She added that she was perfectly willing to sweep the room or to make the bed: it was the creature’s fault for pretending to be ill and not getting up. It was not worth Balionte’s trouble, with her swollen legs and all, to carry up jugs of hot water; she found them in the evening standing at the bedroom door where she had put them in the morning.
Thérèse’s thoughts began to be less absorbed in the unknown being that she had evoked for her delight; she grew weary of her happiness, and sated with imaginary pleasure, so she conceived another way of escape.
All manner of people knelt about her humble bed; a child of Argelouse, one of those who ran away when she came near, was brought dying into Thérèse’s room; she laid her nicotine-stained fingers on him, and he got up cured.
She had other and less exalted dreams. She planned a house by the seaside, saw in her mind’s eye the garden, and the terrace, arranged the rooms, chose each piece of furniture one by one, tried to make up her mind where she would put what she had brought from Saint Clair, and argued with herself over the choice of materials. Then the scene would fade, the outlines grew confused, and nothing was left but an arbour and a bench beside the sea. And there Thérèse was sitting, her head against the shoulder of one who sat beside her; she got up, as the bell rang for dinner, and went into the darkened arbour with some one walking at her side who suddenly flung his arms about her and drew her to him. A kiss, she thought, must bring time to a standstill; she imagined that in love there must be seconds that last for ever. So she imagined; but she would never know. Once more she sees the white house and the well; she hears the harsh voice of the pump; the courtyard is full of the fragrance of heliotrope; dinner will be a rest before the joys of the evening and the night, which she dares not conceive, for they pass so far beyond the powers of the human heart. Thus, the love of which Thérèse, of all women, had been utterly frustrated, possessed and pervaded all her being. She could hardly hear Balionte’s hoarse cries. The old creature was trying to convey to her that Monsieur Bernard would come back from the South one day or another without letting them know. And what would he say when he saw that room? It was little better than a pig-sty! Madame must get up whether she liked it or not.
As she sat on the bed, Thérèse stared with amazement at her skeleton-like legs, and her feet looked enormous. Balionte wrapped her in a dressing-gown and pushed her into an arm-chair. She reached out for the cigarettes, but her hand dropped nerveless at her side. A cold sunlight came through the open window. Balionte bustled about with a broom in her hand, breathing heavily and grumbling to herself,—Balionte who must have had a good heart, because it was always said that every Christmas the death of the pig which she had been fattening made her cry. She could not bear Thérèse not to answer her: in her eyes silence was an insult, a mark of contempt. But Thérèse was no longer mistress of her speech. When she felt against her body the coolness of the clean sheets, she thought she had said, “Thank you,” though as a matter of fact she had not uttered a word. “You won’t burn these, I think,” said Balionte to her sharply as she left the room. Thérèse was afraid that she had taken away the cigarettes and put out her hand towards the table: they were gone. How could she live without smoking? She could not exist without the constant touch of these small, dry, warm objects against her fingers. She must have their odour always in her nostrils, and fill the room with the fragrant mist that she had inhaled and ejected from her lips. Balionte would not come back until the evening; a whole afternoon without tobacco! She closed her eyes and her yellow fingers moved mechanically as though they held a cigarette.
At seven o’clock Balionte came in with a candle, and put the tray on the table: milk, coffee, and a piece of bread. “So you don’t want anything else?” And she waited maliciously for Thérèse to ask for her cigarettes; but Thérèse’s face was turned steadfastly to the wall and she did not move.
Doubtless Balionte had neglected to shut the window properly: a gust of wind blew it open, and the cold night air filled the room. Thérèse could not rouse herself to throw off the bedclothes, get up, and run barefooted to the window. She lay, motionless, huddled up, the sheets drawn up to her eyes, and the icy breath only touched her forehead and her eyelids. Argelouse was full of the vast murmur of the pines, their noise was like the noise of the ocean, but it did not seem to break the silence of that place. Thérèse reflected that if she meant to make a friend of pain, she should not have buried herself beneath the bedclothes. She tried to push them back a little, but could not bear the cold for more than a few seconds. She tried again, and endured a little longer,—and so on, as if it had been a game. Thus, though it was not deliberate, physical pain became her occupation and—who knows?—her reason for existing in the world.
CHAPTER XII
“A letter from the master.”
As Thérèse did not take the envelope that she held out, Balionte pressed it on her: Monsieur had surely said when he was coming back, and she must know, so as to have everything in readiness.