The new terror
alone would be able to restore my peace of mind.
A fortnight elapsed without any reply. I spent those two weeks like an
idiot waiting for the postman. Surdon and his wife took pity on me and
endeavored to “argue” with me, but I refused to listen to them. At last
I received a letter. Again it bore the Paris postmark. How I leaped
upon it!
A letter from Cordélia! That is to say a line or two:
“Of course I still love you my dear Hector. I have never ceased to
love you. What an idea! And what nonsense! We shall meet soon, my
husband to be!”
Well, it was a letter which by no means satisfied me. “I still love you
my dear Hector,” seemed to me a sort of plaster to cure my pain. It was
not what I wanted; and even “We shall meet soon, my husband to be” was
cold comfort to me.
I wrote to Cordélia and poured out all my woes. I wept like a child
over the letter as I reminded her of our vows, and I assured her that
I would rather die in despair than lead to the altar a Cordélia who no
longer loved me as of yore.
Then, oh then, a few days later, I received eight pages from
Cordélia—eight long pages which made me weep for joy. I recognized
in them my little playmate of the long ago, her vivacity, her
impulsiveness, her delight in being with me, her adorable love of
mischief. She seemed to have plunged anew into the past with an
abandon which she wished me to share. She would have no difficulty in
that!
And then suddenly after indulging in these memories she spoke of the
present with an assurance which at once restored my mental and physical
health. She was looking forward to the simple duties of marriage.
She spoke of our taking up our abode at Vascoeuil and entered into
particulars which caused me straightway to fall in love with the place.
She went on:
“You will see how delightful Vascoeuil will look when, between us, we
have had it refurbished to our tastes. You must take a trip to Paris
and buy various things,”—here was a list of suggested purchases.—“I
want you to have everything ready by the time we return, because father
wishes us to be married at once. I shan’t be the one to stand in the
way! Oh, while I think of it: Don’t have anything done to the grounds.
You have never understood them. They have a beauty all their own, which
I am longing to develop to the utmost. I shall transform them into a
garden fit for Pelléas and Melisande. We will take our walks in them
in days of depression, for however happy one may be, life has its days
of depression which, however, are not without a charm of their own. In
the meantime, how delightful it would be to go for our honeymoon on
horseback as though we were both crazy. You will remember that when we
were quite young we used to dream of making such a trip, and we laughed
at those respectable people who went off by the ordinary train. But you
will see that we shall take the train like everybody else. What does
it matter so long as there is a gondola at the end of the journey? We
will go to Venice. That was always understood. The Tyrol is horrible.
Nothing but mountains. And I loathe mountains, particularly when they
keep me apart from you!”
* * * * *
The eight pages continued in this strain. Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!
How could I ever have doubted you and your dear little heart, your dear
little heart!... Quick, to work! Come on bricklayers and painters and
“the whole blooming lot of you” as my uncle would say.
I stirred the men on to greater exertions by my good spirits and
generosity. I myself looked like a bricklayer’s laborer, and Surdon
gave way to silent laughter when he handed me a jug of cider which I
emptied at a gulp in order to show the others that I could do full
justice to the amber liquor.
I did well to hurry on with the work. My uncle and Cordélia arrived
home a week earlier than they had foretold. I expected them about the
eighth of October, whereas they reached Vascoeuil on the last day of
September. The work was not nearly finished.
Cordélia found me on the top of a ladder busily engaged in papering
her boudoir. I fell into her arms. She bore the shock quite well,
exclaiming: “Heavens, how ugly!” I made a gesture which caused her to
burst out laughing. I thought that she was speaking of me while she was
referring to the wallpaper. That was enough to throw us into a state of
merriment which brought my uncle on the scene.
He gave us his blessing and kissed us; kissed us and gave us his
blessing a second time; and recounted that he himself was married in
that house, that Cordélia was born in it, that our children and our
grand-children would be born in it. Whereupon Cordélia, who turned a
deaf ear to him, exclaimed:
“My goodness, how nice the paint smells here. I say, look here, father,
I don’t want to be anything but a house-painter now. How does that
strike you?”
“I approve my dear. Oh, I quite approve. That’s a very healthy idea!”
I was rather surprised to hear him speak like that. I was always under
the impression that the health of a house-painter was subject to
considerable risk, owing, I think, to the white lead in his materials,
and I raised the objection to my uncle, whose only answer was to give
me a friendly pat on the back.
A few minutes later he said with his usual kindly smile:
“You are still the best of all Hectors. I hope you’ll never be any
different.”
I don’t know why he should have given utterance to such a sentiment,
because I have no intention of being any different. Nevertheless on
thinking it over, I have since concluded that he found a simplicity in
me which appealed to him, the unemotional and well-balanced temperament
of a man who is not in the habit of creating difficulties where there
are none, and he counselled me to remain as I was if I wished to insure
our happiness.
The three following weeks passed so quickly and pleasantly that they
stand out in my memory as among the happiest weeks of my life. I
dismissed from my mind every preoccupation having no connection with
the diversions of the day, and these consisted, for Cordélia and me,
of upsetting the entire household, hiding behind doors, chasing one
another like school children and kissing until Cordélia, all flushed,
gently pushed me away exclaiming: “Hector that will do ... leave some
for to-morrow!”
Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!
When she first came home I thought that she was looking rather pale,
overcome doubtless by the fatigues of the journey. Now she had
regained her beautiful color. She was still as slender as before, but I
discerned that none of the natural beauties of a woman were lacking in
her. I hardly know how to express my meaning, but to my mind women were
never more beautiful than they are nowadays; and I still adhere to my
opinion. Mentally and physically she was perfect. I cannot say more.
At last the great day arrived. It was a wonderful function and one
that will long be remembered and talked about at Vascoeuil. Cordélia’s
father, who was a great landed proprietor, had issued invitations to
the entire district after the fashion of his own day. I mean that
representatives of the families round about, the possessors of great
names and great fortunes, were present and entertained with princely
magnificence.
My uncle would have liked the festivities to be kept up for three days,
but he yielded to Cordélia’s entreaties, for she declared that if the
guests remained after six o’clock we should take our departure. The
wedding breakfast, in accordance with Cordélia’s wishes, was called
lunch. And it was indeed a lunch!
But all this was nothing in comparison with the feast which was given
about a mile away at the farm of my uncle’s principal tenant. Tents
had been erected in a large field, and the country people who were
assembled therein let themselves go for all they were worth, like the
guests at the gargantuan wedding feast of Gamache.
Cordélia gracefully went the round of the tables without evincing the
least repugnance for all this excessive gorging and I was very glad. I
accompanied her like a little dog.
“They’re not at all stuck up. We hope they’ll be happy,” we heard our
guests exclaim on every hand.
CHAPTER V
AN UNEXPECTED PRESENT
On returning to the house we found our guests in the drawing-room
gazing enraptured at the wedding presents which were on view. Heaven
knows that they were numerous enough!
It was at this juncture that Surdon came in carrying, with some
difficulty, a large flat package wrapped in canvas upon which a small
square piece of cardboard was pinned bearing in writing the words:
“_My offering for the wedding_”
The card was not signed.
Several guests had read the inscription, and were amused over the
wedding “offering.” Our attention was attracted by their laughter,
and when my uncle, Cordélia and myself drew near, they were already
speaking of a wedding surprise, and eagerly expressing a wish to see
the present.
My uncle read the card, turned pale, lifted his eyes and looked at
Cordélia, who also read it. A deep blush suffused her cheeks. But she
displayed no confusion, and smiling said:
“It’s from him. He often uses one word instead of another. Sometimes he
does it on purpose as it amuses him. Besides, it’s his writing.”
To me the incident was a complete riddle. My uncle’s pallor, Cordélia’s
blushes, the words that passed between them—these things began to
trouble me.
“We might as well see what it is,” I said, pointing to the package.
“What’s the use?” returned my uncle. “We’ll have a look at it later on.”
Cordélia left us and went to an adjoining drawing-room.
Then I was seized with a feeling of curiosity and opened the package
myself. When the canvas which covered it was removed, I could not
repress a cry of admiration, and the guests around me were breathless
with wonder.
It was a portrait—a portrait of Cordélia. And such a portrait!
It was a picture of a marvelous radiance. It seemed to have been
painted with the softest of lights. It was utterly impossible to
conceive by what magic of coloring a human being who had nothing at
his command save brushes and the pigments in metal tubes, was able to
transmit to canvas so ideal a visual image.
I had never before encountered anything which could lead me to suspect
the existence of such an art. I had had an opportunity, like all those
who assist at great public functions in Paris, and delight in such
things, of visiting one or two exhibitions of paintings which affected
to be original, and professed to revolutionize art. Those works
expressed either an exaggerated symbolism or flights of the wildest
fantasy—were a great hoax in fact. I say freely what I think and if
any one takes offense the more’s the pity. As a general rule these
paintings are enshrouded in an erudite obscurity from which shines a
vague and eccentric glimmer of light.
But the miracle of this portrait consisted in this: It was the picture
itself which was painted in such a way that rays seemed to radiate from
it of themselves, without the intervention of any sort of trick.
The artist had succeeded in showing to the ordinary eye what it does
not usually perceive, that is to say, the invisible light which the
body radiates around itself....
I can speak of these things now that I have acquired the most painful
and terrible experience in this domain, but at that time I was
conscious of it all without comprehending it, and it would have been
difficult for me to express clearly my thoughts in a language of which
I was ignorant.
In short, in this effulgent portrait it was as though Cordélia’s soul
came to greet you from the first with a divine smile which emanated