“Certainly. Why shouldn’t I? You are not so ill as all that.”
“Truly?”
“Of course. You can see that from my going out. I’ll see you in the morning, dear.”
But on the doorstep, that “truly” lost its questioning meaning. She knew, as she had always known, as she knew at the Sleeping Woods, that my love was not bringing her happiness, as she knew, without proof, without any need of proof, that I was betraying her. Her “truly” meant: “The end will soon come, and you cannot even stay with me. Am I already of so little importance?” It found no fault; it simply stated a fact. And how should I get on in the future without tormenting her? I hurried down the steps to drive away this mingled vision of cruelty and remorse.
“No, no,” I said, to encourage myself, “it is impossible. I am exaggerating. Sickness does not develop so quickly. This Dr. Aynaud has upset me by his stupid brutality.”
Was it a fact then? Those pale and meagre cheeks, those dominating eyes, which dark rings made larger as a halo magnifies a light, that sad and suffering look in them that not even habit could accustom me to—was I to be deprived of them? A sense of danger suddenly gave me sympathy for her. Was I to lose her?
I reached Mme. de Saunois’ at last in a state of extreme nervous tension, such as a tired and horrified army must feel within a conquered city. I craved, to benumb me, the excitement of music and brilliant lights, the flash of jewels, the beauty of women and their glistening lips, the suggestiveness in those attitudes by which the present fashions submit our women’s bodies to our curious gaze. I longed for all this intoxication of the eyes, this brilliancy that should dispel that darker picture from my mind. Let all those things greet me and I should be relieved of a great weight! Already I discounted this relief as I was taking off my overcoat in the vestibule, and entered, ready for my intoxication.
Yes, everything I sought was there. It was hot: it was the atmosphere of unalloyed pleasure: there were flowers and numerous lamps and that special offering of flesh that women’s dress sets out like baskets of rich fruit. People were talking, laughing, moving about, enjoying each moment. Is not a salon a guarded place without an opening on the outside world, with no doors leading to the past or present, where one forgets, where one goes in order to forget? It is the price one pays for tastes of happiness.
Mme. de H—, who was watching for me, glided toward me and took me in her wake, making off with me like a vessel that puts out to sea with sealed orders.
Yes, everything was there to offer me distraction, and yet, that night, I gained nothing of the sort. I was cold, and could not warm myself. In the midst of so many colours my eyes saw nothing but the shadows on all the faces under those lights. On that of Mme. de H—, nearer at hand, in spite of the rouge, the powder, the smile, the forced joy, I saw distinctly, the definite pallor of death: not that death which suddenly suspends our motion and hurries us into the unknown, but that death of emptiness that is covered with gilded superficiality, with emptiness of false compliments and lying declarations and hypocritical enthusiasms, emptiness of petty hates, of affections limited by desires and desire that finds only limit in caresses, emptiness of wit, of artifice and passion, emptiness even of our restlessness and pride; that death and emptiness, in a word, of everything that is not the print of solitude and immortality.