The man's wise remonstrances prepared René for the sight that he knew so well—the 'den' in which he had seen Colette enthroned turned into a writer's workshop. He went in. The broad leather-covered couch on which the graceful but frivolous actress had reclined was now covered with sheets of paper flung down and covered with great straggling characters written in haste; similar sheets, all torn or crumpled, being strewn about the floor, and the chimney-piece encumbered with half-opened bundles of proofs.
Larcher, with a beard of three days' growth and unkempt hair, was seated at his writing-table, dressed like a beggar, in a dirty coat devoid of a single button, a pair of worn-out slippers on his feet, and a silk handkerchief tied in a knot round his neck. The real Bohemian, utterly regardless of appearance from his earliest youth, came to the surface every time the would-be swell was obliged to step out of his part and put his shoulder to the wheel. And this he was obliged to do pretty frequently. Like all literary workers whose time is their sole capital, and who, therefore, lead most irregular lives, Claude was always behindhand with his work and short of money, especially since his relations with Colette had involved him in that most ruinous expense of all—the expense incurred by a young man for a woman he does not keep. Besides the salary she drew from the theatre, the actress had an income of twenty thousand francs, left her by an old admirer, a Russian noble who was killed at Plevna; but what with riding about and dining out with his mistress, and buying her heaps of flowers and presents, Claude had to find many a bank-note. The proceeds of the two plays being long spent, the writer was forced to earn these wretched notes by overworking his brain in the intervals of his enervating debauches.
'At it again!' he cried, looking up with his pale face and clasping René's hand in his feverish grasp. 'Fifteen chapters to be delivered at once. A splendid stroke of business with the Chronique Parisienne, the new eight-page paper financed by Audry. They came and asked me for a story the other day to run as a feuilleton for a fortnight. A franc a line. I told them I had one ready—only wanted copying. My dear fellow—hadn't got a word written—not that! But I had an idea. Re-write "Adolphe" up to date in our jargon, and put in our local colouring. It will be a beastly hash, but all that's nothing. Do you know what it means to sit down and write while your heart is being tortured by jealousy? I am here at my table, scribbling a phrase; an idea occurs to me, and I want to hold it. Now for it, I think. Suddenly a voice within me says: "What is Colette doing now?" And I put down my pen as the pain—ah! such terrible pain!—comes over me. Balzac used to say that he had discovered how much brain matter was wasted in a night's debauch: half a volume; and he used to add, "There is not a woman breathing worth two volumes a year." What nonsense! It isn't love that wears out an artist, but the continual worry of some fixed idea causing one long heart-ache. Is it possible to think and feel at the same time? We must choose one or the other. Victor Hugo never felt anything—nor did Balzac. If he had really loved his Madame Hanska he would have run after her all over Europe, and would have cared for his "Comédie humaine" as much as I do for this rubbish. Ah! my dear René,' he continued with an air of dejection as he gathered up the sheets scattered all over his desk, 'keep to your simple mode of life. I hope you have not been weak enough to accept the invitations of any of the sharks you met at Madame Komof's.'
'I have only paid one visit,' replied René, 'and that was to Madame Moraines.' He could scarcely control himself as he pronounced her name. Then, with the involuntary impetuosity of a lover who, though come expressly to speak of his mistress, is afraid of criticism, and staves off the reply as he would thrust aside the point of a dagger, he added, 'Isn't she sweetly pretty and graceful? And what lofty ideas she has! Do you think ill of her too?'
'Bah!' exclaimed Claude, too full of his own sufferings to pay much heed to René's words, 'I dare say we could find something ugly in her past or her present if we tried. All women have within them the toad that springs from the mouth of the princess in the fairy tale.'
'Is there anything you know about her?' asked the poet.
'Anything I know!' replied Claude, struck by the strange tone of his friend's voice. He looked at René and saw how matters stood.
Mixing as he did in Parisian society, he was well acquainted with the rumours concerning Suzanne and Baron Desforges, and with the easy-going—though sometimes mistaken—credulity of a misanthrope to whom every infamy seems probable because possible, he believed them. For a moment he was tempted to inform René of these rumours, but he held his tongue. Was it from motives of prudence, and in order not to make an enemy of Desforges, in case Suzanne should get to know what he had said, and tell the Baron? Was it out of pity for the grief his words would cause René? Was it for the cruel delight of having a companion in his torture—for how much better was Suzanne than Colette? Was he impelled by the curiosity of an analyst and the desire to witness another's passion? Who shall determine the exact point of departure of so many and such complex motives as go to make up a sudden resolve?
Claude paused for a moment, as if to ransack his memory, and then repeated his friend's question. 'Is there anything I know about her? Nothing at all. I am a professional woman-hater, as the English say. I only know the woman through having met her here and there, and I thought her a little less foolish than most of her kind. It's true she is very pretty!' And then, either out of malice or in order to sound René's heart, he added, 'Allow me to congratulate you!'
'You talk as though I were in love with her,' replied René, growing red with shame. He had come there with the intention of singing Suzanne's praises, and now Claude's bantering tone caused his confidences to freeze upon his lips.