“I’ll have it brought to your house.”
“No, I prefer having it this very night, to admire before I go to bed.”
Nothing could detain him, and once more Olivier Bertin found himself alone at home, that prison of his recollection and painful agitation.
When the next morning the servant entered, bringing tea and the newspapers, he found his master sitting up in bed so pale that he was alarmed. “Is monsieur ill?”
“No, it’s nothing but a headache.”
“Does monsieur wish me to fetch something?”
“No. How’s the weather?”
“Raining, monsieur.”
“Very well. That’s all.”
The man, placing the tea tray and the newspapers on the customary little table, withdrew.
Olivier opened Le Figaro. The leading article was entitled “Modern Painting”: a dithyrambic panegyric of four or five young painters who, gifted with real abilities as colorists, exaggerated them for effect in the hope of being seen as revolutionaries and renovators of genius.
Like all older painters, Bertin was vexed by these newcomers, irritated by their ostracizing, and perplexed by their doctrines. He began reading the article with the rising anger that readily excites a nervous heart, then glancing farther along, perceived his own name, and those few words at the end of a sentence struck him like a blow of the fist full to the breast: “Olivier Bertin’s old-fashioned art. . . .”
He had always been sensitive to both criticism and praise, but far down in his consciousness, notwithstanding his legitimate vanity, his pain under criticism was greater than his pleasure under praise, a consequence of the uneasiness concerning himself which his hesitations had always fed. Formerly, however, in the days of his triumphs, the waving of incense was so frequent that it made him forget the pinpricks. Today, with the ceaseless appearance of new artists and new admirers, congratulations were rarer and disparagement emphatic. He felt he was enrolled in the battalions of old painters of talent whom the younger do not treat as masters; and since he was as intelligent as he was perspicacious, he now suffered as much from the slightest insinuations as from direct attacks.
Never had a wound to his artistic pride proved so painful. He remained gasping, and read the article over in order to understand its slightest shades. A few colleagues and himself were swept aside with outrageous unconcern; and he got up murmuring those words that remained on his lips: “Olivier Bertin’s old-fashioned art. . . .”
Never had such sadness, such discouragement, such sense of the end of everything, of the end of both his physical and his intellectual being, thrown him into such distress. He sat in his armchair in front of the hearth until two o’clock, his legs stretched out toward the fire, having no strength to move, to do anything. Then the need of being consoled rose within him, the need of clasping devoted hands, of seeing faithful eyes, of being pitied, succored, caressed with friendly words.
He went, therefore, as usual, to the Guilleroys.
When he came in, Annette was alone in the drawing room, standing with her back to the door, hurriedly writing an address.
On the table, by her side, Le Figaro was spread out. Bertin saw the newspaper at the same time as he saw the girl, and he was bewildered, not daring to step forward. Oh, if she had read it! She turned, and in a preoccupied, busy way, her mind occupied with feminine cares, she said to him, “Ah! Good morning, monsieur le peintre. You’ll excuse me if I leave you. My dressmaker is upstairs waiting for me. You understand that a dressmaker at the time of a wedding is an important person. I’ll lend you Maman, who’s discussing and arguing with my artist. If I need her I’ll recall Maman for a few minutes.” And she turned away, running a few steps to show her haste.
This sudden departure without a word of affection, without a soft glance for him who loved her so much—so much—upset him altogether. His glance fell again on Le Figaro and he thought, “She’s read it! They’re making fun of me, they’re denying me. She no longer believes in me. I’m nothing to her anymore.”
He took a couple of steps toward the newspaper as one walks up to a man to slap him in the face. Then he thought, “Maybe she hasn’t read it after all. She’s so busy today. But they’ll undoubtedly speak of it in front of her tonight at dinner, and they’ll give her the notion of reading it.” With a spontaneous, almost unthinking motion he seized the journal, closed it, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket with a thief’s rapidity.
The countess entered. As soon as she saw Olivier’s pale and convulsed countenance she guessed that he was reaching the limits of his suffering. She was impelled toward him with an impulse of her soul—her poor, torn soul—and of her poor body that was itself so bruised. Throwing her hands on his shoulders and her glance into the depth of his eyes, she said, “Oh! How unhappy you are!”
This time he didn’t deny it, and his throat quivering spasmodically, he stammered out, “Yes . . . yes . . . yes!”
She realized he was on the verge of tears and led him into the darkest corner of the drawing room, toward two easy chairs hidden by a little screen of antique silk. They sat down behind this thin embroidered wall, veiled also by the gray light of a rainy day.
She resumed, ever pitying him, distressed by such grief, “My poor Olivier, how you suffer!”
He leaned his white head on his friend’s shoulder. “More than you could believe!”
She murmured, so sadly, “Oh! I knew it. I’ve felt it all. I saw it spring up and grow!”
He replied as though she had accused him, “Any, it’s not my fault.”
“I know that—I’m not reproaching you for anything. . . .”
And softly, turning a little, she placed her lips on one of Olivier’s eyes, where she found a bitter tear.
She was startled, as if she had drunk a drop of despair, and repeated several times, “Ah! My poor friend . . . poor friend . . . poor friend!” Then, after a moment of silence, she added, “It’s the fault of our hearts that have not grown old. I feel mine so full of life!”
He tried to speak and could not, for now sobs were choking him. She listened to the stifling in his breast as he leaned against her. Then, seized again by the selfish anguish of love that had been gnawing at her so long, she said in the heartrending tone in which one realizes a horrible misfortune, “My God, how you love her!”
Once more he confessed. “Ah! Yes, I love her!”
She thought a few moments, and resumed, “You never loved me so?”
He did not deny it, for it was one of those hours where one speaks the whole truth, and murmured, “No, I was too young then!”
She was surprised. “Too young? Why?”
“Because life was too sweet. It is only at our age that one loves desperately.”
She asked, “Does what you feel when near her resemble what you used to feel when near me?”
“Yes and no—and yet it’s almost the same thing. I’ve loved you as much as anyone may love a woman. I love her like yourself, since she is yourself, but that love has become something irresistible, destructive, stronger than death. I belong to it as a burning building belongs to the flames.”
She felt her compassion wither under the breath of jealousy, and assuming a consoling tone. “My poor friend! In a few days she will be married and will go away. Seeing her no more, you will surely get over it.”
He shook his head. “Oh! I am quite lost, lost!”
“Why no, no! You won’t see her for three months. That will be enough. Three months were indeed sufficient for you to love her more than you love me, whom you knew for more than twelve years.”
Then he implored her in his infinite distress, “You will not desert me, Any?”
“What can I do, my friend?”
“Do not leave me alone.”
“I shall come and see you as much as you like.”
“No. Keep me here, as much as you can.”
“You would be near her.”
“And near you.”
; “You must not see her again before her marriage.”
“Oh, Any!”
“Or, at least, very seldom.”
“May I stay here this evening?”
“No, not in this condition. You must amuse yourself, go to the Cercle, go to the theater, go anywhere, but do not remain here.”
“I beg of you.”
“No, Olivier, it is impossible. And then I have some people at dinner whose presence would disturb you again.”
“The duchess? And . . . him—”
“Yes.”
“But I spent last evening with them.”
“You speak of it! You are in a fine condition today.”
“I promise to be calm.”
“No, it is impossible.”
“Then I am going.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I need to walk.”
“That’s right, walk a lot, walk till night, kill yourself with fatigue and then go to bed.”
He had stood up. “Goodbye, Any.”
“Goodbye, dear friend. I shall come and see you tomorrow morning. Would you like me to be very imprudent, as formerly? Make believe I am lunching here at noon, and go and lunch with you at a quarter past one?”
“Yes, I would. You are kind.”
“It is because I love you.”
“So do I love you.”
“Oh! Speak no more of that.”
“Goodbye, Any.
“Goodbye, dear friend. Till tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.”
He was kissing her hands over and over again, then he kissed her temple, then the corner of the lips. His eyes were now dry, his air resolute. When he was about to go out he seized her, wound his arms entirely around her, and pressing his lips to her forehead, he seemed to drink, to inhale from her all the love she had for him. Then he went away very quickly, without turning around.
When she was alone she let herself fall upon a seat, sobbing. She would have remained there till night if Annette had not unexpectedly come for her.
The countess, to gain time to dry her red eyes, answered, “I have a few words to write, my child. Go up again and I will follow you in a few seconds.”
Till evening she had to busy herself about the engrossing question of the trousseau.
The duchess and her nephew were dining at the Guilleroys, a family affair. They had just taken their seats at the table and were still speaking when the butler entered bearing three enormous bouquets.
The duchess was astonished. “Heavens, what is that?”
Annette exclaimed, “Oh! How beautiful they are! Who can possibly have sent them?”
Her mother answered, “Olivier Bertin, of course.”
Since his departure she had been thinking of him. He had appeared so gloomy to her, so tragic, she saw so clearly his hopeless misfortune, she felt so cruelly the counterstroke of that grief, she loved him so much, so tenderly, so completely, that her heart was crushed under mournful presentiments.
In the three bouquets were found, indeed, three cards from the painter. He had written upon each, with pencil, the name of the countess, the duchess, and Annette.
The duchess asked, “Is your friend Bertin ill? I thought he looked quite poorly yesterday.”
And Madame de Guilleroy replied, “Yes, he worries me a little, although he does not complain.”
Her husband added, “Oh! He’s doing as we do; he’s growing old. In fact, he’s growing old quite rapidly just now. I believe, however, that bachelors usually break down all at once. They succumb more suddenly than others. He has changed a lot, indeed.”
The countess sighed. “Oh yes!”
The Marquis de Farandal suddenly stopped whispering to Annette to say, “This morning’s Figaro contained an article very disagreeable for him.”
Any attack, criticism, or allusion unfavorable to her friend’s talent threw the countess into a rage. “Oh!” said she. “Men of Bertin’s worth do not need to mind such rudeness.”
Guilleroy was surprised. “What! A disagreeable article about Olivier? But I haven’t seen it. On what page?”
The marquis said, “First page at the top, with the title ‘Modern Painting.’ ”
And the deputy ceased to be surprised. “Yes, yes. I didn’t read it because it was about painting.”
Everyone smiled, knowing that aside from politics and agriculture, Monsieur de Guilleroy was not interested in much of anything.
Then the conversation drifted to other subjects till the company withdrew to the drawing room for coffee. The countess was not listening, hardly answered, worried by the thought of what Olivier might be doing. Where was he? Where had he dined? Where was he dragging his incurable heart at this moment? She felt a burning regret to have let him go, not to have detained him; she imagined him roaming the streets, so sad, wandering, lonely, fleeing under his sorrowful burden.
Till the time when the duchess and her nephew took their leave she hardly spoke, lashed by vague and superstitious fears; then she went to bed and remained there, her eyes open in the dark, thinking of him!
A very long time had elapsed when she thought she heard the bell ring. She was startled and sat up and listened. For the second time the sharp tinkling sound was heard in the night. She bounded out of bed, and with her strength pressed the electric button that would awaken her maid. Then, candle in hand, she ran to the hall.
Through the door she asked, “Who’s there?”
An unknown voice answered, “It’s a letter.”
“A letter, from whom?”
“From a physician.”
“What physician?”
“I do not know. It concerns an accident.”
Hesitating no longer she opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a cabdriver wearing an oilskin cap. He held a paper in his hand and presented it. She read: “Very urgent—Monsieur le Comte de Guilleroy.”
The handwriting was unknown.
“Come in, my friend,” she said. “Sit down and wait for me.”
When before her husband’s door her heart began to beat so loudly that she could not call him, she rapped on the wood with the metal part of her candlestick. The count was asleep and did not hear her.
Then impatient, excited, she kicked the door and heard a sleepy voice asking, “Who’s there? What time is it?”
She answered, “It’s me. There’s an urgent letter for you, brought by a coachman. It’s about an accident.”
Her husband stammered from behind the bed curtains, “Wait . . . I’ll get up. I’m coming.”
And in a moment he appeared in his dressing gown. At the same time two servants, awakened by the ringing of the bells, came hurrying upstairs. They looked bewildered, flurried, having discovered a stranger sitting on a chair in the dining room.
The count had taken the letter and turned it over in his fingers, murmuring, “What’s this for? I don’t understand.”
Feverishly the countess said, “Why, read it!”
He tore open the envelope, unfolded the paper, uttered an exclamation of astonishment, then looked at his wife in a bewildered manner.
“Heavens!” said she. “What is it?”
He was stammering, hardly able to speak, so profoundly was he moved. “Ah! A great misfortune! A great misfortune! Bertin has fallen under a carriage.”
She screamed. “Dead!”
“No, no,” he said. “Read for yourself.”
She snatched from his hands the letter he was holding out, and read:
Sir:
A great misfortune has just occurred. Your friend, the eminent artist Monsieur Olivier Bertin, has been thrown down by an omnibus, the wheels of which passed over his body. I cannot yet speak positively about the probable consequences of this accident, which may not be serious while it may also have an immediate and fatal issue. Monsieur Bertin begs you earnestly and beseeches Madame the Countess de Guilleroy to come to him at once. I hope, sir, that the countess and yourself will be disposed to grant the desire
of our mutual friend, whose life may pass away before daylight.
Dr. de Rivil
The countess was gazing at her husband with staring eyes, set, frightened. Then she experienced, like an electric shock, an awakening of that courage women sometimes have and which makes them in trying hours the most courageous of beings.
Turning to her maid, she said, “Quick, I want to dress.”
The servant asked, “What will madame put on?”
“No matter what, anything you like.”
“James,” she then said, “be ready in five minutes.”
Returning toward her apartment, her soul in dismay, she noticed the coachman who was still waiting, and said to him, “You have your carriage?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Very well, we shall take it.”
Then she ran to her room. Madly, with hasty motions, she threw upon herself, hooked, clasped, tied, fastened her clothing haphazardly; then, before her glass, she turned up and twisted her hair carelessly, looking unconsciously, this time, at her pale face and haggard eyes in the mirror.
When her cloak was on her shoulders she rushed toward her husband’s apartment; he was not yet ready. She led him along. “Come,” said she, “remember that he may die.”
The bewildered count followed her, stumbling along, feeling the dark stairway with his feet, trying to distinguish the steps in order not to fall.
The drive was short and silent. The countess was trembling so that her teeth chattered, and through the window she saw the gas jets, veiled by the rain, flying past. The sidewalks were shining, the boulevards were deserted, the night was inauspicious. They found, on arriving, that the painter’s door had been left open and the concierge’s lodge lit and empty.
At the head of the stairs the physician, Dr. de Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very carefully dressed, very polite, advanced to meet them. He bowed low to the countess and then held out his hand to the count.
She asked him, panting as if the ascent of the stairs had put her completely out of breath, “Well, doctor?”
“Well, madame, I hope it will be less serious than I at first anticipated.”
She exclaimed, “He will not die?”