour the apartment house promiscuities: decent, respectable coupleswith kept women for neighbours. The house pleased him, and he consideredHyacinthe the more desirable for her substantial environment.

  He rang at a first-floor apartment. A maid led him through a long hallinto a sitting-room. He noticed, at a glance, that nothing had changedsince his last visit. It was the same vast, high-ceilinged room withwindows reaching to heaven. There was the huge fireplace; on themantelpiece the same reproduction, reduced, in bronze, of Fremiet'sJeanne d'Arc, between the two globe lamps of Japanese porcelain. Herecognized the grand piano, the table loaded with albums, the divan, thechairs in the style of Louis XV with tapestried covers. In front ofevery window there were imitation Chinese vases, mounted on tripods ofimitation ebony and containing sickly palms. On the walls were religiouspictures, without expression, and a portrait of Chantelouve in hisyouth, three-quarter length, his hand resting on a pile of his works. Anancient Russian icon in nielloed silver and one of these Christs incarved wood, executed in the seventeenth century by Bogard de Nancy, inan antique frame of gilded wood backed with velvet, were the only thingsthat slightly relieved the banality of the decoration. The rest of thefurniture looked like that of a bourgeois household fixed up for Lent,or for a charity dance or for a visit from the priest. A great fireblazed on the hearth. The room was lighted by a very high lamp with awide shade of pink lace--

  "Stinks of the sacristy!" Durtal was saying to himself at the moment thedoor opened.

  Mme. Chantelouve entered, the lines of her figure advantageouslydisplayed by a wrapper of white swanskin, which gave off a fragrance offrangipane. She pressed Durtal's hand and sat down facing him, and heperceived under the wrap her indigo silk stockings in little patentleather bootines with straps across the insteps.

  They talked about the weather. She complained of the way the winter hungon, and declared that although the furnace seemed to be working allright she was always shivering, was always frozen to death. She told himto feel her hands, which indeed were cold, then she seemed worried abouthis health.

  "You look pale," she said.

  "You might at least say that I _am_ pale," he replied.

  She did not answer immediately, then, "Yesterday I saw how much youdesire me," she said. "But why, why, want to go so far?"

  He made a gesture, indicating vague annoyance.

  "How funny you are!" she went on. "I was re-reading one of your bookstoday, and I noticed this phrase, 'The only women you can continue tolove are those you lose.' Now admit that you were right when you wrotethat."

  "It all depends. I wasn't in love then."

  She shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she said, "I must tell my husbandyou are here."

  Durtal remained silent, wondering what role Chantelouve actually playedin this triangle.

  Chantelouve returned with his wife. He was in his dressing-gown and hada pen in his mouth. He took it out and put it on the table, and afterassuring Durtal that his health was completely restored, he complainedof overwhelming labours. "I have had to quit giving dinners andreceptions," he said, "I can't even go visiting. I am in harness everyday at my desk."

  And when Durtal asked him the nature of these labours, he confessed to awhole series of unsigned volumes on the lives of the saints, to beturned out by the gross by a Tours firm for exportation.

  "Yes," said his wife, laughing, "and these are _sadly neglected_ saintswhose biographies he is preparing."

  And as Durtal looked at him inquiringly, Chantelouve, also laughing,said, "It was their persons that were _sadly neglected_. The subjectsare chosen for me, and it does seem as if the publisher enjoyed makingme eulogize frowziness. I have to describe Blessed Saints most of whomwere deplorably unkempt: Labre, who was so lousy and ill-smelling as todisgust the beasts in the stables; Saint Cunegonde who 'throughhumility' neglected her body; Saint Oportune who never used water andwho washed her bed only with her tears; Saint Silvia who never removedthe grime from her face; Saint Radegonde who never changed her hairshirt and who slept on a cinder pile; and how many others, around whoseheads I must draw a golden halo!"

  "There are worse than those," said Durtal. "Read the life of MarieAlacoque. You will see that she, to mortify herself, licked up with hertongue the dejections of one sick person and sucked an abscess from thetoe of another."

  "I know, but I must admit that I am less touched than revolted by thesetales."

  "I prefer Saint Lucius the martyr," said Mme. Chantelouve. "His body wasso transparent that he could see through his chest the vileness of hisheart. His kind of 'vileness' at least we can stand. But I must admitthat this utter disregard of cleanliness makes me suspicious of themonasteries and renders your beloved Middle Ages odious to me."

  "Pardon me, my dear," said her husband, "you are greatly mistaken. TheMiddle Ages were not, as you believe, an epoch of uncleanliness. Peoplefrequented the baths assiduously. At Paris, for example, where theseestablishments were numerous, the 'stove-keepers' went about the cityannouncing that the water was hot. It is not until the Renaissance thatuncleanliness becomes rife in France. When you think that that deliciousReine Margot kept her body macerated with perfumes but as grimy as theinside of a stovepipe! and that Henri Quatre plumed himself on having'reeking feet and a fine armpit.'"

  "My dear, for heaven's sake," said madame, "spare us the details."

  While Chantelouve was speaking, Durtal was watching him. He was smalland rotund, with a bay window which his arms would not have gone around.He had rubicund cheeks, long hair very much pomaded, trailing in theback and drawn up in crescents along his temples. He had pink cotton inhis ears. He was smooth shaven and looked like a pious but convivialnotary. But his quick, calculating eye belied his jovial and sugarymien. One divined in his look the cool, unscrupulous man of affairs,capable, for all his honeyed ways, of doing one a bad turn.

  "He must be aching to throw me into the street," said Durtal tohimself, "because he certainly knows all about his wife's goings-on."

  But if Chantelouve wished to be rid of his guest he did not show it.With his legs crossed and his hands folded one over the other, in theattitude of a priest, he appeared to be mightily interested in Durtal'swork. Inclining a little, listening as if in a theatre, he said, "Yes, Iknow the material on the subject. I read a book some time ago aboutGilles de Rais which seemed to me well handled. It was by abbe Bossard."

  "It is the most complete and reliable of the biographies of theMarshal."

  "But," Chantelouve went on, "there is one point which I never have beenable to understand. I have never been able to explain to myself why thename Bluebeard should have been attached to the Marshal, whose historycertainly has no relation to the tale of the good Perrault."

  "As a matter of fact the real Bluebeard was not Gilles de Rais, butprobably a Breton king, Comor, a fragment of whose castle, dating fromthe sixth century, is still standing, on the confines of the forest ofCarnoet. The legend is simple. The king asked Guerock, count of Vannes,for the hand of his daughter, Triphine. Guerock refused, because he hadheard that the king maintained himself in a constant state ofwid
owerhood by cutting his wives' throats. Finally Saint Gildas promisedGuerock to return his daughter to him safe and sound when he shouldreclaim her, and the union was celebrated.

  "Some months later Triphine learned that Comor did indeed kill hisconsorts as soon as they became pregnant. She was big with child, so shefled, but her husband pursued her and cut her throat. The weeping fathercommanded Saint Gildas to keep his promise, and the Saint resuscitatedTriphine.

  "As you see, this legend comes much nearer than the history of ourBluebeard to the told tale arranged by the ingenious Perrault. Now, whyand how the name Bluebeard passed from King Comor to the Marshal deRais, I cannot tell. You know what pranks oral tradition can play."

  "But with your Gilles de Rais you must have to plunge into Satanismright up to the hilt," said Chantelouve after a silence.

  "Yes, and it would really be more interesting if these scenes were notso remote. What would have a timely appeal would be a study of theDiabolism of the present day."

  "No doubt," said Chantelouve, pleasantly.

  "For," Durtal went on, looking at him intently, "unheard-of things aregoing on right now. I have heard tell of sacrilegious priests, of acertain canon who has revived the sabbats of the Middle Ages."

  Chantelouve did not betray himself by so much as a flicker of theeyelids. Calmly he uncrossed his legs and looking up at the ceiling hesaid, "Alas, certain scabby wethers succeed in stealing into the fold,but they are so rare as hardly to be worth thinking about." And hedeftly changed the subject by speaking of a book he had just read aboutthe Fronde.

  Durtal, somewhat embarrassed, said nothing. He understood thatChantelouve refused to speak of his relations with Canon Docre.

  "My dear," said Mme. Chantelouve, addressing her husband, "you haveforgotten to turn up your lamp wick. It is smoking. I can smell it fromhere, even through the closed door."

  She was most evidently conveying him a dismissal. Chantelouve rose and,with a vaguely malicious smile, excused himself as being obliged tocontinue his work. He shook hands with Durtal, begged him not to stayaway so long in future, and gathering up the skirts of his dressing-gownhe left the room.

  She followed him with her eyes, then rose, in her turn, ran to thedoor, assured herself with a glance that it was closed, then returned toDurtal, who was leaning against the mantel. Without a word she took hishead between her hands, pressed her lips to his mouth and opened it.

  He grunted furiously.

  She looked at him with indolent and filmy eyes, and he saw sparks ofsilver dart to their surface. He held her in his arms. She was swooningbut vigilantly listening. Gently she disengaged herself, sighing, whilehe, embarrassed, sat down at a little distance from her, clenching andunclenching his hands.

  They spoke of banal things: she boasting of her maid, who would gothrough fire for her, he responding only by gestures of approbation andsurprise.

  Then suddenly she passed her hands over her forehead. "Ah!" she said, "Isuffer cruelly when I think that he is there working. No, it would costme too much remorse. What I say is foolish, but if he were a differentman, a man who went out more and made conquests, it would not be sobad."

  He was irritated by the inconsequentiality of her plaints. Finally,feeling completely safe, he came closer to her and said, "You spoke ofremorse, but whether we embark or whether we stand on the bank, isn'tour guilt exactly the same?"

  "Yes, I know. My confessor talks to me like that--only moreseverely--but I think you are both wrong."

  He could not help laughing, and he said to himself, "Remorse is perhapsthe condiment which keeps passion from being too unappetizing to theblase." Then aloud he jestingly, "Speaking of confessors, if I were acasuist it seems to me I would try to invent new sins. I am not acasuist, and yet, having looked about a bit, I believe I _have_ found anew sin."

  "You?" she said, laughing in turn. "Can I commit it?"

  He scrutinized her features. She had the expression of a greedy child.

  "You alone can answer that. Now I must admit that the sin is notabsolutely new, for it fits into the known category of lust. But it hasbeen neglected since pagan days, and was never well defined in anycase."

  "Do not keep me in suspense. What is this sin?"

  "It isn't easy to explain. Nevertheless I will try. Lust, I believe, canbe classified into: ordinary sin, sin against nature, bestiality, andlet us add _demoniality_ and sacrilege. Well, there is, in addition tothese, what I shall call Pygmalionism, which embraces at the same timecerebral onanism and incest.

  "Imagine an artist falling in love with his child, his creation: with anHerodiade, a Judith, a Helen, a Jeanne d'Arc, whom he has eitherdescribed or painted, and evoking her, and finally possessing her indream.

  "Well, this love is worse than normal incest. In the latter sin theguilty one commits only a half-offence, because his daughter is not bornsolely of his substance, but also of the flesh of another. Thus,logically, in incest there is a quasi-natural side, almost licit,because part of another person has entered into the engendering of the_corpus delicti_; while in Pygmalionism the father violates the child ofhis soul, of that which alone is purely and really his, which alone hecan impregnate without the aid of another. The offence is, then, entireand complete. Now, is there not also disdain of nature, of the work ofGod, since the subject of the sin is no longer--as even in bestiality--apalpable and living creature, but an unreal being created by aprojection of the desecrated talent, a being almost celestial, since, bygenius, by artistry, it often becomes immortal?

  "Let us go further, if you wish. Suppose that an artist depicts a saintand becomes enamoured of her. Thus we have complications of crimeagainst nature and of sacrilege. An enormity!"

  "Which, perhaps, is exquisite!"

  He was taken aback by the word she had used. She rose, opened the door,and called her husband. "Dear," she said, "Durtal has discovered a newsin!"

  "Surely not," said Chantelouve, his figure framed in the doorway. "Thebook of sins is an edition _ne varietur_. New sins cannot be invented,but old ones may be kept from falling into oblivion. Well, what is thissin of his?"

  Durtal explained the theory.

  "But it is simply a refined expression of succubacy. The consort is notone's work become animate, but a succubus which by night takes thatform."

  "Admit, at any rate, that this cerebral hermaphrodism, self-fecundation,is a distinguished vice at least--being the privilege of the artist--avice reserved for the elect, inaccessible to the mob."

  "If you like exclusive obscenity--" laughed Chantelouve. "But I must getback to the lives of the saints; the atmosphere is fresher and morebenign. So excuse me, Durtal. I leave it to my wife to continue thisMarivaux conversation about Satanism with you."

  He said it in the simplest, most debonair fashion to be imagined, butwith just the slightest trace of irony.

  Which Durtal perceived. "It must be quite late," he thought, when thedoor closed after Chantelouve. He consulted his watch. Nearly eleven. Herose to take leave.

  "When shall I see you?" he murmured, very low.

  "Your apartment tomorrow night at nine."

  He looked at her with beseeching eyes. She understood, but wished totease him. She kissed him maternally on the forehead, then consulted hiseyes again. The expression of supplication must have remained unchanged,for she responded to their imploration by a long kiss which closed them,then came down to his lips, drinking their dolorous emotion.

  Then she rang and told her maid to light Durtal through the hall. Hedescended, satisfied that she had engaged herself to yield tomorrownight.