initial it was ten o'clock in the forenoon. the april sun bathed the tender leafage of the trees in light. a storm had cleared the air during the night and it was deliciously fresh and sweet. at long intervals a horseman passing along the allée des veuves broke the silence and solitude. on the outskirts of the shady avenue, over against a rustic cottage known as la belle lilloise, évariste sat on a wooden bench waiting for élodie. since the day their fingers had met over the embroidery and their breaths had mingled, he had never been back to the amour peintre. for a whole week his proud stoicism and his timidity, which grew more extreme every day, had kept him away from élodie. he had written her a letter conceived in a key of gravity, at once sombre and ardent, in which, explaining the grievance he had against the citoyen blaise, but saying no word of his love and concealing his chagrin, he announced his intention of never returning to her father's shop, and was now showing greater steadfastness in keeping this resolution than a woman in love was quite likely to approve.
a born fighter whose bent was to defend her property under all circumstances, élodie instantly turned her mind to the task of winning back her lover. at first she thought of going to see him at the studio in the place de thionville. but knowing his touchy temper and judging from his letter that he was sick and sore, she feared he might come to regard daughter and father with the same angry displeasure and make a point of never seeing her again; so she deemed it wiser to invite him to a sentimental, romantic rendezvous which he could not well decline, where she would have ample time to cajole and charm him and where solitude would be her ally to fascinate his senses and overcome his scruples.
at this period, in all the english gardens and all the fashionable promenades, rustic cottages were to be found, built by clever architects, whose aim it was to flatter the taste of the city folk for a country life. the belle lilloise was occupied as a house of light refreshment; its exterior bore a look of poverty that was part of the mise en scène and it stood on the fragments, artistically imitated, of a fallen tower, so as to unite with the charm of rusticity the melancholy appeal of a ruined castle. moreover, as though a peasant's cot and a shattered donjon were not enough to stir the sensibilities of his customers, the owner had raised a tomb beneath a weeping-willow,—a column surmounted by a funeral urn and bearing the inscription: "cléonice to her faithful azor." rustic cots, ruined keeps, imitation tombs,—on the eve of being swept away, the aristocracy had erected in its ancestral parks these symbols of poverty, of decadence and of death. and now the patriot citizen found his delight in drinking, dancing, making love in sham hovels, under the broken vaults, a sham in their very ruin, of sham cloisters and surrounded by a sham graveyard; for was not he too, like his betters, a lover of nature, a disciple of jean-jacques? was not his heart stuffed as full as theirs with sensibility and the philosophy of humanity?
reaching the rendezvous before the appointed time, évariste waited, measuring the minutes by the beating of his heart as by the pendulum of a clock. a patrol passed, guarding a convoy of prisoners. ten minutes after a woman dressed all in pink, carrying a bouquet as the fashion was, escorted by a gentleman in a three-cornered hat, red coat, striped waistcoat and breeches, slipped into the cottage, both so very like the gallants and dames of the ancien régime one was bound to think with the citoyen blaise that mankind possesses characteristics revolutions cannot change.
a few minutes later, coming from rueil or saint-cloud, an old woman carrying a cylindrical box, painted in brilliant colours, arrived and sat down beside gamelin, on his bench. she put down her box in front of her, and he saw that the lid had a turning needle fixed on it; the poor woman's trade was to hold a lottery in the public gardens for the children to try their luck at. she also dealt in "ladies' pleasures," an old-fashioned sweetmeat which she sold under a new name; whether because the time-honoured title of "forget-me-nots" called up inappropriate ideas of unhappiness and retribution or that folks had just got tired of it in course of time, "forget-me-nots" were now yclept "ladies' pleasures."
the old dame wiped the sweat from her forehead with a corner of her apron and broke out into railings against heaven, upbraiding god for injustice when he made life so hard for his creatures. her husband kept a tavern on the river-bank at saint-cloud, while she came in every day to the champs élysées, sounding her rattle and crying: "ladies' pleasures, come buy, come buy!" and with all this toil the old couple could not scrape enough together to end their days in comfort.
seeing the young man beside her disposed to commiserate with her, she expounded at great length the origin of her misfortunes. it was all the republic; by robbing the rich, it was taking the bread out of poor people's mouths. and there was no hoping for a better state of affairs. things would only go from bad to worse,—she knew that from many tokens. at nanterre a woman had had a baby born with a serpent's head; the lightning had struck the church at rueil and melted the cross on the steeple; a were-wolf had been seen in the woods of chaville. masked men were poisoning the springs and throwing plague powders in the air to cause diseases....
évariste saw élodie spring from a carriage and run forward. the girl's eyes flashed in the clear shadow cast by her straw hat; her lips, as red as the carnations she held in her hand, were wreathed in smiles. a scarf of black silk, crossed over the bosom, was knotted behind the back. her yellow gown displayed the quick movements of the knees and showed a pair of low-heeled shoes below the hem. the hips were almost entirely unconfined; the revolution had enfranchised the waists of its citoyennes. for all that, the skirts, still puffed out below the loins, marked the curves by exaggerating them and veiled the reality beneath an artificial amplitude of outline.
he tried to speak but could not find his voice, and was chagrined at his failure, which élodie preferred to the most eloquent greeting. she noticed also and looked upon it as a good omen, that he had tied his cravat with more than usual pains.
she gave him her hand.
"i wanted to see you," she began, "and talk to you. i did not answer your letter; i did not like it and i did not think it worthy of you. it would have been more to my taste if it had been more outspoken. it would be to malign your character and common sense to suppose you do not mean to return to the amour peintre because you had a trifling altercation there about politics with a man many years your senior. rest assured you have no cause to fear my father will receive you ill whenever you come to see us again. you do not know him; he has forgotten both what he said to you and what you said in reply. i do not say there is any great bond of sympathy between you two; but he bears no malice; i tell you frankly he pays no great heed to you ... nor to me. he thinks only of his own affairs and his own pleasures."
she stepped towards the shrubberies surrounding the belle lilloise, and he followed her with something of repugnance, knowing it to be the trysting-place of mercenary lovers and amours of a day. she selected the table furthest out of sight.
"how many things i have to tell you, évariste. friendship has its rights; you do not forbid me to exercise them? i have much to say about you ... and something about myself, if you will let me."
the landlord having brought a carafe of lemonade, she filled their glasses herself with the air of a careful housewife; then she began to tell him about her childhood, described her mother's beauty, which she loved to dilate upon both as a tribute to the latter's memory and as the source of her own good looks, and boasted of her grandparents' sturdy vigour, for she was proud of her bourgeois blood. she related how at sixteen she had lost this mother she adored and had entered on a life without anyone to love or rely upon. she painted herself as she was, a vehement, passionate nature, full of sensibility and courage, and concluded:
"oh, évariste, my girlhood was so sad and lonely i cannot but know what a prize is a heart like yours, and i will not surrender, i give you fair warning, of my own free will and without an effort to retain it, a sympathy on which i trusted i might count and which i held dear."
évariste gazed at her tenderly.
"can it be, élodie, that i am not indifferent to you? can i really think...?"
he broke off, fearing to say too much and thereby betray so trusting a friendliness.
she gave him a little confiding hand that half-peeped out of the long narrow sleeve with its lace frillings. her bosom rose and fell in long-drawn sighs.
"credit me, évariste, with all the sentiments you would have me feel for you, and you will not be mistaken in the dispositions of my heart."
"élodie, élodie, you say that? will you still say it when you know ..."—he hesitated.
she dropped her eyes; and he finished the sentence in a whisper:
"... when you know i love you?"
as she heard the declaration, she blushed,—with pleasure. yet, while her eyes still spoke of a tender ecstasy, a quizzical smile flickered in spite of herself about one corner of her lips. she was thinking:
"and he imagines he proposed first!... and he is afraid perhaps of offending me!..."
then she said to him fondly:
"so you had never seen, dear heart, that i loved you?"
they seemed to themselves to be alone, the only two beings in the universe. in his exaltation, évariste raised his eyes to the firmament flashing with blue and gold:
"see, the sky is looking down at us! it is benign; it is adorable, as you are, beloved; it has your brightness, your gentleness, your smile."
he felt himself one with all nature, it formed part and parcel of his joy and triumph. to his eyes, it was to celebrate his betrothal that the chestnut blossoms lit their flaming candles, the poplars burned aloft like giant torches.
he exulted in his strength and stature. she, with her softer as well as finer nature, more pliable and more malleable, rejoiced in her very weakness and, his subjection once secured, instantly bowed to his ascendancy; now she had brought him under her slavery, she acknowledged him for the master, the hero, the god, burned to obey, to admire, to offer her homage. in the shade of the shrubbery he gave her a long, ardent kiss, which she received with head thrown back and, clasped in évariste's arms, felt all her flesh melt like wax.
they went on talking a long time of themselves, forgetful of the universe. évariste abounded mainly in vague, high thoughts, which filled élodie with ecstasy. she spoke sweetly of things of practical utility and personal interest. then, presently, when she felt she could stay no longer, she rose with a decided air, gave her lover the three red carnations from the flower in her balcony and sprang lightly into the cabriolet in which she had driven there. it was a hired carriage, painted yellow, hung on very high wheels and certainly had nothing out of the common about it, or the coachman either. but gamelin was not in the habit of hiring carriages and his friends were hardly more used to such an indulgence. to see the great wheels whirling her away gave him a strange pang and a painful presentiment assailed him; by a sort of hallucination of the mind, the hack horse seemed to be carrying élodie away from him beyond the bounds of the actual world and present time towards a city of wealth and pleasure, towards abodes of luxury and enjoyment, which he would never be able to enter.
the carriage disappeared. évariste recovered his calm by degrees; but a dull anguish remained and he felt that the hours of tender abandonment he had just lived would never be his again.
he returned by the champs élysées, where women in light summer dresses were sitting on wooden chairs, talking or sewing, while their children played under the trees. a woman selling "ladies' pleasures,"—her box was shaped like a drum—reminded him of the one he had spoken to in the allée des veuves, and it seemed as if a whole epoch of his life had elapsed between the two encounters. he crossed the place de la révolution. in the tuileries gardens he caught the distant roar of a host of men, a sound of many voices shouting in accord, so familiar in those great days of popular enthusiasm which the enemies of the revolution declared would never dawn again. he quickened his pace as the noise grew louder and louder, reached the rue honoré and found it thronged with a crowd of men and women yelling: "vive la république! vive la liberté!" the walls of the gardens, the windows, the balconies, the very roofs were black with lookers-on waving hats and handkerchiefs. preceded by a sapper, who cleared a way for the procession, surrounded by municipal officers, national guards, gunners, gendarmes, huzzars, advanced slowly, high above the backs of the citizens, a man of a bilious complexion, a wreath of oak-leaves about his brow, his body wrapped in an old green surtout with an ermine collar. the women threw him flowers, while he cast about him the piercing glance of his jaundiced eyes, as though, in this enthusiastic multitude he was still searching out enemies of the people to denounce, traitors to punish. as he went by, gamelin bent his head and joining his voice to a hundred thousand others, shouted his:
"vive marat!"
the triumphant hero entered the hall of the convention like fate personified. while the crowd slowly dispersed gamelin sat on a stone post in the rue honoré and pressed his hand over his heart to check its wild beating. what he had seen filled him with high emotion and burning enthusiasm.
he loved and worshipped marat, who, sick and fevered, his veins on fire, eaten up by ulcers, was wearing out the last remnants of his strength in the service of the republic, and in his own poor house, closed to no man, welcomed him with open arms, conversed eagerly with him of public affairs, questioned him sometimes on the machinations of evil-doers. he rejoiced that the enemies of the just, conspiring for his ruin, had prepared his triumph; he blessed the revolutionary tribunal, which acquitting the friend of the people had given back to the convention the most zealous and most immaculate of its legislators. again his eyes could see the head racked with fever, garlanded with the civic crown, the features instinct with virtuous pride and pitiless love, the worn, ravaged, powerful face, the close-pressed lips, the broad chest, the strong man dying by inches who, raised aloft in the living chariot of his triumph, seemed to exhort his fellow-citizens: "be ye like me,—patriots to the death!"
the street was empty, darkening with the shadows of approaching night; the lamplighter went by with his cresset, and gamelin muttered to himself:
"yes, to the death!"
