The Eyes of Innocence/V
V
THE SUITORS
Gilberte went to more of Mme. de la Vaudraye's evenings: not that she liked them much; but she did not wish to have it thought that she disliked them.
And her presence delighted all the frequenters of the salon, the most cross-grained ladies and the most indifferent men alike. It was a curious influence exercised by that mere child; and she owed it neither to her experience—for what did she know of life?—nor to her tact—for what aim had she in view?—but to an inexplicable charm which affected all who came near her and which, at the same time, protected her against them. Her innocence was a greater attraction than any subtlety or intellectual charm and defended her to better purpose than prudence would have done or cleverness.
Old Simare was mad about her. Mme. Bottentuit told her all the secrets of her home life. Mme. Charmeron confided to her that she was broken-hearted at having nothing but daughters, but that she had not given up hope yet. Mlle. du Bocage hid her head on Gilberte's shoulder, wept and told her all her old-maidenly disappointments and regrets.
"You are the ornament of my salon, Gilberte," said Mme. de la Vaudraye.
She was not jealous of her. Gilberte, with her exquisite compassion, had guessed that the former lady of the Logis must still suffer from the ruin of her fortunes, must still feel how stunted and narrow was her life; and she showed her more attention than she did to any other.
Out of kindness to the mother she even tried to win the son's sympathies; but here she encountered a medley of such shyness and rudeness, so unlovable a nature and so marked a determination to repel her advances and treat her as he treated the other frequenters of the salon that Gilberte was quite discomfited.
"Do not be discouraged," said the mother. "He is a little unsociable; but he is so full of good qualities."
Nevertheless, Gilberte once heard her mutter between her teeth:
"What a bear that boy is!"
And she heard on all sides that mother and son did not agree.
The salon underwent a change. There were as many commonplaces uttered as ever; but those who spoke them did so with less smug importance than before. People were less sure of themselves. The talented amateurs in singing and piano-playing sought for shades of expression and feeling. Lastly, the order of the concert became "subject to alterations" and the performers no longer wore the air of automata obeying predestined laws. There were asides in the conversation; people talked among themselves, for the pleasure of talking and in accordance with their various sympathies.
One evening, Beaufrelant drew Gilberte into a corner and said:
"I am mad, madame, do you hear? I am mad. I care for nothing, I am indifferent to my flowers, it is you all the time. I am free: my name, my life are yours; give me some hope. ..."
The next day, le Hourteulx made his declaration:
"Life has become a burden to me. If you do not take pity on me, madame, I shall cease to exist. ... But I can hardly believe that you will reject me. ... Do you dislike me? ... I am a widower and well-off, you know. ..."
That was the only dark spot that troubled Gilberte's serenity: the more or less discreet attentions which all those men paid her. Simare the younger went far more cleverly to work and tried to inspire confidence with a pretence of delicacy by which Gilberte allowed herself to be taken in. But Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx showed no pity: they pursued her relentlessly, speaking to her, not unnaturally, as to a woman who knows what life is and who could not well take offence at a declaration or even at the terms in which it was made.
Poor Gilberte did not take offence, but she was very much surprised; and the sighs and transports of those two men of forty bored her terribly. She avoided them and she also had to avoid young Lartiste, who tried the effect of poetry and fired the most passionate verses of Musset and Verlaine at her; the brother too of the Demoiselles Bottentuit, a schoolboy who was only let out on Thursdays and Sundays and who, the third time he saw her, threatened to kill himself at her feet; and lastly a cousin of Mlle. du Bocage, who was engaged to the elder Charmeron girl and who offered to break off the marriage and abandon a very good match if it caused her the faintest annoyance.
She no longer enjoyed at the Logis the atmosphere of peace and isolation so dear to her. Adèle had to defend the door, with the vigilance of a watch-dog, against the daring suitors who tried to obtain admission to her mistress upon some pretext:
"Madame is at home to nobody; I have positive instructions."
The old servant saw through the disguise of M. le Hourteulx, who appeared dressed up as a beggar, and of Beaufrelant, who, in cap and blouse, came round with a green-grocer's barrow.
Gilberte could not go for a stroll in her garden without seeing the figure of one or other of those importunate gentlemen on the right, in the next garden which ran from the castle down to the river. At nightfall, she was conscious of shadowy forms prowling round the manor-house. She felt herself spied upon on every side, stalked like a beast of the chase.
It was Easter Sunday. After dinner, Adèle and her husband went to the fair, just outside the town. Gilberte was left alone.
It had been raining; and the fresh smell of wet leaves and moist earth came through the open window of the boudoir which she had made into her study. The book which she was reading in an absent-minded way dropped to her lap and she sat dreaming, with her gaze lost in the blackness of the trees. And, quite without reason—for the least sound would have struck her ear—she was overcome with an indescribable sense of dread, which increased from moment to moment. The silence seemed to her unnatural and awful. The darkness was heavy with menace; and she could not take her eyes from it, sat spellbound by the unknown peril which she felt was there.
A recollection doubled her fears. On the evening before at Mme. de la Vaudraye's, a turn in the conversation had led her to say that her servants were going to this fair. So they knew that she was all alone at the Logis.
Her one thought was to close the window, fasten down the shutters and place an obstacle between herself and the snares that were being laid for her in the threatening darkness; and yet she dared not stir, as though the least movement would have exposed her to immediate dangers. ... But what dangers?
She made an effort and rose from her chair. At the same moment, a head appeared and a man strode across the balcony and sprang into the room. It was Simare.
The revulsion of feeling was such that she almost felt inclined to laugh. Wearily, she sat down and murmured:
"Oh, monsieur, you ought not to have done this! ... I should never have thought it of you. ..."
He flung himself on his knees:
"Do not judge me unheard. ... I am not master of myself. ... I have to go away for a month ... and I wanted to see you ... to tell you what I feel, what I suffer. ... Oh, you don't know how your indifference has tortured me. ... My sadness, my admiration, my hopes, my emotion, when in your presence: you have understood none of these ... but then you never do understand. ... At this very moment, when I am here, at your knees, when I am imploring you, when I am proclaiming my sorrow and my obsession, I feel that my words do not reach you. And yet they must. You must, you shall know what I have to say to you. ... Listen to me. ..."
But Gilberte would not listen. Although her extreme innocence had preserved her at first contact with the world, nevertheless she was beginning to see a glimmer of the meaning of many things; and she was frightened of the words that were coming. No, she would not hear them from the lips of this man, she would not allow this man to be the first to speak them in her ear. She had a sudden intuition of their importance and their sweetness and their magic; and she felt that it was almost a contamination to hear them.
She entreated him:
"Be quiet. ... I shall be so grateful if you will. ..."
"No, no," he cried, "I must speak. Ever since I have known you, the words I have to say have been on my lips, suffocating me. ... Gilberte, Gilberte, I ..."
She gave a desperate glance, the glance of a victim which does not know how to defend itself and awaits the blow that is about to fall. He stammered:
"Oh, your eyes ... your eyes ...!"
He remained on his knees, humble and undecided, and repeated, in a low voice:
"Your eyes ... yes ... my father told me ... child's eyes that put one off ..."
He rose and struck his fist upon the table:
"No, after all, I will not allow myself to be thwarted. I mean to speak and I shall speak. ... If your eyes prevent me, well, I sha'n't see your eyes!"
He went to the lamp and, with a sudden movement, put it out.
Gilberte gave a scream. She tried to run away, stumbled over a chair and fell. She tried to call out; and her voice died away in her throat.
Then, powerless, she stirred no more.
He seized her hand and raised it to his lips.
She made a weak attempt to release herself, but strength failed her.
She said, simply:
"Please, monsieur ... I have never done you any harm. ... I have always been kind to you. ... Please. ..."
His hand slacked its grasp. They remained opposite each other. What was he going to say to her? At her wits' end, with her heart wildly beating, she tried, through the darkness, through the great, impenetrable silence that enshrouded the two of them, to see Simare's face, to read his tumultuous thoughts, his will. ... A few seconds passed. ...
Then he said:
"I beg your pardon. ... I am a scoundrel. ... I wanted to force you to take my name, to share my existence. ... It was cowardly and base of me. ... Still, there was more in me, believe me, than wicked designs. ... Oh, I hear your heart beating ... do not tremble! ... You will never be in danger from any one ... it is not only your eyes that protect you: there is the sound of your voice, there is your silence, there is the air you breathe, your mere presence. ... Forgive me. ..."
He went away. She dimly saw him cross the window-rail and presently heard the sound of his steps as he walked down the gravel-path in the garden.
Gilberte rushed to the door. She could not have stayed for another instant in the solitude of that room.
It was an intolerable agony, of which she felt the grip even more now that Simare was no longer there. Where should she go? To Mme. de la Vaudraye's? She remembered vaguely that it was not one of her "evenings," because of the fair. No matter. She wanted people, lights, bustle, men and women in whose presence she could master her fears and pluck up courage.
She ran to her bedroom, put on her hat and cloak. ... But no, she dared not go out. ...
A noise came from the square in front of the Logis, on the town side; the noise of an altercation, of a struggle. She drew back the curtains. Two men were fighting under her windows. In her fright, she flew to the bolt, locked herself in and crouched down in the furthest corner of her room. Her instinct, her weakness impelled her to hide herself, to know nothing of what was happening, to wait. ... But the din increased. There were shouts and moans.
Then she was ashamed of her cowardice. It was impossible for her to continue in that nervous inactivity. She wanted to interfere, to help, if there were still time. Bravely, she opened the door, went down the stairs, walked out into the square and up to the combatants.
By the light of the lamp she recognized Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx.
Rolling on the ground, covered with mud, hatless, their clothes all disarranged, they were fighting with a sort of mad rage, with the stubbornness of two mortal enemies rejoicing in an opportunity of vengeance long deferred. They struck at each other in turns, collared each other, bashed each other's faces with their fists, wrestled violently. And this amid insults and exclamations of triumph:
"Here, you villain, take that!"
"One for you!"
"Ah, my fine fellow, you caught it this time! How did that strike you?"
And they called Gilberte to witness, like the queen of a tournament in whose honour two of her knights were breaking a lance:
"What do you think of that, madame?"
"Got in there with my left, madame!"
"Ah, he was looking out for you, the scoundrel!"
"Oh, you blackguard, you were prowling round her house!"
Abandoning all attempts at interference, she turned to move away. They rose with difficulty and followed her, each hustling his rival as he went on trying to get rid of him. But the heat of the struggle brought them to the ground again; and she ran away.
The first street to which her steps led her came out in front of the church. The La Vaudrayes' house was close by; and she hastened to it.
No one answered when she rang the bell. Still, there was a light in the drawing-room. She tapped at one of the windows. Some one came to the door. It was Guillaume de la Vaudraye.
"You, madame!" he exclaimed.
"Where's your mother? Where's your mother?" she panted.
"My mother is at Caen, on business; I am alone in the house."
She walked to the drawing-room unsteadily and sank into a chair.
"What is the matter? Why are you here?"
She whispered, in a broken voice:
"They came. ... They are following me. ... I am frightened of them. ..."
"Simare, was it? ... And Le Hourteulx, I suppose ... and Beaufrelant. ..."
"Yes ... so I daren't go back. ..."
"But Adèle ... and her husband?"
"Gone to the fair."
He thought for a moment and said:
"I will go and fetch them. It's some way off. Take a rest until we come: you need it."
Gilberte, utterly exhausted, fell asleep.
Adèle woke her. There was a taxi waiting for her. Guillaume did not show himself again.