A Mummer's Tale. Anatole France
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now convinced that they were together. The stillness of the night, interrupted only by the muffled sound of the cabs bowling along the boulevard, gave reality to the thoughts and images which tortured him. He could see them.
Awakened with a start by the sound of singing on the pavement below, Madame Nanteuil returned to the thought with which she had fallen asleep.
"That's what I am always telling Félicie; one mustn't be discouraged. One should not lose heart. We all have our ups and downs in life."
Chevalier nodded acquiescence.
"But those who suffer," he said, "only get what they deserve. It needs but a moment to free oneself from all one's troubles. Isn't it so?"
She admitted the fact; certainly there were such things as sudden opportunities, especially on the stage.
"Heaven knows," he continued in a deep, brooding voice, "it's not the stage I am worrying about. I know I shall make a name for myself one day, and a big one. But what's the good of being a great artist if one isn't happy? There are stupid worries which are terrible! Pains that throb in your temples with strokes as even and as regular as the ticking of that clock, till they drive you mad!"
He ceased speaking; the gloomy gaze of his deep-set eyes fell upon the trophy hanging on the wall. Then he continued:
"These stupid worries, these ridiculous sufferings, if one endures them too long, it simply means that one is a coward."
And he felt the butt of the revolver which he always carried in his pocket.
Madame Nanteuil listened to him serenely, with that gentle determination not to know anything, which had been her one talent in life.
"Another dreadful thing," she observed, "is to decide what to have to eat. Félicie is sick of everything. There's no knowing what to get for her."
After that, the flagging conversation languished, drawn out into detached phrases, which had no particular meaning. Madame Nanteuil, the servant, the coke fire, the lamp, the plate of sausage, awaited Félicie in depressing silence. The clock struck one. Chevalier's suffering had by this time attained the serenity of a flood tide. He was now certain. The cabs were not so frequent and their wheels echoed more loudly along the street. The rumbling of one of these cabs suddenly ceased outside the house. A few seconds later he heard the slight grating of a key in the lock, the slamming of the door, and light footsteps in the outer room.
The clock marked twenty-three minutes past one. He was suddenly full of agitation, yet hopeful. She had come! Who could tell what she would say? She might offer the most natural explanation of her late arrival.
Félicie entered the room, her hair in disorder, her eyes shining, her cheeks white, her bruised lips a vivid red; she was tired, indifferent, mute, happy and lovely, seeming to guard beneath her cloak, which she held wrapped about her with both hands, some remnant of warmth and voluptuous pleasure.
"I was beginning to be worried," said her mother. "Aren't you going to unfasten your cloak?"
"I'm hungry," she replied. She dropped into a chair before the little round table. Throwing her cloak over the back of the chair, she revealed her slender figure in its little black schoolgirl's dress, and, resting her left elbow on the oil-cloth table-cover, she proceeded to stick her fork into the sliced sausage.
"Did everything go off well to-night?" asked Madame Nanteuil.
"Quite well."
"You see Chevalier has come to keep you company. It is kind of him, isn't it?"
"Oh, Chevalier! Well, let him come to the table."
And, without replying further to her mother's questions, she began to eat, greedy and charming, like Ceres in the old woman's house. Then she pushed aside her plate, and leaning back in her chair, with half-closed eyes, and parted lips, she smiled a smile that was akin to a kiss.
Madame Nanteuil, having drunk her glass of mulled wine, rose to her feet.
"You will excuse me, Monsieur Chevalier, I have my accounts to bring up to date."
This was the formula which she usually employed to announce that she was going to bed.
Left alone with Félicie, Chevalier said to her angrily:
"I know I'm a fool and a groveller; but I'm going mad for love of you. Do you hear, Félicie?"
"I should think I do hear. You needn't shout like that!"
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"
"No, it's not ridiculous, it's——"
She did not complete the sentence.
He drew nearer to her, dragging his chair with him.
"You came in at twenty-five minutes past one. It was Ligny who saw you home, I know it. He brought you back in a cab, I heard it stop outside the house."
As she did not reply, he continued:
"Deny it, if you can!"
She remained silent, and he repeated, in an urgent, almost appealing tone:
"Tell me he didn't!"
Had she been so inclined, she might, with a phrase, with a single word, with a tiny movement of head or shoulders, have rendered him perfectly submissive, and almost happy. But she maintained a malicious silence. With compressed lips and a far-off look in her eyes, she seemed as though lost in a dream.
He sighed hoarsely.
"Fool that I was, I didn't think of that! I told myself you would come home, as on other nights, with Madame Doulce, or else alone. If I had only known that you were going to let that fellow see you home!"
"Well, what would you have done, had you known it?"
"I should have followed you, by God!"
She stared at him with hard, unnaturally bright eyes.
"That I forbid you to do! Understand me! If I learn that you have followed me, even once, I'll never see you again. To begin with, you haven't the right to follow me. I suppose I am free to do as I like."
Choking with astonishment and anger, he stammered:
"Haven't the right to? Haven't the right to? You tell me I haven't the right?"
"No, you haven't the right! Moreover, I won't have it." Her face assumed an expression of disgust. "It's a mean trick to spy on a woman, if you once try to find out where I'm going, I'll send you about your business, and quickly at that."
"Then," he murmured, thunderstruck, "we are nothing to each other, I am nothing to you. We have never belonged to each other. But see, Félicie, remember——"
But she was losing patience:
"Well, what do you want me to remember?"
"Félicie, remember that you gave yourself to me!"
"My dear boy, you really can't expect me to think of that all day. It wouldn't be proper."
He looked at her for a while, more in curiosity than in anger, and said to her, half bitterly, half gently:
"They may well call you a selfish little jade! Be one, Félicie, be one, as much as you like! What does it matter, since I love you? You are mine; I am going to take you back; I am going to take you back, and keep you. Think! I can't go on suffering for ever, like a poor dumb beast. Listen. I'll start with a clean slate. Let us begin to love one another over again. And this time it will be all right. And you'll be mine for good, mine only. I am an honest man; you know that. You can depend on me. I'll marry you as soon as I've got a position."
She gazed at him with disdainful surprise. He believed that she had doubts as to his dramatic future, and, in order to banish them, he said, erect on his long legs:
"Don't you believe in my star, Félicie? You are wrong. I can