Curious and inexplicable thing,—instead of clinging and holding fast to my place, which would have been easy with a type like Madame, I had buried myself deeper in my stupidity, and, cheeking it through, I had rendered irreparable that which could have been repaired.
What strange things take place in one at certain moments! It passes understanding.
It is like a fit of madness which falls upon you, you know not whence, you know not why,—which seizes you, shakes you, excites you, and forces you to cry out and shower insults. Under the influence of this fit of madness, I had heaped outrages upon Madame.
I had reproached her with her father, with her mother, and with the imbecile falsehood of her life; I had treated her as one does not treat a prostitute; I had spat upon her husband. And this frightens me, when I think of it. I feel ashamed of these sudden descents into baseness, of these filthy intoxications, in which my reason so often staggers, and which impel me to violence and murder. Why did I not kill her that day? Why did I not strangle her? I do not know. God knows, however, that I am not wicked. To-day I see again this poor woman, in my mind's eye; I see again her sad and disorderly life, with her coward, her dismal coward, of a husband. And I feel an immense pity for her; and I would like her to have strength enough to leave him and be happy.
After the terrible scene I hurried down to the servants' hall.
William was mildly polishing the silverware, and smoking a Russian cigarette.
"What is the matter with you?" asked he, in the most tranquil fashion in the world.
"I must go away; I must quit the box to-night," I gasped.
I could scarcely speak.
"What! you are going?" exclaimed William, without the least emotion.
"And why?"
In short and hissing phrases, and mimicking their manners, I related the entire scene between Madame and Monsieur.
William, very calm and indifferent, shrugged his shoulders.
"It is too stupid, indeed!" said he.
"One should not be as stupid as that!"
"And that is all you find to say to me?"
"What else do you expect me to say to you?
I say that it is stupid.
There is nothing else to say."
"And you? What are you going to do?"
He looked at me obliquely.
There was a sneer on his lips.
Ah! how ugly was his look, in that moment of distress; how ugly and hideous was his mouth!
"I?" said he, pretending not to understand that, in this question, there were prayers for him.
"Yes, you. I asked you what you were going to do."
"Nothing. I have nothing to do. I am going to continue. Why, you are crazy, my girl. You do not expect...."
I burst out:
"You are going to have the courage to remain in a house from which I am driven out?"
He rose, relighted his cigarette, and said, icily:
"Oh! no scene, you know.
I am not your husband. You have seen fit to commit a stupidity.
I am not responsible for it. What do you expect?
You must take the consequences. Life is life."
I became indignant.
"Then you are going to drop me?
You are a wretch, a scoundrel, like the others, do you know it?"
William smiled.
He was really a superior man.
"Oh! don't say useless things. I have made you no promises. Nor have you made me any. People meet; that is well. They part; that is well, too. Life is life."
And he added, sententiously:
"You see, Celestine, in life there must be conduct; there must be what I call administration. You have no conduct; you have no administration.
You allow yourself to be carried away by your nerves. In our business nerves are a very bad thing. Remember this well: life is life."
I think I should have thrown myself upon him and torn his face, his emotionless and cowardly face of a flunky, with furious digs of my nails, if tears had not suddenly come to soften and relax my overstrained nerves. My wrath fell, and I begged:
"Oh!
William!
William! my little William! my dear little William! how unhappy I am!"
William tried to revive my drooping spirits a little. I must say that he made use of all his powers of persuasion and all his philosophy. During the day he generously overwhelmed me with lofty thoughts, with grave and consoling aphorisms, in which these words, provoking and soothing at the same time, continually recurred:
"Life is life."
I must do him justice. This last day he was charming, though a little too solemn, and he did things very well.
In the evening, after dinner, he put my trunks on a cab, and escorted me to a lodging-house where he was known, paying a week's rent in advance out of his own pocket, and recommending the proprietor to take good care of me. But he could not stay himself, for he had an appointment with Edgar!