She stopped, as if to banish these too melancholy recollections. On hearing the way in which she pronounced her father's name one must needs have been a monster of distrust not to believe that the incurable wound caused by the death of that celebrated minister bled afresh every time she thought of him. René was, nevertheless, a little surprised at the tenor of her words. He remembered that one of the last things Sainte-Beuve had written was a philippic against a copyright bill proposed by Bois-Dauffin, and he had always looked upon the statesman as one of the sworn enemies of literature, of whom there are thousands in the political world. He, moreover, had a profound horror of the conventional idealism to which Madame Moraines had alluded. In poetry, his favourite author was Théophile Gautier, both on account of his construction and the precision of his metaphors—in prose, the severe Flaubert, on account of his wonderfully clear style, and his lack of all mannerisms.
It pleased him, however, that Suzanne should see in her father a liberal protector of literature, for it proved the depth of her filial piety. He was also pleased to find that she cherished an ideal of his art almost childish in its simplicity. Such a comprehension of beauty, if sincere, showed real inner purity. If sincere! René would have disdained to entertain such a doubt in the presence of this ethereal angel with her dreamy eyes. He stammered out some phrase as vague as that in which Madame Moraines had expressed her idea, and spoke only of woman's fine judgment in literature—he, the worshipper not only of Gautier, but of Baudelaire! Was she quick enough to hear by his tone of voice that she was on a wrong tack? Or did the profound ignorance in which, like so many Society women, she was content to dwell—never reading anything beyond a paper and a few third-rate novels when travelling—make it impossible for her to keep up a conversation of this order and quote names in support of her ideas? In any case, she soon dropped this dangerous subject, and quickly passed from the ideal in art to another more feminine problem, the ideal in love. In merely uttering the word 'love,' which, in itself, contains so much that is contradictory, she managed to assume such an air of modesty that René felt as if he had been taken into her confidence. It was evidently a subject upon which this woman, so far above all ideas of gallantry, did not care to enter unless she was in full sympathy with her hearer.
'What pleases me, too, so much in the "Sigisbée,"' she observed, in her sweet, musical voice, 'is the faith in love portrayed there—the horror of coquetry, of lies, of all that dishonours the most divine sentiment of which the human soul is capable. Believe me,' she added, resting her head upon her hand as if in deep reflection, and regarding René with a look of such seriousness that it seemed to concentrate all her thoughts; 'believe me, the day that you doubt the reality of love you will cease to be a poet. But there is a God who watches over genius,' she went on, with a kind of suppressed emotion. 'That God will not permit the splendid gifts with which he has endowed you to be sterilised by scepticism—for you are a believer, I am sure, and a good Catholic?'
'I was,' he replied.
'And now?' she asked, with a look almost of pain on her face.
'I have my days of doubt,' he answered in simple fashion. She was silent, whilst he sat gazing in speechless admiration at this woman who, in the vortex of Society life, could still ascend to a world of higher and nobler ideas. He did not stop to think that there was something degrading—something like an attempt to gain cheap applause—in parading before a stranger—and what else was he to her?—the most sacred feelings of the heart. Although he had in his uncle, the Abbé Taconet, a perfect example of a true Christian soul, he was not surprised to hear Madame Moraines combine in one sentence two things so completely foreign to each other as a belief in God and the gift of writing plays in verse. He knew nothing except that to hear her voice once more, to see in her blue eyes that expression of true faith, to gaze upon the curl of her dainty lips, to feel her presence near him now, always, and for ever, he would have braved the direst perils. Amid this silence the singing of the tea urn in a corner of the little salon became more perceptible. Suzanne passed her hand with its well-polished nails over her eyes; then, with a smile of apology for having dared, ignorant as she was, to broach such serious problems to a great mind like his, she suddenly changed her theme as lightly as some women will offer you a sandwich after having discussed the immortality of the soul.
'But you have not come here to be preached at,' she cried, 'and I am forgetting that I am only a worldly woman after all. Will you have a cup of tea? Then come and help me make it.'
She rose; her step was so lithe and she walked with such an easy grace that to René, who was already completely bewitched, it seemed as if her very movements continued in some way the charm of her conversation. He too had risen, and was now made to take a seat near the little table on which the tea-kettle was singing merrily. He looked at her as her dainty hands, so carefully tended, deftly moved amongst the fragile china with which the tray was laden. She was talking, too, but now her talk ran upon a score of details of every day life. As she poured the strong liquor into the cups she told him where she got her tea; then, as she added the boiling water, she questioned him upon the manner in which he made his coffee when he wanted to work. She finished by taking a seat beside him, after having spread a small cloth for the cups, the plates of toast and cake, the pot of cream, and all the rest. She had set it out as though it were for a young lady's tea party, and bestowed upon her visitor those little attentions in which women excel. They know that the most savage men often love to be petted and made much of, and that they are so easily won by this false coinage of pretended affection. Suzanne was now beginning to question the poet, and made him give her an account of his feelings on the first night of the 'Sigisbée,' thus completing her work of seduction by compelling him to talk about himself. All René's timidity had disappeared, and he felt as if he had known this woman for years, so rapidly had she succeeded in gaining an ascendency over him in this first visit. It was therefore a cruel sensation, like awaking from a heavenly dream, when the door opened to admit a new-comer.
'Oh! what a bother!' exclaimed Suzanne in an undertone. How sweet this exclamation sounded in the poet's ears, and how he appreciated her pretty look of annoyance, and the graceful shrug of her shoulders that accompanied it! He rose to take his leave, but not before Madame Moraines had introduced him to the unwelcome visitor.
'Monsieur le Baron Desforges—Monsieur Vincy.'