The Blue Duchess

evous inconsequence of heart which was always the same in spite of experience, in spite of resolution, and in spite of age! I had run after my friend all the afternoon to beg him not to slight his p

ected place, and the thought of their appointment on the morrow was more painful still. I could see them in each other’s arms, with the help of that terribly precise imagination which a painter’s craft develops in him. This unsupportable vision made me admit the sad truth. I 112was jealou

o was in love with some one else, but never with the sudden emotion, with the troubled ardour in the sympathy which Camille Favier inspired in me. I was afraid, so I concluded a solemn compact with myself. I took my

me on, I am capable of singular endurance in abstention, in abnegation and absence. Telling a woman that I love her stifles me with timidity into thinking that I shall die of it. I have been able to fly with savage energy from mistresses I have passionately adored, 113and remain even without answering their let

yself. I put down my brush. I told Malvina Ducras, my stupid model with a common voice and such sad eyes, to take a little rest, and while the girl smoked cigarettes and read a bad novel, my mind went far away from my studio and I could see Camille again. I had read too many books, as my custom was, about this fable of Psyché for it not to make me dream. The idea represented by this story, this cruel affirmation

I always felt myself attracted by this subject, without doubt on account of that, and I have never been able to make a success of the scenes of canvasses on which I have begun to treat the subject. Camille Favier is far away and the “Psyché pardonnée” is still unfinished. I would like to introduce into the picture, too, many tints.

first impression of which was so clear that by shutting my eyes I could see her before me just as she appeared—upon the stage, fine and fairylike in her youth and genius beneath her make-up, with the blue costume of her part; then in her dressing-room, by turns tender and satirical, with the picturesque disorder around her which betrayed the thousand small miseries of her calling; then along the wall of the Invalides under the stars of that December night, leaning on my arm, pale and magnified as if she were transfigured by the

with which I was seized before these portraits. The most charming of them represented Camille in walking dress. It must have been at least two years old, at a period certainly before she became Jacques’ mistress. There was in the eyes and at the lips of this girlish picture a maidenly and somewhat shy expression, the shamefaced nervous reserve of a soul which has not yet given itself—the soul of a child which foresees its destiny and fears it, but desires the mysterious unknown. Two others of these photographs represented the debutante in the two parts she had played at the Odéon. She was t

, and forever branded by shameless and profligate luxury. But I always went back to the earliest of these photographs, the one I would have desired, had I been able to meet the livin

inner state. They do not rid themselves of suffering by expressing it, they develop it, they inflame it, perhaps because they do not know how to express it and to entirely rid themselves of it. This was so in my own case. Before these photographs my project for a portrait became

e obvious and physiological to me, of an exquisite delicacy of nature in the person, of whom that had been a momentary likeness. The tiny ear with its pretty lobe told of her breeding. Her pale silky hair displayed tints in its ringlets which seemed faded and washed out. The construction of the lower part of the face could be seen to be fine and robust beneath her slender cheeks. There was a shade of sensuality in her lower lip which was slightly flatt

spent in putting on to canvas such a real and deceptive mirage as the 119smile and eyes of Camille, her smile of the past, and her eyes of to-day lit by ether flames! How I felt, too, that my talent was not in the depths of my soul, since the intoxication of this spiritual possession was not achieved by a definite

ounded and bleeding. Because of my troubles during the day following my introduction to the Bonnivets, and during my week’s solitary work, I had neglected to call upon them and leave my card. For that reason I felt I was not likely to see Queen Anne again. But that was the quarter from which

nplace as the writing in it! Why had it not reached me through Jacques or with a few lines from him? My first idea was to refuse it. A dinner in town had appeared to me for years an insupportable and useless task. The too numerous family feasts I am constrained to attend, why?—the monthly love feasts of fellow artists which I am we

velope and stamped. Then instead of sending the letter to the post, I put it in my pocket to post myself. I called a passing cab, and instead of telling the driver to stop at the nearest post office I gave him Molan’s address, Place Delaborde—the house I had sworn 1

ceaselessly interrupts his work. A high desk held out an invitation for standing composition. Another bookcase, lofty and revolving, full of dictionaries, atlas, books of reference, and maps stood at the corner of the writing-table; and the order of the latter piece of furniture, with its sheets of paper carefully cut, its stock of useful articles, its place for answered letters and for letters to be answ

asured and regular gesture. To make his portrait really typical it was necessary to paint Molan as I surprised him, engaged in reading the four pages he had written since his awakening that morning—four little sheets covered with lines of equal length in a handwriting every letter of which was properly made, every T crossed and every I dotted. Was I envious as I noted these details with an irri

eptible, and the irritable ones with whom you quarrel, who either want you or do not do so, who often get angry with you, sometimes wrongly and by the most involuntary negligence, but for whom you exist and are real with human living reality! To the real egoists, on the other hand, you are an object, a thing the equal in their eyes of the couch they offer you to sit down upon with their most amiable and empty smile. Your only reality to them is your presence, and the pleasure or the reverse they feel at it. To be entirely frank, perhaps I should have wished Camille’s lover to receive me in the way he always had done, with hi

to me?” I asked him. “Who will be present

I had nothing to do with it. You must accept for two reasons: first because it

a ser

t you know me well enough to be sure that I have not let the week pass without man?uvring skilfully in the little war which Queen Anne and myself are waging! I say skilfully, but it is merely working a scheme, the foundation of which never varies. Mine has progressed in the way I told you, by persuading the l

You talk to her about your passion for little Favier; 125that is another fact. How

e gluttonous appetite of the carnivorous animal were striving for mastery? Ah, well, I have those eyes for Queen Anne at each new ruse she employs to arouse my desire for her beauty. The man being superior to the dog in virtue, sir, and in self-control, duty carries him away. I leave her quickly like some one who does n

n carriage

e little hand, and it returned my pressure. I put my arm around her waist. Her loins bent as if to avoid me, in reality to make me feel their suppleness. She turned to me as if to become indignant, but in reality to envelop me with her staring eyes and madden me. My lips sought her lips. She struggled, and suddenly instead of insisting, I repulsed her. It was I who said: 'No, no, no. It would be too wicked.’ I could not do that to her, and made use of the expressions usual to her sex at

the same effect as yourself when Madam de Bonnivet speaks to me of Camille? In that ca

ord. Why not?” asked

u injured yourself through the villainous game you are playing. But when I meet real sentiment, I take my hat off to it, and I do not trample on it. It is real sentiment which Camille Favier feels for you. I heard her speak of her love, the evening I saw her, while

eir liaison, the temptations of luxury which surrounded her, and the crime it is to provoke the first great deception in a human being. At last I was expending, in defending the little Blue Duchess to her lover, the warmth of the unfortunate love I myself felt for her. And I was

ough you don’t think so. Only I place it so as not to deceive them upon the quality of the little combination to which I invite them in courting them. It is for them to accept and take the consequences. If to-day Camille experiences the temptation for luxury, which, by the way, I think very natural, this temptation has nothing to do with her broken ideal. She makes that pretty excuse to herself, and that, I think, is very natural too. She is almost as sincere as the young girls who make a wealthy marriage and excuse themselves for a first love betrayed. Let her take her rich lover—you can give her my permission; let him pay for

erspicacity. It was true that I felt my resolu

owing us. I told you the other day, you are a born looker-on and confidant. You have been mine. You suddenly became Camille’s, and now you must become Madam de Bonnivet’s. You will receive the confidences of this woman of the world; y

onnivet. Besides that, I had done worse. In spite of the spasm of unreasonable and morbid jealousy which clutched my heart each time I thought of the intercourse between Jacques and his mistress, I made an appointment to begin the promised portrait, not th

No, you will never finish me,” she seemed to say to me with her sad eyes, her fine oval face, and her mouth framed in a melancholy smile. It is certain that neither that evening nor during the hours which followed had I the courage to touch that poor head, nor have I done so since. The enchantment was broken. I passed the ensuing hours in a state of singular agitation. I was

I had spent a sweet romantic week, as much inner remorse as if it had been the image, not of a chimera, but of an actually betrayed fiancée. I can see myself now as I appeared in the large mirror of the studio, walking with my fur coat open like a guilty man tow

val’s house? He would be sure to tell her in order to enjoy my 132embarrassment. What would Madam de Bonnivet herself say? Why had she invited me? What did I really know about it? What did I know of her, save that the sight of her gave me a pronounced feeling of antipathy, and Jacques had told me many unpleasant things about he

hem, for it seemed to me most like a parody of architecture, in which the feat has been achieved of mingling twenty-five styles and building a wooden staircase in the English style in a Renaissance framework; the hang-dog faces of the footmen in livery seemed like a gallery of mute insolence to the visitor. How could I bear this adornment of things and people without perceiving its hideous artificiality? 133How could I help detesting the impression made by this furniture, which smelt of plunder and curiosity shops, for no

rs and arms. A jet girdle, a model of those worn in ancient statues on tombs by queens of the Middle Ages, followed 134the sinuous line of the hips, and terminated in two pendants crossed very low down. Enormous turquoises surrounded by diamonds shone in this pretty woman’s ears. These turquoises and a golden serpent on each arm—two marvellous copies of golden serpents in the Museum at Naples—were the only jewels to lighten this costume, which made her figure look longer and more slender even than it was. Her blonde pallor, heightened by the contrast of this sombre harmony in black and gold, took the delicacy of living ivory. Not a stone shone in her clear golden hair, and it looked as if she had matched the blue of her turquoise with the blue of her eyes, so exactly

er Miraut. The latter seemed somewhat surprised, and not very pleased to see me. Dear old master; if he only knew how wrong he was in thinking that I was his rival for a 20,000-franc portrait! But this pastel merchant comes of the race of good giants. Besides his six foot in height, and supple

am de Bonnivet. “He has great ability, only

,” the young woman interposed, casting an evil glance at th

he looks this evening! Bonnivet, too, looks preoccupied in spite of his mask of gaiety! I will stand by what 136I told Jacques the other day. I would not trust either the woman or the husband. These cold-looking blondes a

an see in it the setting of a real passion. For people of this kind the vanity of their club and drawing-room life has at least its realism. In playing the part of the noble host they prove they have mounted one step of the social ladder. The life of fashion is to them a second business, which is in juxtaposition to the other and continues it. It is a step gained; but what a life theirs must be to endure the wear and tear of these two existences, anxious cares

om I have seen fence at the School of Arms; then appeared a certain Baron Desforges, a man of sixty, whose eye at once struck me as being almost too acute, and whose colour was too red, like that of a man of the world grown old. The conversation began t

o had declared that he felt a little heavy after a meal. “People digest wi

e?” the fina

on. “I will send Noirot to you. M

as saying to éthorel. “At three thousand 138fra

ivet; “it is a fine chance to take advantage of the early winter. Before the first of J

that old fool Madam Hurtrel on the ice, running after young Liauran. She was

But if I said I pitie

was soon to learn both the false excuse and the real reason of his absence. During the first course the flowers and silver upon the dinner-table directed the conversation to the subject of the taste of the period and mistakes made on the st

the Boulevard I saw there was a change of bill at the

the play rests upon his shoulders. He is clever, but he is the only one in the company,” he went on, and this prove

ivet. “Molan should have been here, but he excused hims

hat the absence of Jacques was the cause of her nervousness. At the same time I felt that Bonnivet was scrutinizing my face with the same look which he gave to his wife, and three things became evident to me: one, and the most terrible was that the husband was suspicious of the relations between Queen Anne and my comrade; the second was that my companion had seized the opportunity of the change of bill to 1

veins of his full-blooded forehead, his greenish eyes so quick to display anger, and the coarse red hair, which grew right down his arms to his fingers, were all signs of brutality which gave me the impression that he was a redoubtable person. Tragic action would be as natural

of Jacques Molan, d

r, and I see him sometimes

t when on his way here. Consequently they know his cold and headache are only an excus

with a box of cigars in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. I took a Russian cigarette, while the robust gladiator put into his mouth a veritable tree trunk,

appetizer with which

No. A drop of Kummel or Chartreuse?” Bonnivet

id, and I added with a smile: “I have not

lan, for instance,” the husband said, watching me as he pronounced the name. Then

aps he has 142overworked himself

ll more?” my questioner insiste

ore still,” I replied in

on for long?” the husband as

has been running. It is a hon

d me without entirely formulating his question, though I completed i

with her and afterwards the night? I don

, and asked himself the reason. Did he think that he had stumbled upon, between his wife and Jacques, one of those momentary quarrels which, more than constant attentions, denounce a love intrigue? He suspected that I was in my comrade’s confidence. He thought I knew the real reason of his a

ck, were you pleas

about the foie gras,” the Baron replied. “I shall not tell you what it was, but you shall judge

nnivet as he threw me a meaning

tones, “not one more, since I have known what eating really is. The seventh, do you hear? Then I pass them on to you and

ned and Senneterre there. Such small parties being unfavourable to private conversation, 144I had reason to hope that Madam de Bonnivet would not have the opportunity of cornering and confessing me. I little knew this capricious and authoritative woman who was also well acquainted with her husband’s ways. She had realized that it would not do f

woman who regards the person to whom she is talking in the light of a servant to amuse or inform her. Each time I come across this unconscious insolence in a fashionable doll an irresistible desire seiz

lle Favier? Why, I have no

ged his mind and forbidden it? You are in love wit

I replied. “Not the l

she said, “and Jacques Molan was, i

to the desire I felt to hurt her, I added: “He is very wrong; Cami

m de Bonnivet said, knitting her blonde brows j

onviction. “Little Favier has not only adorable beauty, but

s worse still. Happiness has never yet inspired a writer. But I am sure this affair will not last long.

terrupted more quickly than was absolutely polite. “She is v

” she interrupted, “if my information is accurate,

e it. She has refused a house, horses, dresses, jewels, and all the things which tempt one in her positi

” she said with a sneer; “for

n aggressive dryness, “and I am ori

e this commonplace observation, such detestable wickedness, and the conversation betrayed on her part such odio

rhaps, madam, but not in our world

r blue eyes less anger than surprise. One of the peculiar characteristics of these coquettish jad

eplied. “But you know I am somewhat original,

ance to place them. She made in this way two or three ingenuous remarks upon Perugins and Raphael, notably upon the illogicalness of the latter, in eliminating from his Madonnas every Christian sentiment to give them too much beauty, a paganism of health irreconcilable with the mystic beyond and his dream. She had such a way of appearing to understand what she was saying, that I did not think ridiculous the admiration with which the ninny Senneterre, who had joined us, listened to her remarks. This jealous fellow had not been able t

r done any pi

,” I r

nd see his target cards some day. He has put ten shots in a space as

n?ois I, where he lived, with this