“What are we to do? It is not our fault.”
“No, it is not your fault, my dear Christophe. It is not your fault, nor is it ours. The truth is, you know, that life is not a simple thing. They say that there we only need to live naturally. But which of us is natural?”
“True. Nothing is natural in our way of living. Celibacy is not natural. Nor is marriage. And free love delivers the weak up to the rapaciousness of the strong. Even our society is not a natural thing: we have manufactured it. It is said that man is a sociable animal. What nonsense! He was forced to be so to live. He has made himself sociable for the purposes of utility, and self-defence, and pleasure, and the rise to greatness. His necessity has led him to subscribe to certain compacts. Nature kicks against the constraint and avenges herself. Nature was not made for us. We try to quell her. It is a struggle, and it is not surprising that we are often beaten. How are we to win through it? By being strong.”
“By being kind.”
“Heavens! To be kind, to pluck off one’s armor of selfishness, to breathe, to love life, light, one’s humble work, the little corner of the earth in which one’s roots are spread. And if one cannot have breadth to try to make up for it in height and depth, like a tree in a cramped space growing upward to the sun.”
“Yes. And first of all to love one another. If a man would feel more that he is the brother of a woman, and not only her prey, or that she must be his! If both would shed their vanity and each think a little less of themselves, and a little more of the other! … We are weak: help us. Let us not say to those who have fallen: ‘I do not know you.’ But: ‘Courage, friend. We’ll pull through.’ ”
They sat there in silence by the hearth, with the cat between them, all three still, lost in thought, gazing at the fire. It was nearly out; but a little flame flickered up, and with its wing lightly touched Madame Arnaud’s delicate face, which was suffused with the rosy light of an inward exaltation which was strange to her. She was amazed at herself for having been so open. She had never said so much before, and she would never say so much again.
She laid her hand on Christophe’s and said:
“What will you do with the child?”
She had been thinking of that from the outset. She talked and talked and became another woman, excited and exalted. But she was thinking of that and that only. With Christophe’s first words she had woven a romance in her heart. She thought of the child left by its mother, of the happiness of bringing it up, and weaving about its little soul the web of her dreams and her love. And she thought:
“No. It is wicked of me: I ought not to rejoice in the misfortunes of others.”
But the idea was too strong for her. She went on talking and talking, and her silent heart was flooded with hope.
Christophe said:
“Yes, of course we have thought it over. Poor child! Both Olivier and I are incapable of rearing it. It needs a woman’s care. I thought perhaps one of our friends would like to help us. …”
Madame Arnaud could hardly breathe.
Christophe said:
“I wanted to talk to you about it. And then Cécile came in just as we were talking about it. When she heard of our difficulty, when she saw the child, she was so moved, she seemed so delighted, she said: ‘Christophe. …’ ”
Madame Arnaud’s heart stopped; she did not hear what else he said: there was a mist in front of her eyes. She was fain to cry out:
“No, no. Give him to me. …”
Christophe went on speaking. She did not hear what he was saying. But she controlled herself. She thought of what Cécile had told her, and she thought:
“Her need is greater than mine. I have my dear Arnaud … and … and everything … and besides, I am older. …”
And she smiled and said:
“It is well.”
But the flame in the dying fire had flickered out: so too had the rosy light in her face. And her dear tired face wore only its usual expression of kindness and resignation.
“My wife has betrayed me.”
Olivier was crushed by the weight of that idea. In vain did Christophe try affectionately to shake him out of his torpor.
“What would you?” he said. “The treachery of a friend is an everyday evil like illness, or poverty, or fighting the fools. We have to be armed against it. It is a poor sort of man that cannot bear up against it.”
“That’s just what I am. I’m not proud of it … a poor sort of man: yes: a man who needs tenderness, and dies if it is taken from him.”
“Your life is not finished: there are other people to love.”
“I can’t believe in any one. There are none who can be friends.”
“Olivier!”
“I beg your pardon. I don’t doubt you, although there are moments when I doubt everybody—myself included. … But you are strong: you don’t need anybody: you can do without me.”
“So can she—even better.”
“You are cruel, Christophe.”
“My dear fellow. I’m being brutal to you just to make you lash out. Good Lord! It is perfectly shameful of you to sacrifice those who love you, and your life, to a woman who doesn’t care for you.”
“What do I care for those who love me? I love her.”
“Work. Your old interests. …”
“… Don’t interest me any longer. I’m sick of it all. I seem to have passed out of life altogether. Everything seems so far away. … I see, but I don’t understand. … And to think that there are men who never grow tired of winding up their
