She looked like a child, lying there, and her face had a child’s look of hopeless misery, for a child does not know that sorrow, like all other things, will pass.
Charley gave a gasp.
The unhappiness of that sleeping woman was intolerable to see, and all his passion, all his desire, were extinguished by the pity that overcame him.
She had been gay during the day, easy to talk to and companionable, and it had seemed to him that she was free, at least for a while, from the pain that, he was conscious, lurked always in the depths of her being; but in sleep it had returned to her and he knew only too well what unhappy dreams distraught her.
He gave a deep sigh.
But he felt more disinclined for sleep than ever, and he could not bear the thought of getting into bed again.
He turned the shade down so that the light should not disturb Lydia, and going to the table filled his pipe and lit it.
He drew the heavy curtain that was over the window and sitting down looked out into the court.
It was in darkness but for one lighted window, and this had a sinister look.
He wondered whether someone lay ill in that room or, simply sleepless like himself, brooded over the perplexity of life.
Or perhaps some man had brought a woman in, and their lust appeased, they lay contented in one another’s arms.
Charley smoked.
He felt dull and flat.
He did not think of anything in particular.
At last he went back to bed and fell asleep.
ix
CHARLEY WAS AWAKENED by the maid bringing in the morning coffee.
For a moment he forgot the events of the previous night.
“Oh, I was sleeping so soundly,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but it’s half-past ten and I have an engagement at eleven-thirty.”
“It doesn’t matter.
It’s my last day in Paris and it would be silly to waste it in sleep.”
The maid had brought the two breakfasts on one tray and Lydia told her to give it to Charley.
She put on a dressing-gown and sat down at the end of his bed, leaning against the foot.
She poured out a cup of coffee, cut a roll in two and buttered it for him.
“I’ve been watching you sleep,” she said.
“It’s nice; you sleep like an animal or a child, so deep, so quiet, it rests one just to look at you.”
Then he remembered.
“I’m afraid you didn’t have a very good night.”
“Oh, yes, I did.
I slept like a top.
I was tired out, you know.
That’s one of the things I’m most grateful to you for, I’ve had such wonderful nights.
I dream terribly.
But since I’ve been here I haven’t dreamt once; I’ve slept quite peacefully.
And I who thought I should never sleep like that again.”
He knew that she had been dreaming that night and he knew what her dreams were about.
She had forgotten them.
He forebore to look at her.
It gave him a grim, horrible, and rather uncanny sensation to think that a vivid, lacerating life could go on when one was sunk in unconsciousness, a life so real that it could cause tears to stream down the face and twist the mouth in woe, and yet when the sleeper woke left no recollection behind.
An uncomfortable thought crossed his mind.
He could not quite make it explicit, but had he been able to, he would perhaps have asked himself:
“Who are we really?
What do we know about ourselves?
And that other life of ours, is that less real than this one?”
It was all very strange and complicated.
It looked as though nothing were quite so simple as it seemed; it looked as though the people we thought we knew best carried secrets that they didn’t even know themselves.
Charley had a sudden inkling that human beings were infinitely mysterious.
The fact was that you knew nothing about anybody.
“What’s this engagement you’ve got?” he asked, more for the sake of saying something than because he wanted to know.