Читать книгу The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more - Guy de Maupassant - Страница 62

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The conquest of Morocco had been accomplished two months back. France, mistress of Tangiers, held the whole of the African shore of the Mediterranean as far as Tripoli, and had guaranteed the debt of the newly annexed territory. It was said that two ministers had gained a score of millions over the business, and Laroche-Mathieu was almost openly named. As to Walter, no one in Paris was ignorant of the fact that he had brought down two birds with one stone, and made thirty or forty millions out of the loan and eight to ten millions out of the copper and iron mines, as well as out of a large stretch of territory bought for almost nothing prior to the conquest, and sold after the French occupation to companies formed to promote colonization. He had become in a few days one of the lords of creation, one of those omnipotent financiers more powerful than monarchs who cause heads to bow, mouths to stammer, and all that is base, cowardly, and envious, to well up from the depths of the human heart. He was no longer the Jew Walter, head of a shady bank, manager of a fishy paper, deputy suspected of illicit jobbery. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite.

He wished to show himself off. Aware of the monetary embarrassments of the Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in the Rue de Faubourg, Saint Honoré, with a garden giving onto the Champs Elysées, he proposed to him to buy house and furniture, without shifting a stick, within twenty-four hours. He offered three millions, and the prince, tempted by the amount, accepted. The following day Walter installed himself in his new domicile. Then he had another idea, the idea of a conqueror who wishes to conquer Paris, the idea of a Bonaparte. The whole city was flocking at that moment to see a great painting by the Hungarian artist, Karl Marcowitch, exhibited at a dealer’s named Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on the water. The art critics, filled with enthusiasm, declared the picture the most superb masterpiece of the century. Walter bought it for four hundred thousand francs, and took it away, thus cutting suddenly short a flow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to speak of him in terms of envy, blame, or approbation. Then he had it announced in the papers that he would invite everyone known in Parisian society to view at his house some evening this triumph of the foreign master, in order that it might not be said that he had hidden away a work of art. His house would be open; let those who would, come. It would be enough to show at the door the letter of invitation.

This ran as follows: “Monsieur and Madame Walter beg of you to honor them with your company on December 30th, between 9 and 12 p. m., to view the picture by Karl Marcowitch, ‘Jesus Walking on the Waters,’ lit up by electric light.” Then, as a postscript, in small letters: “Dancing after midnight.” So those who wished to stay could, and out of these the Walters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would view the picture, the mansion, and their owners with worldly curiosity, insolent and indifferent, and would then go away as they came. But Daddy Walter knew very well that they would return later on, as they had come to his Israelite brethren grown rich like himself. The first thing was that they should enter his house, all these titled paupers who were mentioned in the papers, and they would enter it to see the face of a man who had gained fifty millions in six weeks; they would enter it to see and note who else came there; they would also enter it because he had had the good taste and dexterity to summon them to admire a Christian picture at the home of a child of Israel. He seemed to say to them: “You see I have given five hundred thousand francs for the religious masterpiece of Marcowitch, ‘Jesus Walking on the Waters.’ And this masterpiece will always remain before my eyes in the house of the Jew, Walter.”

In society there had been a great deal of talk over these invitations, which, after all, did not pledge one in any way. One could go there as one went to see watercolors at Monsieur Petit’s. The Walters owned a masterpiece, and threw open their doors one evening so that everyone could admire it. Nothing could be better. The Vie Francaise for a fortnight past had published every morning a note on this coming event of the 30th December, and had striven to kindle public curiosity.

Du Roy was furious at the governor’s triumph. He had thought himself rich with the five hundred thousand francs extorted from his wife, and now he held himself to be poor, fearfully poor, when comparing his modest fortune with the shower of millions that had fallen around him, without his being able to pick any of it up. His envious hatred waxed daily. He was angry with everyone — with the Walters, whom he had not been to see at their new home; with his wife, who, deceived by Laroche-Mathieu, had persuaded him not to invest in the Morocco loan; and, above all, with the minister who had tricked him, who had made use of him, and who dined at his table twice a week. George was his agent, his secretary, his mouthpiece, and when he was writing from his dictation felt wild longings to strangle this triumphant foe. As a minister, Laroche-Mathieu had shown modesty in mien, and in order to retain his portfolio, did not let it be seen that he was gorged with gold. But Du Roy felt the presence of this gold in the haughtier tone of the parvenu barrister, in his more insolent gestures, his more daring affirmation, his perfect self-confidence. Laroche-Mathieu now reigned in the Du Roy household, having taken the place and the days of the Count de Vaudrec, and spoke to the servants like a second master. George tolerated him with a quiver running through him like a dog who wants to bite, and dares not. But he was often harsh and brutal towards Madeleine, who shrugged her shoulders and treated him like a clumsy child. She was, besides, astonished at his continual ill-humor, and repeated: “I cannot make you out. You are always grumbling, and yet your position is a splendid one.”

He would turn his back without replying.

He had declared at first that he would not go to the governor’s entertainment, and that he would never more set foot in the house of that dirty Jew. For two months Madame Walter had been writing to him daily, begging him to come, to make an appointment with her whenever he liked, in order, she said, that she might hand over the seventy thousand francs she had gained for him. He did not reply, and threw these despairing letters into the fire. Not that he had renounced receiving his share of their profits, but he wanted to madden her, to treat her with contempt, to trample her under feet. She was too rich. He wanted to show his pride. The very day of the exhibition of the picture, as Madeleine pointed out to him that he was very wrong not to go, he replied: “Hold your tongue. I shall stay at home.”

Then after dinner he suddenly said: “It will be better after all to undergo this affliction. Get dressed at once.”

She was expecting this, and said: “I will be ready in a quarter of an hour.” He dressed growling, and even in the cab he continued to spit out his spleen.

The courtyard of the Carlsbourg mansion was lit up by four electric lights, looking like four small bluish moons, one at each corner. A splendid carpet was laid down the high flight of steps, on each of which a footman in livery stood motionless as a statue.

Du Roy muttered: “Here’s a fine show-off for you,” and shrugged his shoulders, his heart contracted by jealousy.

His wife said: “Be quiet and do likewise.”

They went in and handed their heavy outer garments to the footmen who advanced to meet them. Several ladies were also there with their husbands, freeing themselves from their furs. Murmurs of: “It is very beautiful, very beautiful,” could be heard. The immense entrance hall was hung with tapestry, representing the adventures of Mars and Venus. To the right and left were the two branches of a colossal double staircase, which met on the first floor. The banisters were a marvel of wrought-iron work, the dull old gilding of which glittered with discreet luster beside the steps of pink marble. At the entrance to the reception-rooms two little girls, one in a pink folly costume, and the other in a blue one, offered a bouquet of flowers to each lady. This was held to be charming.

The reception-rooms were already crowded. Most of the ladies were in outdoor dress, showing that they came there as to any other exhibition. Those who intended remaining for the ball were bare armed and bare necked. Madame Walter, surrounded by her friends, was in the second room acknowledging the greetings of the visitors. Many of these did not know her, and walked about as though in a museum, without troubling themselves about the masters of the house.

When she perceived Du Roy she grew livid, and made a movement as though to advance towards him. Then she remained motionless, awaiting him. He greeted her ceremoniously, while Madeleine overwhelmed her with affection and compliments. Then George left his wife with her and lost himself in the crowd, to listen to the spiteful things that assuredly must be said.

Five reception-rooms opened one into the other, hung with costly stuffs, Italian embroideries, or oriental rugs of varying shades and styles, and bearing on their walls pictures by old masters. People stopped, above all, to admire a small room in the Louis XVI style, a kind of boudoir, lined with silk, with bouquets of roses on a pale blue ground. The furniture, of gilt wood, upholstered in the same material, was admirably finished.

George recognized some well-known people — the Duchess de Ferraciné, the Count and Countess de Ravenal, General Prince d’Andremont, the beautiful Marchioness des Dunes, and all those folk who are seen at first performances. He was suddenly seized by the arm, and a young and pleased voice murmured in his ear: “Ah! here you are at last, you naughty Pretty-boy. How is it one no longer sees you?”

It was Susan Walter, scanning him with her enamel-like eyes from beneath the curly cloud of her fair hair. He was delighted to see her again, and frankly pressed her hand. Then, excusing himself, he said: “I have not been able to come. I have had so much to do during the past two months that I have not been out at all.”

She said, with her serious air: “That is wrong, very wrong. You have caused us a great deal of pain, for we adore you, mamma and I. As to myself, I cannot get on without you. When you are not here I am bored to death. You see I tell you so plainly, so that you may no longer have the right of disappearing like that. Give me your arm, I will show you ‘Jesus Walking on the Waters’ myself; it is right away at the end, beyond the conservatory. Papa had it put there so that they should be obliged to see everything before they could get to it. It is astonishing how he is showing off this place.”

They went on quietly among the crowd. People turned round to look at this good-looking fellow and this charming little doll. A well-known painter said: “What a pretty pair. They go capitally together.”

George thought: “If I had been really clever, this is the girl I should have married. It was possible. How is it I did not think of it? How did I come to take that other one? What a piece of stupidity. We always act too impetuously, and never reflect sufficiently.”

And envy, bitter envy, sank drop by drop into his mind like a gall, embittering all his pleasures, and rendering existence hateful.

Susan was saying: “Oh! do come often, Pretty-boy; we will go in for all manner of things now, papa is so rich. We will amuse ourselves like madcaps.”

He answered, still following up his idea: “Oh! you will marry now. You will marry some prince, a ruined one, and we shall scarcely see one another.”

She exclaimed, frankly: “Oh! no, not yet. I want someone who pleases me, who pleases me a great deal, who pleases me altogether. I am rich enough for two.”

He smiled with a haughty and ironical smile, and began to point out to her people that were passing, very noble folk who had sold their rusty titles to the daughters of financiers like herself, and who now lived with or away from their wives, but free, impudent, known, and respected. He concluded with: “I will not give you six months before you are caught with that same bait. You will be a marchioness, a duchess or a princess, and will look down on me from a very great height, miss.”

She grew indignant, tapped him on the arm with her fan, and vowed that she would marry according to the dictates of her heart.

He sneered: “We shall see about all that, you are too rich.”

She remarked: “But you, too, have come in for an inheritance.”

He uttered in a tone of contempt: “Oh! not worth speaking about. Scarcely twenty thousand francs a year, not much in these days.”

“But your wife has also inherited.”

“Yes. A million between us. Forty thousand francs’ income. We cannot even keep a carriage on it.”

They had reached the last of the reception-rooms, and before them lay the conservatory — a huge winter garden full of tall, tropical trees, sheltering clumps of rare flowers. Penetrating beneath this somber greenery, through which the light streamed like a flood of silver, they breathed the warm odor of damp earth, and an air heavy with perfumes. It was a strange sensation, at once sweet, unwholesome, and pleasant, of a nature that was artificial, soft, and enervating. They walked on carpets exactly like moss, between two thick clumps of shrubs. All at once Du Roy noticed on his left, under a wide dome of palms, a broad basin of white marble, large enough to bathe in, and on the edge of which four large Delft swans poured forth water through their open beaks. The bottom of the basin was strewn with golden sand, and swimming about in it were some enormous goldfish, quaint Chinese monsters, with projecting eyes and scales edged with blue, mandarins of the waters, who recalled, thus suspended above this gold-colored ground, the embroideries of the Flowery Land. The journalist halted with beating heart. He said to himself: “Here is luxury. These are the houses in which one ought to live. Others have arrived at it. Why should not I?”

He thought of means of doing so; did not find them at once, and grew irritated at his powerlessness. His companion, somewhat thoughtful, did not speak. He looked at her in sidelong fashion, and again thought: “To marry this little puppet would suffice.”

But Susan all at once seemed to wake up. “Attention!” said she; and pushing George through a group which barred their way, she made him turn sharply to the right.

In the midst of a thicket of strange plants, which extended in the air their quivering leaves, opening like hands with slender fingers, was seen the motionless figure of a man standing on the sea. The effect was surprising. The picture, the sides of which were hidden in the moving foliage, seemed a black spot upon a fantastic and striking horizon. It had to be carefully looked at in order to understand it. The frame cut the center of the ship in which were the apostles, scarcely lit up by the oblique rays from a lantern, the full light of which one of them, seated on the bulwarks, was casting upon the approaching Savior. Jesus was advancing with his foot upon a wave, which flattened itself submissively and caressingly beneath the divine tread. All was dark about him. Only the stars shone in the sky. The faces of the apostles, in the vague light of the lantern, seemed convulsed with surprise. It was a wonderful and unexpected work of a master; one of those works which agitate the mind and give you something to dream of for years. People who look at such things at the outset remain silent, and then go thoughtfully away, and only speak later on of the worth of the painting. Du Roy, having contemplated it for some time, said: “It is nice to be able to afford such trifles.”

But as he was pushed against by others coming to see it, he went away, still keeping on his arm Susan’s little hand, which he squeezed slightly. She said: “Would you like a glass of champagne? Come to the refreshment buffet. We shall find papa there.”

And they slowly passed back through the saloons, in which the crowd was increasing, noisy and at home, the fashionable crowd of a public fête. George all at once thought he heard a voice say: “It is Laroche-Mathieu and Madame Du Roy.” These words flitted past his ear like those distant sounds borne by the wind. Whence came they? He looked about on all sides, and indeed saw his wife passing by on the minister’s arm. They were chatting intimately in a low tone, smiling, and with their eyes fixed on one another’s. He fancied he noticed that people whispered as they looked at them, and he felt within him a stupid and brutal desire to spring upon them, these two creatures, and smite them down. She was making him ridiculous. He thought of Forestier. Perhaps they were saying: “That cuckold Du Roy.” Who was she? A little parvenu sharp enough, but really not over-gifted with parts. People visited him because they feared him, because they felt his strength, but they must speak in unrestrained fashion of this little journalistic household. He would never make any great way with this woman, who would always render his home a suspected one, who would always compromise herself, whose very bearing betrayed the woman of intrigue. She would now be a cannon ball riveted to his ankle. Ah! if he had only known, if he had only guessed. What a bigger game he would have played. What a fine match he might have won with this little Susan for stakes. How was it he had been blind enough not to understand that?

They reached the diningroom — an immense apartment, with marble columns, and walls hung with old tapestry. Walter perceived his descriptive writer, and darted forward to take him by the hands. He was intoxicated with joy. “Have you seen everything? Have you shown him everything, Susan? What a lot of people, eh, Pretty-boy! Did you see the Prince de Guerche? He came and drank a glass of punch here just now,” he exclaimed.

Then he darted towards the Senator Rissolin, who was towing along his wife, bewildered, and bedecked like a stall at a fair. A gentleman bowed to Susan, a tall, thin fellow, slightly bald, with yellow whiskers, and that air of good breeding which is everywhere recognizable. George heard his name mentioned, the Marquis de Cazolles, and became suddenly jealous of him. How long had she known him? Since her accession to wealth, no doubt. He divined a suitor.

He was taken by the arm. It was Norbert de Varenne. The old poet was airing his long hair and worn dress-coat with a weary and indifferent air. “This is what they call amusing themselves,” said he. “By and by they will dance, and then they will go bed, and the little girls will be delighted. Have some champagne. It is capital.”

He had a glass filled for himself, and bowing to Du Roy, who had taken another, said: “I drink to the triumph of wit over wealth.” Then he added softly: “Not that wealth on the part of others hurts me; or that I am angry at it. But I protest on principle.”

George no longer listened to him. He was looking for Susan, who had just disappeared with the Marquis de Cazolles, and abruptly quitting Norbert de Varenne, set out in pursuit of the young girl. A dense crowd in quest of refreshments checked him. When he at length made his way through it, he found himself face to face with the de Marelles. He was still in the habit of meeting the wife, but he had not for some time past met the husband, who seized both his hands, saying: “How can I thank you, my dear fellow, for the advice you gave me through Clotilde. I have gained close on a hundred thousand francs over the Morocco loan. It is to you I owe them. You are a valuable friend.”

Several men turned round to look at the pretty and elegant brunette. Du Roy replied: “In exchange for that service, my dear fellow, I am going to take your wife, or rather to offer her my arm. Husband and wife are best apart, you know.”

Monsieur de Marelle bowed, saying: “You are quite right. If I lose you, we will meet here in an hour.”

“Exactly.”

The pair plunged into the crowd, followed by the husband. Clotilde kept saying: “How lucky these Walters are! That is what it is to have business intelligence.”

George replied: “Bah! Clever men always make a position one way or another.”

She said: “Here are two girls who will have from twenty to thirty millions apiece. Without reckoning that Susan is pretty.”

He said nothing. His own idea, coming from another’s mouth, irritated him. She had not yet seen the picture of “Jesus Walking on the Water,” and he proposed to take her to it. They amused themselves by talking scandal of the people they recognized, and making fun of those they did not. Saint-Potin passed by, bearing on the lapel of his coat a number of decorations, which greatly amused them. An ex-ambassador following him showed far fewer.

Du Roy remarked: “What a mixed salad of society.”

Boisrenard, who shook hands with him, had also adorned his buttonhole with the green and yellow ribbon worn on the day of the duel. The Viscountess de Percemur, fat and bedecked, was chatting with a duke in the little Louis XVI boudoir.

George whispered: “An amorous tête-à-tête.”

But on passing through the greenhouse, he noticed his wife seated beside Laroche-Mathieu, both almost hidden behind a clump of plants. They seemed to be asserting: “We have appointed a meeting here, a meeting in public. For we do not care a rap what people think.”

Madame de Marelle agreed that the Jesus of Karl Marcowitch was astounding, and they retraced their steps. They had lost her husband. George inquired: “And Laurine, is she still angry with me?”

“Yes, still so as much as ever. She refuses to see you, and walks away when you are spoken of.”

He did not reply. The sudden enmity of this little girl vexed and oppressed him. Susan seized on them as they passed through a doorway, exclaiming: “Ah! here you are. Well, Pretty-boy, you must remain alone. I am going to take away Clotilde to show her my room.”

The two moved rapidly away, gliding through the throng with that undulating snake-like motion women know how to adopt in a crowd. Almost immediately a voice murmured: “George.”

It was Madame Walter, who went on in a low tone: “Oh! how ferociously cruel you are. How you do make me suffer without reason. I told Susan to get your companion away in order to be able to say a word to you. Listen, I must speak to you this evening, I must, or you don’t know what I will do. Go into the conservatory. You will find a door on the left leading into the garden. Follow the path in front of it. At the end of it you will find an arbor. Wait for me there in ten minutes’ time. If you won’t, I declare to you that I will create a scene here at once.”

He replied loftily: “Very well. I will be at the spot you mention within ten minutes.”

And they separated. But Jacques Rival almost made him behindhand. He had taken him by the arm and was telling him a lot of things in a very excited manner. He had no doubt come from the refreshment buffet. At length Du Roy left him in the hands of Monsieur de Marelle, whom he had come across, and bolted. He still had to take precautions not to be seen by his wife or Laroche-Mathieu. He succeeded, for they seemed deeply interested in something, and found himself in the garden. The cold air struck him like an ice bath. He thought: “Confound it, I shall catch cold,” and tied his pocket-handkerchief round his neck. Then he slowly went along the walk, seeing his way with difficulty after coming out of the bright light of the reception-rooms. He could distinguish to the right and left leafless shrubs, the branches of which were quivering. Light filtered through their branches, coming from the windows of the mansion. He saw something white in the middle of the path in front of him, and Madame Walter, with bare arms and bosom, said in a quivering voice; “Ah here you are; you want to kill me, then?”

He answered quickly: “No melodramatics, I beg of you, or I shall bolt at once.”

She had seized him round the neck, and with her lips close to his, said: “But what have I done to you? You are behaving towards me like a wretch. What have I done to you?”

He tried to repulse her. “You wound your hair round every one of my buttons the last time I saw you, and it almost brought about a rupture between my wife and myself.”

She was surprised for a moment, and then, shaking her head, said: “Oh! your wife would not mind. It was one of your mistresses who had made a scene over it.”

“I have no mistresses.”

“Nonsense. But why do you no longer ever come to see me? Why do you refuse to come to dinner, even once a week, with me? What I suffer is fearful. I love you to that degree that I no longer have a thought that is not for you; that I see you continually before my eyes; that I can no longer say a word without being afraid of uttering your name. You cannot understand that, I know. It seems to me that I am seized in some one’s clutches, tied up in a sack, I don’t know what. Your remembrance, always with me, clutches my throat, tears my chest, breaks my legs so as to no longer leave me strength to walk. And I remain like an animal sitting all day on a chair thinking of you.”

He looked at her with astonishment. She was no longer the big frolicsome tomboy he had known, but a bewildered despairing woman, capable of anything. A vague project, however, arose in his mind. He replied: “My dear, love is not eternal. We take and we leave one another. But when it drags on, as between us two, it becomes a terrible drag. I will have no more of it. That is the truth. However, if you can be reasonable, and receive and treat me as a friend, I will come as I used to. Do you feel capable of that?”

She placed her two bare arms on George’s coat, and murmured: “I am capable of anything in order to see you.”

“Then it is agreed on,” said he; “we are friends, and nothing more.”

She stammered: “It is agreed on;” and then, holding out her lips to him: “One more kiss; the last.”

He refused gently, saying: “No, we must keep to our agreement.”

She turned aside, wiping away a couple of tears, and then, drawing from her bosom a bundle of papers tied with pink silk ribbon, offered it to Du Roy, saying: “Here; it is your share of the profit in the Morocco affair. I was so pleased to have gained it for you. Here, take it.”

He wanted to refuse, observing: “No, I will not take that money.”

Then she grew indignant. “Ah! so you won’t take it now. It is yours, yours, only. If you do not take it, I will throw it into the gutter. You won’t act like that, George?”

He received the little bundle, and slipped it into his pocket.

“We must go in,” said he, “you will catch cold.”

She murmured: “So much the better, if I could die.”

She took one of his hands, kissed it passionately, with rage and despair, and fled towards the mansion. He returned, quietly reflecting. Then he reentered the conservatory with haughty forehead and smiling lip. His wife and Laroche-Mathieu were no longer there. The crowd was thinning. It was becoming evident that they would not stay for the dance. He perceived Susan arm-in-arm with her sister. They both came towards him to ask him to dance the first quadrille with the Count de Latour Yvelin.

He was astonished, and asked: “Who is he, too?”

Susan answered maliciously: “A new friend of my sister’s.” Rose blushed, and murmured: “You are very spiteful, Susan; he is no more my friend than yours.”

Susan smiled, saying: “Oh! I know all about it.”

Rose annoyed, turned her back on them and went away. Du Roy familiarly took the elbow of the young girl left standing beside him, and said in his caressing voice: “Listen, my dear, you believe me to be your friend?”

“Yes, Pretty-boy.”

“You have confidence in me?” “Quite.”

“You remember what I said to you just now?”

“What about?”

“About your marriage, or rather about the man you are going to marry.” “Yes.”

“Well, then, you will promise me one thing?”

“Yes; but what is it?”

“To consult me every time that your hand is asked for, and not to accept anyone without taking my advice.”

“Very well.”

“And to keep this a secret between us two. Not a word of it to your father or your mother.”

“Not a word.”

“It is a promise, then?” “It is a promise.”

Rival came up with a bustling air. “Mademoiselle, your papa wants you for the dance.”

She said: “Come along, Pretty-boy.”

But he refused, having made up his mind to leave at once, wishing to be alone in order to think. Too many new ideas had entered his mind, and he began to look for his wife. In a short time he saw her drinking chocolate at the buffet with two gentlemen unknown to him. She introduced her husband without mentioning their names to him. After a few moments, he said, “Shall we go?”

“When you like.”

She took his arm, and they walked back through the reception-rooms, in which the public were growing few. She said: “Where is Madame Walter, I should like to wish her goodbye?”

“It is better not to. She would try to keep us for the ball, and I have had enough of this.”

“That is so, you are quite right.”

All the way home they were silent. But as soon as they were in their room Madeleine said smilingly, before even taking off her veil. “I have a surprise for you.”

He growled ill-temperedly: “What is it?”

“Guess.” “I will make no such effort.”

“Well, the day after tomorrow is the first of January.”

“Yes.”

“The time for New Year’s gifts.”

“Yes.”

“Here’s one for you that Laroche-Mathieu gave me just now.”

She gave him a little black box resembling a jewel-case. He opened it indifferently, and saw the cross of the Legion of Honor. He grew somewhat pale, then smiled, and said: “I should have preferred ten millions. That did not cost him much.”

She had expected an outburst of joy, and was irritated at this coolness. “You are really incredible. Nothing satisfies you now,” said she.

He replied, tranquilly: “That man is only paying his debt, and he still owes me a great deal.”

She was astonished at his tone, and resumed: “It is though, a big thing at your age.”

He remarked: “All things are relative. I could have something bigger now.”

He had taken the case, and placing it on the mantelshelf, looked for some moments at the glittering star it contained. Then he closed it and went to bed, shrugging his shoulders.

The Journal Officiel of the first of January announced the nomination of Monsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, to the dignity of chevalier of the Legion of Honor, for special services. The name was written in two words, which gave George more pleasure than the derivation itself.

An hour after having read this piece of news he received a note from Madame Walter begging him to come and dine with her that evening with his wife, to celebrate his new honors. He hesitated for a few moments, and then throwing this note, written in ambiguous terms, into the fire, said to Madeleine:

“We are going to dinner at the Walter’s this evening.”

She was astonished. “Why, I thought you never wanted to set foot in the house again.”

He only remarked: “I have changed my mind.”

When they arrived Madame Walter was alone in the little Louis XVI. boudoir she had adopted for the reception of personal friends. Dressed in black, she had powdered her hair, which rendered her charming. She had the air at a distance of an old woman, and close at hand, of a young one, and when one looked at her well, of a pretty snare for the eyes.

“You are in mourning?” inquired Madeleine.

She replied, sadly: “Yes, and no. I have not lost any relative. But I have reached the age when one wears the mourning of one’s life. I wear it to-day to inaugurate it. In future I shall wear it in my heart.”

Du Roy thought: “Will this resolution hold good?”

The dinner was somewhat dull. Susan alone chattered incessantly. Rose seemed preoccupied. The journalist was warmly congratulated. During the evening they strolled chatting through the saloons and the conservatory. As Du Roy was walking in the rear with Madame Walter, she checked him by the arm.

“Listen,” said she, in a low voice, “I will never speak to you of anything again, never. But come and see me, George. It is impossible for me to live without you, impossible. It is indescribable torture. I feel you, I cherish you before my eyes, in my heart, all day and all night. It is as though you had caused me to drink a poison which was eating me away within. I cannot bear it, no, I cannot bear it. I am willing to be nothing but an old woman for you. I have made my hair white to show you so, but come here, only come here from time to time as a friend.”

She had taken his hand and was squeezing it, crushing it, burying her nails in his flesh.

He answered, quietly: “It is understood, then. It is useless to speak of all that again. You see I came to-day at once on receiving your letter.”

Walter, who had walked on in advance with his two daughters and Madeleine, was waiting for Du Roy beside the picture of “Jesus Walking on the Waters.”

“Fancy,” said he, laughing, “I found my wife yesterday on her knees before this picture, as if in a chapel. She was paying her devotions. How I did laugh.”

Madame Walter replied in a firm voice — a voice thrilling with secret exultation: “It is that Christ who will save my soul. He gives me strength and courage every time I look at Him.” And pausing in front of the Divinity standing amidst the waters, she murmured: “How handsome he is. How afraid of Him those men are, and yet how they love Him. Look at His head, His eyes — how simple yet how supernatural at the same time.”

Susan exclaimed, “But He resembles you, Pretty-boy. I am sure He resembles you. If you had a beard, or if He was clean shaven, you would be both alike. Oh, but it is striking!”

She insisted on his standing beside the picture, and they all, indeed, recognized that the two faces resembled one another. Everyone was astonished. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, smiling, declared that Jesus had a more manly air. Madame Walter stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the face of her lover beside the face of Christ, and had become as white as her hair.