there was no use pretending she would. Her mind might be less bent on suicide now that he was going about with her, but that didn’t make her at bottom any different. An obsessional type. What ought he to say to Gévigne? Ought he to tell him bluntly she was a hopeless case?…
Flavières had been over every inch of this ground, and once again his thoughts were going round in the same inevitable circle. It was paralysing. He felt incapable of getting his mind out of the rut, incapable of the least mental effort.
Picking up his hat, he went out. His clients would come back another day—or not at all! It didn’t matter in the slightest. What did? Paris might at any moment be reduced to a heap of rubble. Besides, if the war went on, he would probably feel obliged to join up in some capacity or other. The future wasin any case a blank. Nothing had any real meaning except the present, the spring leaves in the sunshine—and love. Instinctively he made for the Grands Boulevards, needing the noise and the bustle, to rub shoulders with the throng. There perhaps he could for a moment forget Madeleine. He needed that more than anything! Sauntering about near the Opéra, he realized the extent to which he was in her clutches. She absorbed literally all his strength. He was a blood-donor. No, that wasn’t the word. A soul-donor.
It left him so empty that, left alone, he had to jostle with the crowd to replenish his nervous system. At first he thought of nothing with any continuity, just letting ideas flit idly through his brain… Whatever the war did to him, he somehow felt sure he would survive… Then he began to dream: Gévigne died, leaving Madeleine free. That of course was a pleasant daydream, and he basked in imaginary situations, worked out to the last detail… Soon he was enjoying a marvellous freedom from earthly cares, like an opium-smoker. The crowd rocked him gently in its lap. He surrendered himself, taking a day off from the exacting business of being a man.
He stopped to look into Lancel’s window. Not that he wanted to buy anything. He loved to contemplate jewels and shining gold against a background of dark velvet. Suddenly he remembered that Madeleine had broken her lighter. There were several on a glass shelf, cigarette-cases too, made of all sorts of precious materials. She couldn’t be offended. He went in and bought a tiny lighter of very pale gold and a cigarette-case of Russian leather. For once, he actually enjoyed spending money. Asking for a card, he wrote on it: A Eurydice ressuscitée, and slipped it in the cigarette-case. He would give her the littleparcel at the Louvre, or perhaps later when they had a light dinner together before separating. The morning was embellished by this purchase. He smiled every time he was conscious of the packet tied up with a blue ribbon. Dear, dear Madeleine!
At two he was waiting at the Etoile. She was always punctual.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re in black today.’
‘I love black. If I had my own way I’d wear nothing else.’
‘Why? It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. On the contrary, it gives value to everything; it makes all one’s thoughts more important and obliges one to take oneself seriously.’
‘And if you were in blue, or green?’
‘I don’t know. I might think myself a river or a poplar… When I was little, I thought colours had mystical properties. Perhaps that’s what made me want to paint.’
She took his arm, with an abandon that almost submerged him in a wave of tenderness.
‘I’ve tried my hand at painting too,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, my drawing’s always so weak.’
‘What does that matter? It’s the colour that counts.’
‘I’d love to see your paintings.’
‘They’re not worth much. You couldn’t make head or tail of them: they’re dreams really… Do you dream in colour?’
‘No. Everything’s grey. Like a photograph.’
‘Then you couldn’t understand. You’re one of
Flavières had been over every inch of this ground, and once again his thoughts were going round in the same inevitable circle. It was paralysing. He felt incapable of getting his mind out of the rut, incapable of the least mental effort.
Picking up his hat, he went out. His clients would come back another day—or not at all! It didn’t matter in the slightest. What did? Paris might at any moment be reduced to a heap of rubble. Besides, if the war went on, he would probably feel obliged to join up in some capacity or other. The future wasin any case a blank. Nothing had any real meaning except the present, the spring leaves in the sunshine—and love. Instinctively he made for the Grands Boulevards, needing the noise and the bustle, to rub shoulders with the throng. There perhaps he could for a moment forget Madeleine. He needed that more than anything! Sauntering about near the Opéra, he realized the extent to which he was in her clutches. She absorbed literally all his strength. He was a blood-donor. No, that wasn’t the word. A soul-donor.
It left him so empty that, left alone, he had to jostle with the crowd to replenish his nervous system. At first he thought of nothing with any continuity, just letting ideas flit idly through his brain… Whatever the war did to him, he somehow felt sure he would survive… Then he began to dream: Gévigne died, leaving Madeleine free. That of course was a pleasant daydream, and he basked in imaginary situations, worked out to the last detail… Soon he was enjoying a marvellous freedom from earthly cares, like an opium-smoker. The crowd rocked him gently in its lap. He surrendered himself, taking a day off from the exacting business of being a man.
He stopped to look into Lancel’s window. Not that he wanted to buy anything. He loved to contemplate jewels and shining gold against a background of dark velvet. Suddenly he remembered that Madeleine had broken her lighter. There were several on a glass shelf, cigarette-cases too, made of all sorts of precious materials. She couldn’t be offended. He went in and bought a tiny lighter of very pale gold and a cigarette-case of Russian leather. For once, he actually enjoyed spending money. Asking for a card, he wrote on it: A Eurydice ressuscitée, and slipped it in the cigarette-case. He would give her the littleparcel at the Louvre, or perhaps later when they had a light dinner together before separating. The morning was embellished by this purchase. He smiled every time he was conscious of the packet tied up with a blue ribbon. Dear, dear Madeleine!
At two he was waiting at the Etoile. She was always punctual.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re in black today.’
‘I love black. If I had my own way I’d wear nothing else.’
‘Why? It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. On the contrary, it gives value to everything; it makes all one’s thoughts more important and obliges one to take oneself seriously.’
‘And if you were in blue, or green?’
‘I don’t know. I might think myself a river or a poplar… When I was little, I thought colours had mystical properties. Perhaps that’s what made me want to paint.’
She took his arm, with an abandon that almost submerged him in a wave of tenderness.
‘I’ve tried my hand at painting too,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, my drawing’s always so weak.’
‘What does that matter? It’s the colour that counts.’
‘I’d love to see your paintings.’
‘They’re not worth much. You couldn’t make head or tail of them: they’re dreams really… Do you dream in colour?’
‘No. Everything’s grey. Like a photograph.’
‘Then you couldn’t understand. You’re one of
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