“To tell the truth I had no idea how far things had gone. I believed it was only a case of the occasional bleeding of the rich—that one winks at oneself—it relieves the system, as it were—and at the same time there is always a profit for the anæmic. Torialli is a good fellow, he wouldn’t want more than that; but she’s ambitious—she’s gone, even for Paris, a little far. Still, if I were you, I’d get that account of Margot’s paid. I wouldn’t fight her!”
“Fight her!” muttered Jean. “Mon Dieu! fight Gabrielle!”
“Don’t think of her like that!” cried Cartier sharply, “or you’ll go mad. Think of her as she is, a clever intrigante, with her hand in the pocket of the public.”
“The Devil!” cried Jean, springing to his feet. “Don’t push me too far, Cartier. I’ve stood a good deal because I suppose you believe what you say——” Jean stopped.
Cartier nodded. “You, too,” he said quietly, “believe what I say. You’re at liberty to knock me down if it’ll relieve you. After all, I let you in for this thing. Only keep hold of the truth. Madame Torialli isn’t worth breaking a stick for, let alone a man’s life! You’ve got talent, my boy,—pull yourself together and use it. You happen to have seen a good woman, even though you haven’t, I fancy, looked at her. Still, they exist, you know, and will continue to, but they’re not as a rule quite as clever as Madame. We’ll go to Russia next week if you’re ready.”
Jean made no answer; he hunted blindly for his hat, found it, and rushed out into the street.
It was a stifling May night; the hot air from the pavement rose up to meet the sultry breath of the sky. Jean did not feel it, it even seemed to him to be cold. He knew nothing, and saw nothing. A merciful blankness had descended upon his mind. He had this much of an idea—that he must go—but he was not sure where, or how. When he crossed a street he passed through the traffic as if it were something flung upon a screen. People shouted after him, but he paid no attention to their cries. He did not dream of committing suicide, he did not feel as if there was anything as real as suicide. He neither knew nor cared where he went, though he was conscious of a feeling of ease as the hard glare of the Champs Élysées melted into the softer darkness of the Bois.
There were trees now, and whole empty spaces where the little figures of men and women ceased to jerk past him like children’s painted toys.
By and by he came to a seat in the shadow of a big tree. It was quite dark and empty and Jean huddled there, cowering beside it as if it could afford him some kind of shelter against a special danger. He knew now that he was afraid. There was still something that might happen to him. He might remember Gabrielle’s face.
The birds twittered and murmured to each other in the trees, the far-off voice of Paris came lightly to Jean, without the menace of its accustomed speed. He tried to think of Margot and picture what she was doing, but something quickly warned him not to do that. If he thought of Margot he might remember what he was trying to forget; and then it came; though he had shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands he saw her. He saw Gabrielle’s face.