Part 4

“Your two protégés shall resume the places which they fill so well. I insist, however, on a temporary exclusion as a punishment; for it is a punishment to Le Hourteulx and Beaufrelant. After that, if they are very good....”

“And you will be pleasant to them?”

“To them and to the others, at least as pleasant as I can.”

“Is it so very difficult?”

“Extremely! I can’t help it: I do not suffer fools gladly; they make me irritable and unjust. I have not your charity.”

“It only needs a little indulgence; think of your mother.”

“Oh, my mother, my mother!”

There was something sorrowful and harsh about this exclamation that struck Gilberte. She kept silence from a sense of delicacy. But Guillaume was passing through one of those periods when it is a relief to the over-burdened soul to confess its troubles:

“Have my mother and I ever understood each other? We have not an idea in common. Her wants are not mine, nor are mine hers. She offends all my tastes as I offend all hers. If I display so much bitterness against the merry-andrews who perform in her _salon_, it is because of her. I hate to see her countenancing their grimaces and posturings.”

She said nothing. He asked:

“You blame me for it, don’t you? Yes, yes, I feel it.... And how strange: in your presence, I too think that I am wrong and, while I was saying those things, I blushed as if I had uttered ugly thoughts!”

She laughed:

“They were not very pretty ones.”

“Never mind, I prefer you to know them. I do not wish to trick you into liking me. If I ever win your esteem, I want to do so without hypocrisy, without trying to hide my faults from you.”

No one had ever spoken to Gilberte with such seriousness and deference. She felt quite touched and, with a spontaneous movement, held out her hand to Guillaume:

“We shall be friends,” she said. “I am sure that we shall be friends.”

He was on the point of raising her small, gloved hand to his lips, but he restrained himself. And she went on:

“So this is the unsociable Guillaume de la Vaudraye! Will you believe that you quite frightened me with your surly ways? You did indeed!”

After this interview, Gilberte did two or three errands and returned to the Logis. It was drawing towards evening. She made for the summer-house and saw her dream-companion in the distance. She said to him, as though he could hear her and as though she felt bound to tell him the good news without delay:

“You know, I have a new friend!”

And Gilberte saw nothing extraordinary in this sudden friendship, based upon the exchange of a few sentences. Was she not one of those unsophisticated beings who always obey the unreflecting impulse of their hearts, who look you straight in the eyes and who do not think it out of place to tell people how they feel towards them?

And so, the next evening, she went to Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, quite happy at the thought of seeing her new friend again. A disappointment awaited her: Guillaume did not appear.

She went back next day. Guillaume came down to the drawing-room, bowed to her and seemed to take no further notice of her presence.

Thereupon, on the third day, while the others were listening to Mlle. du Bocage and M. Lartiste the elder in the duet from _Mireille_, Gilberte, finding that Guillaume was alone in the next room, went out to him. She at once saw that he tried to avoid her. Realizing this to be impossible, he gave a gesture of vexation and crossed his arms in an indifferent attitude.

“What about your promise?” she asked, playfully, but a little sadly. “You promised to make yourself pleasant to your enemies in the _salon_; and this is the best you can do! Am I not entitled to complain? Did we not shake hands as friends?”

He uncrossed his arms and his expression changed. Once again she felt the relaxation of a tense will, the immediate suppression of all resistance in this silent man whose square chin and inflexible eyes bore witness to his obstinacy.

“Good!” she said. “Capital! But you still look a little fierce.... That’s better!... And now, come along.”

He stopped her:

“Do not ask too much of me. You are so far above ordinary life, so inaccessible, that you can mix with those people and remain serene and untouched. I could only do so at the risk of deteriorating. One must make allowance for different temperaments. I shall be polite, that’s all.”

Then she stayed and they talked.

Often, after that, Gilberte had to go to him and open, as she said, the door of his prison-house, unbind his hands and deliver his captive soul. But she did it so easily that it amused them both.

“You have but to lift your little finger,” Guillaume would say, “to bring down the prison-walls.”

Under this uneven and rugged husk, Gilberte discovered the most exquisite and delicate of natures, a poet’s nature that was galled by all its surroundings, a child’s nature that his mother had kept in to the verge of pain. And it was often from the point of view of a child that Gilberte was glad to be with him. They would laugh at the least thing, with that childish laughter, which is so good just because it has no excuse except our need of laughter. They longed to run and skip and play.

“Oh dear, how young I am!” Guillaume would exclaim.

“I shall be two next year,” Gilberte declared.

They could be serious also. She asked him about his writing, wanted to read what he had printed. He refused, on the pretext that he was not satisfied. Nevertheless, he showed her a letter from the editor of an important review, a letter teeming with compliments.

He lent her his favorite books and she devoured them.

Mme. de la Vaudraye was in ecstasies. She was now certain that her dream would be realized. She was too clever to betray her delight and hid it under demonstrations of gratitude:

“How sweet of you, my dear Gilberte, to tame that wild savage! You will make quite a courtier of him.”

And she added, with a sigh:

“Oh, if you could only turn him into a more attentive son and make him more grateful to his mother for all the sacrifices she has made for him!”

The discord between Mme. de la Vaudraye and Guillaume was Gilberte’s greatest grief. Her love of harmony prompted her to make continual endeavours at reconciliation which were bound to fail as much because of the mother’s arid artificiality as of the son’s stubbornness and reserve.

She had to give up the attempt.

But she suffered another pain, arising from her extreme sensitiveness: at the close of day, she could no longer go to the ruined summer-house without a certain sense of discomfort. Her unknown friend was faithful to the daily tryst which they had made with their dreams; and, though Gilberte herself never failed to keep it, she felt as though she had done him some wrong. With her eyes fixed on the distant mountains melting into the deep blue of the heavens, she let herself drift into vague reveries, far, very far away from the homely valley where her first friend patiently waited for her thoughts to return to him. It was at such times, when the darkness overtook her amidst this delightful torpor, that she seemed to be coming back from a long journey. She was almost angry with herself. But why? She could not have said.

One day, at five o’clock, as she was going down to her garden, she received a note from Mme. de la Vaudraye.

“MY DEAR GILBERTE,

“Guillaume and I are going for a stroll in the Forest of Andaine. It is such a fine evening: do come with us.”

Should she go? To do so meant a break in sweet custom that had lent such charm to the most oppressive hours of her life, meant throwing over the constant friendship of the bad days.

She wavered and, wavering, went up to her room, put on her things, went out and knocked at the La Vaudrayes’ door.

Whatever regrets may have lingered in her conscientious mind were very soon dispelled by the pleasure which the walk gave her from the start. Spring was trying her hand, at the tips of the branches, with tiny pale-green leaves and, along the roadsides and ditches, with those charming early flowers which are so dear to us: anemones, periwinkles, primroses, wild hyacinths, lilies of the valley.... Arched lanes sped into the depths of the woods. Sweet scents, songs and colours played and mingled in all the gladness of new-born nature.

They walked without speaking. Sometimes, Guillaume and Gilberte would point out to each other, with a glance, a corner of the landscape, or the outline of a tree, or the glint of a ray of sunshine, both wishing the other to share their delight and admiration.

They sat down on the edge of a pool whose waters slumbered amidst a circle of old pines that joined their arms around them as though to dance a moveless measure. It was one of those abodes of silence that open only in the hearts of old forests. Those who are brought there by chance and who grasp the fitness of things are themselves silent.

Mme. de la Vaudraye exclaimed:

“On the first fine Sunday, we must make up a party and come here. It is a lovely spot for a picnic. What do you say?”

They did not reply. She continued:

“Every one will bring his own provisions. Of course, Mme. Charmeron will make her famous spiced beef and Mlle. du Bocage her prune-tart. And, at dessert, everybody must come out with a set of verses!”

Guillaume hurled a pebble violently into the mirror of the water.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Mme. de la Vaudraye.

He sprang up and confronted her, angrily, impatiently, with tense wrists. But, as he was about to speak, he met Gilberte’s eyes, sad and full of entreaty. He seemed quite dazed, his lips trembled and suddenly he took Mme. de la Vaudraye in his arms and began to kiss her with all his might, with all his fervent soul. And he blurted out:

“It’s quite right ... you’re my mother ... you’re my mother ... you’re entitled to say what you please.... What you say is right.... It’s my business to understand.... Oh, mother, if you only knew ...!”

VII

GILBERTE’S TWO FRIENDS

Gilberte did not go to the summer-house again. A feeling of delicacy kept her away. Nevertheless, each day, at the accustomed hour, something like a light cloud passed over her mind; and she was not far from accusing herself of ingratitude.

What was but a vague remorse towards a friend whom she had never known took a more definite shape, in another sense, with regard to him whom she now saw almost daily. She would so much have liked to offer him a brand-new friendship and to feel the excitement of it for the first time! True, there was no struggle between two sentiments, since one was so far-off and vague, the other so vivid and distinct. And yet....

There are childish conflicts which would not even ripple the most scrupulous soul, but which form the mighty storms of peaceful and innocent consciences such as Gilberte’s.

But all this took place deep down within herself, unconsciously, so to speak, and could not diminish her magical delight in living. For magic it was, something that approached a miracle, when she compared the gloom of the past with the dazzling life of the present. Whence did she derive the joy with which she thrilled at her awakening; the enthusiasm that swept her at the sight of a flower, of a landscape, of any spectacle a hundred times witnessed and never fully seen; that exaltation of thought, those sudden blushes, that inexplicable torpor of her whole being and, at the same time, that unchangeable serenity which doubled the uncertainty of her life with strength, faith, patience and certainty?

There was no allusion to the incident in the Forest of Andaine. But, from that time onward, Mme. de la Vaudraye looked upon her son in a different fashion; and, in the same way, in her conduct towards Gilberte, there was something that had hitherto been lacking: a touch of respect.

Guillaume said to Gilberte:

“You are a regular fairy, no, more than a fairy, for you exercise your power without knowing or trying. To do good, to disarm hatred, to heal wounds, to make others want to be indulgent and kind, you have no need even to wish. You have only to be as you are; and everything around you grows nobler and better.”

She listened and smiled. From him she accepted praise without blushing. He could have praised her beauty and enumerated all her charms without causing her to lower her eyes. He could not wound her maidenly modesty.

One morning, following upon a day when Gilberte had not been to Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, Adèle came back from the town all out of breath:

“Oh, ma’am, here’s a nice to do! Yesterday, at Mme. de la Vaudraye’s evening, young M. Simare....”

“I thought he was away,” said Gilberte, interrupting her.

“He is back; and, last evening, he and M. Guillaume, during the duet from _Mireille_, had some words in a corner ... they were heard quarrelling.... It seems that the elder M. Simare told a story that wasn’t quite proper and M. Guillaume went for the son about it.”

“Oh, it’s all my fault!” said Gilberte to herself, feeling certain that Guillaume had taken the first opportunity to bring about a rupture.

And she asked:

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Mme. Duval saw two officers ringing at the Simares’ house just now and she says that M. Guillaume has ordered the landau from the hotel for presently ... but that has nothing to do with it.”

Though she did not foresee the possible consequences of an altercation between the two young men, Gilberte was convinced that no interference on her part would settle things, as it had done with M. le Hourteulx and M. Beaufrelant. Guillaume would not consent to have M. Simare admitted to the house again. The father would side with his son. Mme. de la Vaudraye would be furious at losing two of her regular visitors. In short, it meant a whole series of bothers and quarrels, of which Gilberte would have been the real cause.

She was very low-spirited at lunch. A presentiment of danger depressed her, but she could not have said of what sort it was nor whom it threatened.

Her suffering must have been genuine to induce her to rise suddenly, go out and turn her steps towards the La Vaudrayes’ house. But what she was doing must also have seemed to her very useless and very serious to make her stop suddenly, with frightened hesitation. How was she to act? Whom was she to influence? What events was she to avert?

The church was near and she went in. But she was unable to pray; and her anxiety became all the more painful inasmuch as she did not know its reason. Then, rather than return to the Logis, where inactivity would have been intolerable, she went along the high-road to the bottom of the valley, followed the Varenne for a short distance and then climbed up towards the Haute-Chapelle.

At three o’clock, feeling a little tired, she made for the shade on the skirt of a little wood and sat down. She had hardly left the road when the hotel landau passed and turned down the forest-lane. Was Guillaume in it?

A sound of harness-bells, the crack of a whip told her that another carriage was on its way. A break came dashing along, carrying Simare and a couple of officers, and disappeared down the same lane.

For a second, Gilberte stood breathless at a horrible thought. She would not, no, she would not have it! Then, suddenly, she began to run at full speed. A cross-roads brought her to a stop forthwith. Which of the three roads should she take?

She chose the one on the right, but, after running fifty yards, went back to the middle one and then to the one on the left. After that, she roamed at random, beating the copses, hunting on the grass for the marks of carriage-wheels, flinging herself among the ferns, listening and looking with all her nerves on edge....

A shot ... and a second, at almost the same moment ... close by....

She gave a scream and fell to the ground.

A few minutes passed. As though in a dream, she saw, through the branches, the two carriages driving by. Then voices sounded:

“I assure you, doctor, I am not mistaken. It was a woman screaming.”

She had not the strength to raise her eyelids or speak; but she felt that two men were coming towards her. One of them bent over her and took her hand:

“It’s nothing. She has only fainted.”

“In that case, doctor, don’t wait,” said the other voice. “I will see her home.”

The mist in which she was struggling lifted slowly. She perceived the smell of the earth on which she lay. She made an effort to throw off the feeling of sleep that numbed her and she opened her eyes. Guillaume was standing before her.

“You, you?” she whispered. “Oh, how glad I am! And M. Simare?”

“He’s not hurt either.”

“That’s a good thing.”

There was a pause; and then she asked:

“Why did you do it? It was not right.”

“I lost my head, when he spoke to me last night, and I yielded to an irresistible impulse of hatred. I did not know what I was doing.”

“But your mother?”

“I have managed to hide the truth from her so far. One of my seconds said that he would tell her.”

“Go to her, run as fast as you can.... She will be so anxious until she sees you.... Go at once....”

“No.”

He was so firm that she despaired of persuading him. And yet she wanted him to go. Then she looked at him and smiled:

“To please me,” she said.

“Very well,” he said, “but you must come too.”

She at once summoned her pluck and rose to her feet; and, when she expressed her wish to get back without delay he led her through the short cuts where there was hardly room to walk side by side. But their pace slackened at once; and they stopped three times to rest on the road. Gilberte no longer displayed any hurry. What did they say? Nothing but insignificant words, which they did not remember afterwards. Nevertheless, when uttering them, they felt that they had never been interested in weightier matters. What importance could suddenly have attached, in the course of a walk, to the sight of two initials interlaced on the bark of a tree, or to the flight of a bird, or to a stone rolling down a slope! Whereas, to them, these were so many astounding incidents that deserved a stop and the interchange of a few ecstatic words.

A contest between some insect and a squad of five ants that were trying to drag it away kept them for quite a long time. Who would be the victor? Gilberte took pity on the insect and saved it when it was on the point of falling in the fray. Guillaume exclaimed, in accents of profound conviction:

“You are the most generous-hearted creature I have ever met.”

Guillaume compared the moss at the foot of an oak to velvet; and Gilberte became aware that all the poetry in the world was summed up in her companion.

Having exhausted their original reflexions, their brilliant remarks and their mutual admiration, they were silent until they emerged from the wood. A lane of apple-trees led them past furze and rocks. At the foot of the slope ran the Varenne. After they had taken a turn, Gilberte cried:

“Look, that might be my garden, on the other side.... Why, so it is!... There’s the Logis.... Where are we?”

She walked on. They came to a cluster of small fir-trees. When they had passed them, they were just opposite the ruined summer-house, with only the width of the valley in between.

Gilberte gave a start. That spur of the hill, that circle of red rocks surrounding it, that cluster of firs: was this not the spot where the unknown stranger, for months ...?

A flood of contradictory feelings welled up within her: feelings of gratitude towards the invisible friend, feelings of confusion towards the actual friend, memories of the dear past and visions of the present. How she wished that she had not come to this place with Guillaume! She felt inclined to exclaim:

“Go away! Go away!”

But, on turning her head, she was stupefied at the sight of his pallor and the change in his face:

“What’s the matter? Why don’t you say something? Speak to me!”

She broke off. A sudden thought struck her, an improbable, but madly delightful idea. She fixed her eyes on his, looked down into his very soul; and the truth appeared to her so clearly that, leaning against the side of the rock, she gasped:

“It was you all the time!... It was you!...”

Not for a moment did the shadow of a fear that she was mistaken, cross her. Holding her head between her hands and closing her eyes, she took refuge in her happiness as in an inaccessible dwelling from which not even he could have driven her.

He was speaking now, kneeling before her; and it seemed to Gilberte as though two voices were joined in that one voice of entreaty, as though the unknown friend were joining his prayer to Guillaume’s, blending his image with Guillaume’s, mingling with him and beseeching her with the same hands, adoring her with the same heart:

“Gilberte, it was the day on which you arrived at Domfront, You were in the public gardens, near the ruins, and I saw you raise your mourning-veil. Since that day, my life has been wrapped up in yours. When you went over the Logis with my mother, I was there, hiding behind a curtain. You stopped close by me, I was able to take you in my eyes, to lock you in my breast like a treasure; I heard your voice, I breathed your fragrance and I lived on that memory for weeks, seeking you, calling you, hovering round the Logis, hoping for a chance meeting. Oh, the delight of it when I saw you from here, one afternoon, and when you came back next day and every day, every day! I was not sure, but it appeared to me that you saw me ... and then ... that it was just a little because of me that you came back.”

“I saw you, yes, I saw you,” said Gilberte, without removing her clasped hands from her face.

He asked:

“Are you crying?”

“I am so happy!”

“Happy?”

“Yes, happy because it was you.”

“Gilberte,” he begged, “I would give worlds to see your tears.”

She showed her dear face all wet with tears, all smiling with tears. He whispered:

“I love you.”

She seemed surprised and repeated, gravely:

“You love me ... you love me....”

He watched her anxiously. But the bright features lit up anew and she said to Guillaume, gaily and blithely, as though she had made the most wonderful and unexpected of discoveries: