I don’t think I am either prude or dupe. I see rather, in this aversion for certain confessions which no longer allow any doubt as to certain faults, first of all an excess of jealousy—why not?—and then the drawing back before brutal reality which is in me a malady. Actually it is without a doubt a relic of respectable and pious youth, and the evidence that a woman who has been well brought up, who is married, is a mother, and holds a position, has degraded herself to the physical filth of a gallant adventure is intolerable to me. In its way this apprehension was the more illogical and foolish as my comrade’s indiscretion had edified me as regards the flirting and coquetry of which Madam de Bonnivet was capable. Between coquetry, even foolishly light, and precision of the last detail there is an abyss. In conclusion, if ever Jacques came to pronounce to me that cruel phrase: “It is all over. Madam de Bonnivet is my mistress,” I should have to see Camille with that phrase in my memory, and then the reply to her questions would become to me a real penance. To know nothing, on the other hand, was to retain the right to reply to the poor actress without lying to her.
This voluntary ignorance did not prevent me from realizing that the whole of Camille’s drama of sentiment was acted on this single point: on the degree of intimacy established between Molan and Queen Anne depended the sad remnant of happiness, the last charity of love which the poor child still enjoyed. So although I tried not to find out anything definite as to the result of the intrigue between Jacques and Madam de Bonnivet, I did nothing but think of it, multiplying the hypotheses for and against the latter’s absolute downfall. Alas! they were almost all for it. How was I to wait for the revelation which put an end to my uncertainty in a startling and entirely unexpected way?
It was towards the close of a February afternoon. Camille had missed three set appointments without sending me a word of apology. I had spent several hours, not in my studio, but in a little room adjoining it which I adorned with the title of library. I keep there a number of books which a painter, caring for his art alone, ought not to have. Why is it that a poet and a novelist, even the most plastic, can teach an artist who must live by his eyes and the reproduction of forms? It is true I was not engaged in reading but in dreaming, glasses in hand, before the half-burnt fire. The lamp, which had been brought in by a servant, lit up half the room. I abandoned myself to that nervous languor which resolves itself into, at such an hour, in such a season and such a light, a half unconscious semi-intoxication. Anything accidental in us is removed at such times. We seem to touch the bottom of our fund of sensibility, the nerve itself of the internal organ through which we suffer and enjoy, and the pulp which composes our being.
I felt in the twilight that I loved Camille as I imagine one must love after death, if anything of our poor heart survives in the great mute darkness. I told myself that I ought to go and see her, that there was in the excess of my discretion apparent indifference. I evoked her and spoke to her, telling her what I had never told her, and what I should not dare to tell her. It was at the moment, when this opium of my dream-passion most deeply engulfed me, that I was snatched with a start from my dream by the sudden arrival of her who was its chief character. My servant, whom I had told that I could see no one, entered the room to tell me, with an air of embarrassment, that Mademoiselle Favier was asking for me, that he had answered her according to his instructions, and that she had sat down in the anteroom, declaring that she would not go without seeing me.
“Is she alone?” I asked.
“Quite alone,” he answered with the familiarity of a bachelor’s servant who has been in the same situation for twenty years—he saw my father die and I am quite familiar with him. “I must tell you though, sir, that she seems to be in great trouble. She is as white as a sheet; her voice is changed, broken, and choked. One would think she cannot talk. It is a great shame, considering how young and pretty she is!”
“Ah, well, show her in,” I said, “but no one else, you understand.”
“Even if M. Molan comes to see you too, sir?” he inquired.
“Even if M. Molan calls,” I replied.
The good fellow smiled the smile of an accomplice, which on any other occasion I should have interpreted as a proof that he had guessed the ill-concealed secret of my feelings. I did not have time to reflect upon his greater or less penetration. Camille was already in the studio, and the image of despair was before me, a despair verging on madness. I said to her as I made her sit down: “Whatever is the matter?” and sat down myself. She signed to me to ask her no questions, as it was impossible for her to reply. She put her hand upon her breast and closed her eyes, as if internal anguish there in her breast was inflicting upon her suffering greater than she could bear. For a moment I thought she was about to expire, so frightful was the convulsive pallor of her face. When her eyes opened I could see that no tear moistened her blue eyes, eyes which were now quite sombre. The flame of the most savage passion burned in them. Then in a raucous and almost bass voice, as if a hand had clutched her throat, she said to me as she pressed her fingers on her forehead in bewilderment—