She would exist for other men, but not for him. Was that to beborne? Ah! the deliciousness of plunging a dagger in that warm,living bosom! Ah! the bliss, the voluptuousness of holding herpinned beneath one knee and demanding between two stabs:
"Am I ridiculous now?"He was still muttering suchlike maledictions when he felt a handlaid on his shoulder. Wheeling round, he saw a quaint figure--ahuge nose like a pothook, high, massive shoulders, enormous,well-shaped hands, a general impression of uncouthness combinedwith vigour and geniality. He thought for a moment where thisstrange monster could have come from; then he shouted: "Garneret!"Instantly his memory flew back to the court-yard and class-roomsof the school in the _Rue d'Assas_, and he saw a heavily builtlad, for ever under punishment, standing out face to the wallduring playtime, getting and giving mighty fisticuffs, a terriblefellow for plain speaking and hard hitting, industrious, yet athorn in the side of masters, always in ill-luck, yet ever andanon electrifying the class with some stroke of genius.
He was glad enough to see his old school-fellow again, who struckhim as looking almost old with his puckered lids and heavy features.
They set off arm in arm along the deserted _Quai_, and to theaccompaniment of the faint lapping of the water against the retainingwalls, told each other the history of their past--which was succinctenough, their present ideas, and their hopes for the future--whichwere boundless.
The same ill-luck still pursued Garneret; from morn to eve hewas engaged on prodigiously laborious hack-work for a map-maker,who paid him the wages of one of his office boys; but his bighead was crammed with projects. He was working at philosophyand getting up before the sun to make experiments on thesusceptibility to light of the invertebrates; by way of studyingEnglish and politics at the same time, he was translating Mr.
Disraeli's speeches; then every Sunday he accompanied MonsieurHébert's pupils on their geological excursions in the environs ofParis, while at night he gave lectures to working men on Italianpainting and political economy. There was never a week passedbut he was bowled over for twenty-four or forty-eight hours withan agonizing sick-headache. He spent long hours too with hisfiancée, a girl with no dowry and no looks, but of a loving,sensitive temper, whom he adored and fully intended to marry themoment he had five hundred francs to call his own.
Servien could make nothing of the other's temperament, one thatlooks upon the world as an immense factory where the good workmanlabours, coat off and sleeves rolled up, the sweat pouring from hisbrow and a song on his lips. He found it harder still to conceivea love with which the glamour of the stage or the splendours ofluxurious living had nothing to do. Yet he felt there was somethingstrong and sensible and true about it all, and craving sympathyhe made Garneret the confidant of his passion, telling the talein accents of despair and bitterness, though secretly proud tobe the tortured victim of such fine emotions.
But Garneret expressed no admiration.
"My dear fellow," said he, "you have got all these romantic notionsout of trashy novels. How can you love the woman when you don'tknow her?"How, indeed? Jean Servien did not know; but his nights and days,the throbbings of his heart, the thoughts that possessed hismind to the exclusion of all else, everything convinced him thatit was so. He defended himself, talking of mystic influences,natural affinities, emanations, a divine unity of essence.
Garneret only buried his face between his hands. It was abovehis comprehension.
"But come," he said, "the woman is no differently constitutedfrom other women!"Obvious as it was, this consideration filled Jean Servien withamazement. It shocked him so much that, rather than admit itstruth, he racked his brains in desperation to find argumentsto controvert the blasphemy.
Garneret gave his views on women. He had a judicial mind, hadGarneret, and could account for everything in the relations ofthe sexes; _but_ he could not tell Jean why one face glimpsedamong a thousand gives joy and grief more than life itself seemedable to contain. Still, he tried to explain the problem, for hewas of an eminently ratiocinative temper.
"The thing is quite simple," he declared. "There are a dozenviolins for sale at a dealer's. I pass that way, common scraperof catgut that I am, I tune them and try them, and play overon each of them in turn, with false notes galore, some catchytune--_Au clair de la lune_ or _J'ai du bon tabac dans matabatière_--stuff fit to kill the old cow. Then Paganinicomes along; with one sweep of the bow he explores the deepestdepths of the vibrating instruments. The first is flat, the secondsharp, the third almost dumb, the fourth is hoarse, five othershave neither power nor truth of tone; but lo! the twelfth givesforth under the master's hand a mighty music of sweet, deep-voicedharmonies. It is a Stradivarius; Paganini knows it, takes it homewith him, guards it as the apple of his eye; from an instrumentthat for me would never have been more than a resonant wooden boxhe draws chords that make men weep, and love, and fall into avery ecstasy; he directs in his will that they bury this violinwith him in his coffin. Well, Paganini is the lover, the instrumentwith its strings and tuning-pegs is the woman. The instrumentmust be beautifully made and come from the workshop of a rightskilful maker; more than that, it must fall into the hands ofan accomplished player. But, my poor lad, granting your actressis a divine instrument of amorous music, I don't believe youcapable of drawing from it one single note of passion's fugue....
Just consider. I don't spend my nights supping with ladies ofthe theatre; but we all know what an actress is. It is an animalgenerally agreeable to see and hear, always badly brought up,spoilt first by poverty and afterwards by luxury. Very busy intothe bargain, which makes her as unromantic as anybody can wellbe. Something like a _concierge_ turned princess, and combiningthe petty spite of the porter's lodge with the caprices of theboudoir and the fagged nerves of the student.
"You can hardly expect to dazzle T---- with the munificence andtastefulness of your presents. Your father gives you a hundredsous a week to spend; a great deal for a bookbinder, but verylittle for a woman whose gowns cost from five hundred to threethousand francs apiece. And, as you are neither a Manager tosign agreements, nor a Dramatic Author to apportion r?les, nora Journalist to write notices, nor a young man from the draper'sto take advantage of a moment's caprice as opportunity offerswhen delivering a new frock, I don't see in the least how youare to make her favour you, and I think your tragedy queen didquite right to slam her gate in your face.""Ah, well!" sighed Jean Servien, "I told you just now I lovedher. It is not true. I hate her! I hate her for all the tormentsshe has made me suffer, I hate her because she is adorable andmen love her. And I hate all women, because they all love someone,and that someone is not I!"Garneret burst out laughing.
"Candidly," he grinned, "they are not so far wrong. Your lovehas no spark of anything affectionate, kindly, useful in it.
Since the day you fell in love with Mademoiselle T----, haveyou once thought of sparing her pain? Have you once dreamed ofmaking a sacrifice for her sake? Has any touch of human kindnessever entered into your passion? Can it show one mark of manlinessor goodness? Not it. Well, being the poor devils we are, withour own way to push in life and nothing to help us on, we mustbe brave and good. It is half-past one, and I have to get upat five. Good night. Cultivate a quiet mind, and come and see