“Holy Virgin, kindly Virgin!” I cried. “Speak to me, speak to me again—as you used to in the past, in the chapel. … And give me love once more, for love is life and I am dying because I am no longer able to love.”
But the Virgin was not listening to me any longer. She glided into the chamber and curtsying, mounted the chairs, pried into the furniture pieces, singing strange airs all the time. A drawn bonnet of otter skin now replaced her nimbus of gold, her eyes became like those of Juliette Roux, very large, very sweet, which smiled at me from a plaster face under a veil of very fine gauze. From time to time she approached my bed, waving above me her embroidered handkerchief which exhaled a violent perfume.
“Monsieur Mintié,” she said, “I am at home every day from five to seven. And I shall be delighted to see you, delighted!”
“Virgin, kindly Virgin!” I implored again. “Speak to me, please. Speak to me as you did formerly in the chapel.”
“Tu, tu, tu, tu!” hummed the Virgin who, causing her lilac robe to swell out and removing her cloak, adorned with golden stars with the tips of her long, thin fingers, began to turn around slowly as if dancing a waltz, her head swaying from one side to the other.
“Good Virgin!” I repeated in a rather irritated voice, “why don’t you speak to me!”
She stopped, posted herself in front of me, stripped off her plaster garments one after another, and entirely nude, lustful and magnificent, her bosom shook with clear, sonorous, precipitous laughter:
“Monsieur Mintié,” she said, “I am at home every day from five to seven. And I’ll give you Charles’ old trousers.” And she threw her otter skin bonnet at me.
I sat up on my bed. … With a stupid gaze and breathing with difficulty, I looked about me. But the room was quiet, the lamp continued to burn sadly and my open book was lying on the carpet.
The next morning I got up late, having slept badly, pursued by the thought of Juliette in my sleep disturbed by nightmares. During the remainder of that troubled, feverish night she did not leave me for an instant, assuming the most extravagant forms, abandoning herself to the most wretched pranks, and lo! I again beheld her in the morning, and this time she was the same as when I met her before at Lirat’s, with her air of modesty, her discreet and charming manners.
I felt a kind of sadness—not exactly sadness, but regret, the regret one feels at the sight of a rosebush whose roses have wilted and whose petals are scattered over the muddy ground. For I could not think of Juliette without thinking at the same time of Lirat’s malignant words: “There was also an affair with a wrestler of Neuilly whom she gave twenty francs.” What a pity! … When she entered the studio I could swear that she was the most virtuous of women. … Her very manner of walking, greeting, smiling, seating herself bespoke good breeding, a peaceful, happy life without hasty acts of indiscretion, without degrading remorse. Her hat, her cloak, her dress, her whole appearance was of a refined and charming elegance, meant for the enjoyment of just one, for the cheerfulness of a secluded house, closed to the seekers of unclean spoils. … And her eyes, radiating a perfectly legitimate tenderness, her eyes from which shone such candor, so much sincerity, which seemed to have no knowledge of lies, her eyes more beautiful than the lakes haunted by the moon! …
“Is Charles all right?” Lirat had asked.
Charles? … Her husband, to be sure! … And naively I pictured to myself a respectable interior of a room, with jolly children playing on the carpet, a family lamp, grouping kind and simple beings around its gentle shimmer; a chaste bed, protected by a crucifix and a hallowed branch of boxtree! … Then suddenly, crashing into this peace, the bullhead from the Bouffes, the croupier of the gambling club, and Charles Malterre who broke Lirat’s lounge by rolling on it, while crying in rage! … I conjured the image of the comedian—a pallid face, wrinkled, glabrous, with impudent bloodshot eyes, with sensual lips, wearing an open collar, a pink cravat, a low-plaited short jacket!
I was unnerved and irritated. … What did it matter to me, after all? Did the life of this woman concern me, was it related to me in any way? … Was it my business to interest myself in the fate of women whom chance threw in my path? … I don’t care what she is, this Mlle. Juliette Roux! … She is neither my sister nor my fiancée, nor my friend; there is not a single bond of kinship between us. … If I had seen her yesterday walking on the street, like one of the thousands of persons whom one brushes against every day and who pass on and vanish, she would have already been drawn into the vortex of oblivion and never again would I be likely to see her.
“Maybe Lirat is mistaken?” I repeated, while breakfasting. I knew his exaggerations, his passion for ridicule, his horror of and contempt for woman. What he said of Juliette he was saying of all other women. Who knows—perhaps this comedian, this croupier, all the details of this ignominious affair in the exposure of which his spiteful spirit found gratification, existed only in his imagination? And Charles Malterre?
Undoubtedly I should have preferred to see her married. I should have been pleased to see her leaning openly on the arm of a man, respected, envied by the most honest! But she loved this Malterre, she lived decently with him, she was devoted to him: “Charles will be sorry to learn of your refusal.” The almost entreating voice in which she said those words was still in my ears. This means that she was mindful of the
