Everybody in the house was asleep. Then I returned to the bedside. I raised Georges's body, as light as a feather, in my arms. I lifted up his head, maintaining it in an upright position in my hands. The blood continued to flow from his mouth in pitchy filaments; I heard his chest discharging itself through his throat, with the sound of an emptying bottle. His eyes, turned up, showed nothing but their reddish globes between the swollen eyelids.
"Georges!
Georges!
Georges!"
Georges did not answer these calls and cries. He did not hear them. He heard nothing more of the cries and calls of earth.
"Georges!
Georges!
Georges!"
I let go his body; his body sank upon the bed. I let go his head; his head fell back heavily upon the pillow. I placed my hand upon his heart; his heart had ceased to beat.
"Georges!
Georges!
Georges!"
The horror of this silence, of these mute lips, of this corpse red and motionless, and of myself, was too much for me. And, crushed with grief, crushed with the frightful necessity of restraining my grief, I fell to the floor in a swoon.
How many minutes did this swoon last, or how many centuries? I do not know.
On recovering consciousness, one torturing thought dominated all others,—that of removing every accusing sign. I washed my face, I redressed myself, and—yes, I had the frightful courage,—I put the bed and the room to rights. And, when that was done, I awoke the house; I cried the terrible news through the house.
Oh! that night!
That night I suffered all the tortures that hell contains.
And this night here at the Priory reminds me of it. The storm is raging, as it raged there the night when I began my work of destruction on that poor flesh.
And the roaring of the wind through the trees in the garden sounds to me like the roaring of the sea against the embankment of the forever-cursed Houlgate villa. _____
Upon our return to Paris, after M. Georges's funeral, I did not wish to remain in the poor grandmother's service, in spite of her repeated entreaties.
I was in a hurry to go away, that I might see no more of that tearful face,—that I might no longer hear the sobs that lacerated my heart. And, above all, I was in a hurry to get away from her gratitude, from the necessity which she felt, in her doting distress, of continually thanking me for my devotion, for my heroism, of calling me her "daughter, her dear little daughter," and of embracing me with madly effusive tenderness. Many times during the fortnight in which I consented to call upon her, in obedience to her request, I had an intense desire to confess, to accuse myself, to tell her everything that was lying so heavily on my soul and often stifling me.
But what would have been the use?
Would it have given her any relief whatever?
It would simply have added a more bitter affliction to her other afflictions, and the horrible thought and the inexpiable remorse that, but for me, her dear child perhaps would not be dead.
And then, I must confess that I had not the courage.
I left her house with my secret, worshipped by her as if I were a saint, overwhelmed with rich presents and with love.
Now, on the very day of my departure, as I was coming back from Mme. Paulhat-Durand's employment-bureau, I met in the Champs-Elysees a former comrade, a valet, with whom I had served for six months in the same house.
It was fully two years since I had seen him.
After our first greetings, I learned that he, as well as I, was looking for a place. Only, having for the moment some nickel-plated extra jobs, he was in no hurry to find one.
"This jolly Celestine!" he exclaimed, happy at seeing me again; "as astonishing as ever!"
He was a good fellow, gay, full of fun, and fond of a good time.
He proposed: "Suppose we dine together, eh?"
I needed to divert myself, to drive far away from me a multitude of sad images, a multitude of obsessing thoughts. I accepted.
"Good!" he exclaimed.
He took my arm, and led me to a wine-shop in the Rue Cambon.
His heavy gaiety, his coarse jokes, his vulgar obscenity, I keenly appreciated. They did not shock me.
On the contrary, I felt a certain rascally joy, a sort of crapulous security, as if I were resuming a lost habit. To tell the truth, I recognized myself, I recognized my own life and my own soul in those dissipated eyelids, in that smooth face, in those shaven lips, which betray the same servile grimace, the same furrow of falsehood, the same taste for passional filth, in the actor, the judge, and the valet.
After dinner we strolled for a time on the boulevards; then he took me to see a cinematograph exhibition.
My will was a little weak from having drunk too much Saumur wine. In the darkness of the hall, as the French army was marching across the illuminated screen amid the applause of the spectators, he caught me about the waist, and imprinted a kiss upon the back of my neck which came near loosening my hair.
"You are astonishing!" he whispered.
"Oh! how good you smell!"
He accompanied me to my hotel, and we stood for a few minutes on the sidewalk, silent and a little stupid.
He was tapping his shoes with the end of his cane; I, with head lowered, my elbows pressed closely against my body, and my hands in my muff, was crushing a bit of orange-peel beneath my feet.
"Well, au revoir!" I said to him.
"Oh! no," he exclaimed, "let me go up with you.
Come, Celestine."
I defended myself, in an uncertain fashion, for the sake of form.
He insisted. "Come, what is the matter with you?
Heart troubles?
Now is the very time...."