THE MAN AND THE PRETTY BEAST
"E parvemi mirabil vanitate
Fermar in cose il cor, ch' el tempo preme,
Che mentre più le stringe, son passate."
Petrarque, Triumph of Time.
That evening, Hubert had had the courage to return to his home, to undress, to go to bed, to fall asleep, without admitting the intrusion, in his consciousness, of any thought. He was like a beaten dog filled with an irrational shame, and buried under the heavy covers, his eyes shut, he had attained sleep by a system of long and slow inhalings which, regulating the heart movement, calmed, then enfeebled the brain, like chloral.
In the morning, his adventure brought a smile to his face, and he even composed, in a tone of sad raillery, a series of little acrobatic verses, entitled: The Thread. Of fifteen stanzas, two amused him. He wrote them:
De quoi s'agit-il?
De presque rien. Ah!
Le plaisir tient a
Un fil.
C est un fil de tulle,
C'est un fil de soie:
S'en va, comme bulle,
La joie.
Then he attempted, while stirring the fire, which a moist wind was troubling, to recite to himself the sonnet of his friend, Calixte:
Les Désirs, s' envolant sur le dos des Chimères,
Jouent avec la lumière et le crin des crinères....
But his stubborn memory gave him only these two lines. He recalled that Delphin was going to put it to music, was even going to do some instrumentation on the theme as a gloss. But Delphin, for want of a fitting medium between the brass instruments and the strings, did not yet compose: he was waiting.
"In fine," thought Hubert, "I must admit that I have missed being happy. To surprise a woman, hypnotize her with kisses, chloroform her with caresses, then be united with her through the falling of cushions, with, before one's eyes, the future boredom of partial repetitions of a similar proceeding—this is called being happy!"
Heliot had related to him that once, in a similar situation, the maid had discreetly entered at the most interesting passage, asking, through the open door: "Does Madace wish her slippers?"
"Consequently, I have missed being happy once more, for such felicities are not unknown to me: it is only the color of garters that differs. Well, till tomorrow or the day after tomorrow: Sixtine is in my power. It is certainly pleasant, very pleasant.
"We will enjoy charming evenings. She is intelligent and I shall read her my manuscripts: here and there, I need a woman's opinion. It is astonishing that heretofore this has not troubled me more. When shall I see her again. To-day? No. To-morrow? No. But shall I write to her? Twice daily. She will answer in little brief and impersonal phrases, with shafts of raillery. I shall let her rail at me: I can do it, for I am sure of my case. Well, Tuesday? We shall see. Happiness leaves me cold and its regular perspectives sadden me. Thus, I, too, have pursued the pretty beast and I am satisfied. With what? With having put my foot on its shadow."
MAN AND THE PRETTY BEAST
The road, under the sun, lies, white and dusty, lies under the sun.
The pretty beast, what is it like? It runs too swiftly, one sees it run, one does not see it, the pretty beast.
The man is naked, panting and with cruel eyes, like a hunter, naked, however, and disarmed.
"Pretty beast, I would trap thee, ah I pretty beast, I have thee, pretty beast."
The man has bounded, he has put his foot on the pretty beast, his bare foot, very gently, so as not to hurt it.
"Ah! I have thee, pretty beast!"
"No, no, thou dost not have me. Thy bare foot is resting on my shadow."
"Ah! this time, pretty beast, thou art my prisoner; I have thee, pretty beast, I have thee in my hands."
"Thou hast me and thou seest me not, for the odor of my body blinds men. Thou hast me, and see!
"See, I escape thee and I run. Run after me, run after the pretty beast."
"Ah! I am weary with running for sixty years; come, my son, it is thou who will catch the pretty beast.
"I am weary, I sit down to rest; go, it is now thy hour to run after the pretty beast!"
Having finished this rhapsody, Entragues wrote the beginning of the story of Gaetan Solange, which had long tormented him.
It was a way of explaining himself by means of an anticipated commentary, for he was on the verge, doubtless! of a similar state of soul: would not Hubert and Gaetan be true counterparts, to-morrow, if this continued?