‘A man might rot to carrion here,’ said Dr. Vermont, as he stood between the battered walls of the tower, and looked up at the weeping heavens, and then down at the sullen and swollen river. ‘None would know, and a few days’ persistent rain would rush the river beyond the rocks in among these ruins, and carry our bodies away to the sea.’
And then he walked with his hands in his pockets, unmindful of the rain, to the neglected cemetery. He stood a while against the white tomb of his young wife, upon which some flowers lay, a lifeless pulp in a pool of water. Thirty-nine only, and two days ago he believed he had tasted all life had to offer, and wanted no more of its bitterness or its sweetness? But he would not humble himself to admit that he had erred two days ago, and that there still remained at the bottom of the cup a draught he would willingly drink. He put the present from him, and the stirring voice of a troubled consciousness, and leaned there in the rain to dream a while of youth, and hope, and all things good that have been and are no more.
It was late in the afternoon when he returned and shut himself in the blue-room to write letters. This done, he examined a pair of pistols, loaded one which he laid upon the table, and with his odd, hard smile, carried the other into the dressing-room where Anatole slept, and placed it on the bed. There was still half an hour to dispose of before dinner—his last half hour of solitude. He took up the candle, and walked slowly round the room, inspecting each object, pricking by association, memory, that just then needed no pricking. The pity was that the man’s sharp face never lost its calm irony of expression, and his shapely mouth never lost its trick of quiet smiling. For him absurdity lay at the bottom of all things—if not absurdity, something so much worse as to be beyond toleration.
Man in all his moods, he insisted, was a mixture of grossness and absurdity, and it mattered little which of the two elements prevailed. The one excess worked mischief for himself, and the other mischief for his neighbours.
When the dinner-bell rang, Dr. Vermont appeared still smiling and humorously observant. He it was who spoke most, and most coherently, at table. Julien and Gaston swaggered a little, and their faces were pale and excited. Anybody with an eye in his head might have guessed they were morally perturbed, and Mademoiselle, mindful of the hurried departure that night, questioned her foreign friend, sitting below with Dr. Vermont, in a swift, apprehensive glance. But the Doctor was so cool and steady, and discoursed so blandly with his neighbour, that she dismissed her fears, and set herself to cheer and encourage poor Anatole. If his depression were really due to a violent fancy for herself, then she was in duty bound to act the part of mother, or at least of elder affectionate sister,—which she did with consummate ability, and drove the unhappy lad to despair.
After dinner the Doctor, instead of rising, said, laughing—
‘Henriette, to-night we men will follow the example of our barbarous brothers of England, and will remain over our wine after the ladies. To borrow a habit from your countrymen, Madame, cannot offend your taste, though I am afraid I should not find a Frenchwoman tolerant of it.’
‘I believe Englishmen sit at wine and the ladies retire,’ said Mademoiselle, hesitating. She did not like the innovation, and frankly showed it.
‘Your pardon, Henriette, we have our plans to discuss. You, Madame, too, will hold us excused?’
‘Certainly, Monsieur, I think it a commendable custom which keeps men and women so much apart. They meet then with greater zest and novelty.’