Finis
As the Count of Lormerin finished dressing he cast a parting glance at the large mirror which occupied a whole panel in his dressing-room, and smiled.
He was really a fine-looking man, although quite grey. Tall, slight, elegant, with a small moustache of a doubtful shade that might be called fair, he had a presence, distinction, an aristocratic bearing, a “chic” in short, that indefinable quality that makes a greater difference between two men than the possession of millions of money. He murmured: “Lormerin is still alive!” and entered the big room where his correspondence awaited him.
On his table, where everything had its place—the worktable of a gentleman who never works—some dozen letters were lying beside three papers representing different political opinions. With a single touch he spread the letters out like a gambler giving the choice of a card, and he scrutinised the handwriting, a habit he indulged in every morning, before opening the envelopes.
This was the moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and of vague anxiety. What were these sealed, mysterious letters bringing to him? What pleasure, happiness, or sorrow did they contain? He surveyed them with a quick glance, recognised the writing, picked them out, sorted them into two or three bundles according to what he expected from them. Here were the friends; there those that were indifferent; and, farther on, the unknown correspondents. The last always caused him a slight uneasiness. What could they want? What hand had traced those curious characters, full of thought, of promises, or of threats?
That day one letter in particular caught his eye. There was nothing unusual in its appearance, but he looked at it uneasily with a kind of chill at his heart. He thought: “From whom can it be? I certainly know the writing, and yet I can’t identify it.”
He picked it up, holding it gingerly in his fingers, trying to read through the envelope, unable to make up his mind to open it.
Then he smelt it, took up a little magnifying-glass to study the peculiarities of the writing. He felt unnerved: “From whom is it? I know the handwriting very well. I must have read it often, very often. But it must be very, very old. Who the devil can it be from? Pshaw! a request for money.”
He tore open the envelope and read:
“My Dear Friend:
“You must have forgotten me, for we have not met for twenty-five years. I was young: I am old. When I said goodbye I was leaving Paris to follow my husband, my old husband, whom you called ‘my hospital,’ into the provinces. Do you remember? He has been dead five years and now I am returning to Paris to marry my daughter, for I have a daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen. I sent you word of her birth, but I am sure you paid little attention to so insignificant an event.
“You, you are still the handsome Lormerin, so I am told. Well, if you still remember little Lise, whom you called Lison, come and dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baroness de Vance, your ever faithful friend, who, full of emotion and very happy, holds out a devoted hand which you may clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor Jaquelet.
Lormerin’s heart began to beat rapidly. He remained sunk in his armchair, the letter on his knees, staring straight in front of him, shrinking from the stab of bitter-sweetness that brought the tears to his eyes!
If he had ever loved any woman in his life, it had been her, little Lise, Lise de Vance, whom he called Flower of Ashes because of her curious colour hair and her pale grey eyes. Oh! what a dainty, pretty, charming creature this frail Baroness had been; the wife of the old gouty pimply Baron who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces, shut her up, kept her in seclusion, and all for jealousy of the handsome Lormerin. Yes, he had loved her and he had been loved in return, so he believed. She had an adorable way of calling him Jaquelet. A thousand forgotten memories crowded upon him, far off, and sweet, and full of sadness they were. One evening she had called on him on her way home from a ball and they had gone for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in her ball dress, and he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime and the weather was mild and the fragrance from her frock and skin scented the warm air. It was a divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon was dipping into the water over the branches she began to cry. Rather taken aback, he asked the reason and she replied:
“I don’t know; the moon and the water always affect me. Every time I see anything beautiful it plucks at my heartstrings, and I cry.” He had smiled, for he too was infected with the beauty around him: he thought the susceptibility of this poor, distractedly emotional little woman both stupid and charming. And he had embraced her passionately, murmuring: “My little Lise, you are delightful.”
What a charming love affair—short-lived and dainty—it had been; so soon over too, cut short in the midst of its ardour by that old brute of a baron who had carried off his wife, and never shown her to anyone again.
To be sure, Lormerin had forgotten her at the end of two or three weeks. In Paris one woman soon drives out another, when one is a bachelor. No matter, he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for she had been his only love! Very clearly now he recognised that.
He got up and said aloud: “Certainly, I’ll go and dine there this evening.” And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself. He reflected: “She must have aged considerably, more than I have,” and felt pleased to think that he would appear to her still handsome, still vigorous, and surprise her, perhaps, soften her heart and make her regret the bygone days, so far, so far away! He returned to his other letters, which were of no importance. The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of the past. What would she be like? How strange to meet again after twenty-five years! But would he recognise her?
He dressed himself as carefully as a woman would have done, put on a white waistcoat which suited him better with his swallowtails than a black one, sent for the hairdresser to give his hair a touch with the tongs—for his hair was still thick—and set off early to show how eager he was to meet her again.
The first thing he saw on entering the newly furnished, charming drawing room, was his own portrait, an old faded photograph dating from the days of his triumph, hanging on the wall in a dainty old brocade frame.
He sat down and waited. At last a door opened behind him; he rose hurriedly and, turning round, saw an old lady with white hair, holding both hands out to him.
He seized them kissing first one, then the other, then raised his head to gaze at his old friend.
Yes, she was an old lady, a strange old lady who wanted to cry, but nevertheless smiled.
He could not help murmuring: “Is it you, Lise?”
She replied: “Yes, it is I, truly it is I.—You would not have recognised me, would you? I have had so much sorrow—so much.—Grief has eaten into my life.—Here I am—look at me—or, rather, no—don’t look at me.—But how handsome you still are, you—and young too! If I had met you accidentally in the streets, I would have called out at once: ‘Jaquelet!’ Now sit down and let us have a chat first. Then I’ll call my daughter, my grown-up daughter. You’ll see she’s very like me—or, rather, I was very like her—no, that’s still not right: she is just like the ‘me’ of former days—you’ll see! But I wanted to be alone, just at first; I was afraid I might break down. Now it’s all right, it’s over. Do sit down, old friend.”
He sat beside her, holding her hand, but he did not know what to say; he did not know this woman; he felt that he had never seen her before. What was he doing in this house? What could he talk about? Of the past? What had the two of them in common? He forgot all that had been, in the presence of this grandmother; all the nice, sweet, tender, heart-wringing things he had felt so intensely when he was thinking of that other woman: little Lise, the dainty Flower of Ashes. What had become of her, of this former sweetheart, this well-beloved? She of the far-off dream, the blonde with grey eyes, the young girl who had so sweetly called him Jaquelet?
They remained quite still side by side, feeling awkward, unhappy and ill at ease.
As they were only exchanging commonplaces and that with difficulty, she rose and pressed the bell-push, saying: “I am going to call Renée.”
First there was the sound of a door opening, then the rustle of skirts, and then a young voice exclaiming: “Here I am, mother!”
Lormerin looked as scared as if he had seen a ghost, and stammered: “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle … ,” and, turning towards the mother, said: “Yes, it’s you!”
It was indeed she, the girl of the past, the Lise who had vanished and who had now returned! He had found her again, exactly as she had been when taken from him twenty-five years ago—though this girl was even younger, fresher, more of a child.
He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her again to his heart and whisper in her ear: “Good morning, Lison!”
A manservant announced: “Dinner is served, Madame!” and they proceeded to the dining room.
What happened during dinner? What was said to him and what replies did he make? He was in one of those curious dreamlike states bordering on insanity. He looked at the two women, obsessed by an idea, the diseased idea of a madman: “Which is the real one?” Smiling all the time, the mother repeated over and over again: “Do you remember?” But it was the girl’s bright eyes which revealed the past to him. At least twenty times he was going to say: “Do you remember, Lison?” quite forgetting the white-haired woman who was tenderly looking at him.
And yet there were moments when he felt uncertain, when he lost his head completely; he saw that the girl of today was not exactly like the girl of long ago. The other, the former love, had something in her voice, her look, her whole being which he missed, and made an enormous effort to recapture what was escaping him, the something that this resuscitated love did not possess.
The Baroness said: “My dear friend, you have lost your old vivacity,” to which he replied: “I have lost many other things, too!”
But his heart was in a ferment, he felt his old love springing to life again, like a wild beast ready to tear him to pieces.
The young girl chatted away, and he recognised tricks of the voice, familiar phrases used by the mother, which she had taught him, the way of thinking and speaking, the resemblance in mind and manner that comes from living together, these all combined to torment him body and soul. All these memories of the past took possession of him, making a bleeding wound in his awakened passion.
He left early and went for a stroll on the Boulevard. But the young girl’s image followed him, haunting him, crystallising his feelings and inflaming his blood. Separated from the two women, he now saw only one, the young one—the old one back again—and he loved her as he had loved her in the past. He loved her more passionately after the interval of twenty-five years.
He went home to reflect on the strange and terrible thing that had happened and to think over what could be done.
But as, candle in hand, he passed in front of the looking-glass, the big looking-glass in which he had looked at and admired himself before he started, he caught sight of an elderly man with grey hair, and suddenly remembered what he had been like in the old days, the days of little Lise, and he saw himself young and charming again, as in the days when he had been loved. Then, holding the candle nearer, he looked at himself more closely, much as one examines some strange object through a magnifying-glass, tracing the wrinkles and recognising the frightful wreckage that he had never noticed before.
He sat down opposite his reflection, crushed at the sight of his wretched appearance, murmuring: “Finis, Lormerin!”