CHAPTER II
SIMPLE SOULS
When, with his usual bantering smile, Claude entered the small dining-room he found that la compagnie, as Françoise called it, comprised René—the hero of what seemed to his friends a most remarkable adventure—Madame Fresneau and her husband, Madame Offarel, the wife of a sous-chef de bureau in the Ministère de la Guerre, and her two daughters, Angélique and Rosalie. All these good people were seated around the mahogany table on mahogany chairs, the horsehair seats of which were glossy with the wear of years. This suite formed part of the original household effects of the avoué of Vouziers, and owed its marvellous state of preservation to the care bestowed upon it by its present owners. A portable stove, fixed upon the hearth, did not tend to improve the air in the somewhat small apartment, though it testified to the housewife's habits of thrift. Emilie would have no wood fires except in René's room. A lamp suspended by a brass chain illumined the circle of heads that was turned towards the visitor as he entered and cast a feeble light upon the yellow flowers of the wall-paper, relieved here and there by a piece of old china. The lamp-light revealed more clearly to the new arrival the feelings expressed in the faces of the different occupants of the room. Likes and dislikes are not so easily concealed by those who move in humble circles—there the human animal is less tamed, less accustomed to the mask continually worn in more polite society. Emilie held out her hand to Claude—an unusual thing for her to do—with a happy smile upon her lips, and a look of joy in her brown eyes, her whole being expressing the sincere pleasure she felt at seeing someone whom she knew to be interested in her brother.
'Doesn't his coat fit him beautifully?' she asked impetuously, before Larcher had taken a chair or even exchanged a word of greeting with the other visitors.
René, it was true, was a perfect specimen of the creature so seldom seen in Paris—a handsome young man. At twenty-five the author of the 'Sigisbée' was still without a wrinkle on his brow, while the freshness of his complexion and the look of purity in his clear blue eyes told of a virgin soul and a mind unsullied by the world. He bore a great resemblance to the medallion, but little known, which David, the sculptor, has left of Alfred de Musset in his youth, though René's wealth of hair, his fair and already full beard, and his broad shoulders gave him an air of health and strength wanting in the somewhat effeminate and almost too frail appearance of the great poet. His eyes, generally serious, spoke at that moment of simple and unalloyed happiness, and Emilie's admiration was justified by an innate grace that revealed itself in spite of the levelling effect of a dress-coat. In her tender solicitude the loving sister had even thought of gold studs and links for his shirt-front and cuffs, and had bought them out of her savings at a jeweller's in the Rue de la Paix, after a secret conference with Claude. She had fastened his white tie with her own fingers, and had bestowed as much care upon him that evening as when, fourteen years ago, she had superintended the toilet of this idolised brother for his first communion.
'Poor Emilie,' said René, with a smile that disclosed two splendid rows of teeth; 'you must excuse her, Claude; I am her only weakness.'
'Well! So you are dragging René into dissipation too, eh?' cried Fresneau, as he shook hands with Larcher. The professor was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a great head of hair just beginning to turn grey, and an unkempt beard. Spread out before him, and covered with pencil notes, were some large sheets of paper—the exercises he brought home to correct. He gathered them up, saying, 'Lucky man! You've got rid of this terrible job! Will you take a thimbleful just to warm you?' he asked, holding up a decanter half filled with brandy, which was always left on the table after coffee had been served—the family sitting here in preference to moving into the salon, a room in the front of the house used only on grand occasions. 'Or a cigarette?' he added, offering Claude a bowl filled with tobacco.
Claude thanked him with a deprecatory smile and turned to bow to the three lady visitors, not one of whom offered him her hand. The mother, who scratched her head every now and then with one of her knitting-needles, was busily at work upon a blue woollen stocking, and her two daughters were engaged upon some embroidery. Madame Offarel's hair was quite white, and her face deeply wrinkled; through the round glasses that she managed to balance somehow or other on her short nose there flashed a glance of deep hatred upon Claude. Angélique, the elder of the two girls, repressed a smile as she heard the writer make a slight slip in his pronunciation; with her black eyes, that shot swift sideward glances, with her blushes that came as readily as her smiles, she belonged to the numerous family of shy but mocking females. Rosalie, the younger of the two sisters, had returned Claude's salute without raising her eyes, black as her sister's, but filled with a sweet, timid expression. A few minutes later she stole a glance from beneath her long lashes at René, and her fingers trembled as her needle followed the tracing for the embroidery. She bent her head still lower until her chestnut hair shone in the lamp-light.
Not a whit of this by-play had been lost upon Claude. He was well acquainted with the habits and disposition of ces dames Offarel, as Fresneau called them in his provincial way. They had probably arrived at about seven o'clock, soon after dinner. Old Offarel, after having accompanied them here from the Rue Bagneux, had gone on to the Café Tabourey, at the corner of the Odéon, where he conscientiously waded through all the daily papers. Claude had long guessed that Madame Offarel cherished the idea of a marriage between Rosalie and René; he suspected his young friend of having encouraged these hopes by an innate taste for the romantic, and it was only too evident that Rosalie had been captivated by the mental qualities and physical attractions of the poet. He, Claude Larcher, knew well enough, too, that he himself was both liked and feared by the girl. She liked him because he was devoted to René, and feared him because he was dragging the latter into a fresh current of events. To this innocent child, as well as to all the members of this small circle, the soirée at Madame Komof's seemed like a fairy expedition to distant and unexplored lands. In each of them it conjured up chimerical hopes or foolish fears. Emilie Fresneau had always cherished the most ambitious dreams for her brother, and she now pictured him leaning against a mantelpiece reciting verses in the midst of a crowd of duchesses, and beloved by a 'Russian princess.' These two words expressed the highest form of social superiority that her mind was capable of imagining. Rosalie was the victim of the keenest perspicacity—that of the woman who loves. Although she reproached herself for her folly, René's eyes frightened her with the joy they expressed, and that joy was at going into a world which she, almost his betrothed, could not enter. A bond, stronger than Claude had imagined, already united them, for secret vows had been exchanged by the pair one spring evening in the preceding year. René was then still unknown. She had him to herself. When by her side he thought all things charming; without her, all was insipid. To-day, her confidence disturbed by unconscious jealousy, she began to see what dangerous comparisons threatened her love. With her home-made dresses that spoilt the beauty of her figure, with her ready-made boots in which her dainty feet were lost, with her modest white collars and cuffs, she felt herself grow small by the side of the grand ladies whom René would meet. That was why her fingers trembled and why a vague terror shot through her heart, causing it to beat quicker, whilst the professor pressed Claude to drink a glass of liqueur and to make himself a cigarette.
'I assure you it's excellent eau-de-vie, sent me from Normandy by one of my pupils. Really not? You used to be so fond of it once. Do you remember when we gave lessons at Vanaboste's? Four hours a day, Thursdays included, corrections to be done at home, for a hundred and fifty francs a month! And yet how happy we were in those days! We had a quarter of an hour's interval between the classes, and I remember the little café we used to go to in the Rue Saint-Jacques to get a glass of this eau-de-vie to keep us going. You used to call it hardening the arteries, under the pretence that a man is only as old as his arteries, and that alcohol diminishes their elasticity.'
'I was twelve years younger then,' said Claude, as he laughed at the other's reminiscences, 'and had no rheumatism.'