Chapter 14

From 8.57 a.m. till the hour of 6 p.m., when she rang at his door, M. Hervart had precisely one idea, a single one: he must meet Gratienne.

She had been in Paris since the day before, and she had just written to him when she got his telegram from Caen. Her delight was very great. She fulfilled her lover’s desire with joy.

“I love you, my old darling!”

M. Hervart spent two days without thinking of Rose except as something very remote. He was thrilled to re-discover the Louvre: he looked at the colonnade before he went in; even the “fighting Hero” seemed a novelty to him: he went and meditated in front of the crouching Venus, of which he was especially fond. It was there that he had often met Gratienne. How he loved her! What a pleasure it had been to come back to his “ephebe.”

On the third day after his arrival he received Gratienne’s letter forwarded from Robinvast. That disturbed him a little—Rose’s writing superimposed on Gratienne’s.

“But aren’t they superimposed in life? No, I mean, mingled together. Rose is much too ignorant of the way things go to have any suspicion. And besides, I must have got at least ten letters in women’s handwriting while I was at Robinvast and I never made any attempt at concealment ... Rose—it’s true I went rather far with her. But whose fault was that? If she had resisted my first attacks, I shouldn’t have insisted. What an egoist she is! ... However, I ought to write to her. No, not to-day. It’s my turn to be cross.”

During the day he thought several more times of Rose. The scenes in the garden and the wood came back into his mind and unnerved him. Then a question posed itself in his mind: Do I love her? But he would not answer. Others presented themselves yet insistently: How shall I draw back. He did not understand. He had no intention of drawing back. Well, then, should the marriage take place? He really didn’t know.

“I must have a breathing space. I come back, I have arrears of work and friends to sec. Everything must be done properly. For the little dryad of the Robinvast wood, there is only one thing in the world and that is I. For me there are a dozen things, a thousand...”

He rang the bell, gave unnecessary orders, asked futile questions. It was only at about three o’clock that he opened the door to an image which had been prowling round his head since the morning: Gratienne was coming to pick him up at four and they were to go to St. Cloud. That was one of his great pleasures.

“Will Rose be able to understand these profoundly civilised landscapes, this well-tamed nature, these hills with their harmonious lines like the body of a lovely sleeping woman?”

M. Hervart felt in very good form. The uncomfortable symptoms which had disquieted him in the country had disappeared since his return ... He found in Gratienne a favourable reception and to the realisation of his desires. She knew his tastes and she shared them. In short, he promised himself several delightful hours after this familiar outing. However a very disagreeable surprise was in store for him. After the preludes of passion, when his whole being was bent on realisation, M. Hervart had a moment of weakness. Gratienne’s skilful tenderness had certainly overcome it, the self-esteem of both parties had been preserved.