A Mummer's Tale. Anatole France

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СКАЧАТЬ fair beard, his high colour—he's an easy man to recognize, Girmandel."

      Madame Nanteuil made no comment.

      "You were very friendly with him at one time, you and Félicie. Do you still see him?"

      "Monsieur Girmandel? Oh yes, we still see him," replied Madame Nanteuil softly.

      These words made Chevalier feel almost happy. But she had deceived him; she had not spoken the truth. She had lied out of self-respect, and in order not to reveal a domestic secret which she regarded as derogatory to the honour of her family. The truth was that, being carried away by her passion for Ligny, Félicie had given Girmandel the go-by, and he, being a man of the world, had promptly cut off supplies. Madame Nanteuil, despite her years, had resumed an old lover, out of her love for her child, that she might not want for anything. She had renewed her former liaison with Tony Meyer, the picture-dealer in the Rue de Clichy. Tony Meyer was a poor substitute for Girmandel; he was none too free with his money. Madame Nanteuil, who was wise and knew the value of things, did not complain on that account, and she was rewarded for her devotion, for, in the six weeks during which she had been loved anew, she had grown young again.

      Chevalier, following up his idea, inquired:

      "You would hardly say that Girmandel was still a young man, would you?"

      "He is not old," said Madame Nanteuil. "A man is not old at forty."

      "A bit used up, isn't he?"

      "Oh, dear no," replied Madame Nanteuil, quite calmly.

      Chevalier became thoughtful and was silent. Madame Nanteuil began to nod. Then, being aroused from her somnolence by the servant, who brought in the salt-cellar and the water-bottle, she inquired:

      "And you, Monsieur Chevalier, is all well with you?"

      No, all was not well with him. The critics were out to "down" him. And the proof that they had combined against him was that they all said the same thing; they said his face lacked expression.

      "My face lacking in expression!" he cried indignantly. "They should have called it a predestined face. Madame Nanteuil, I aim high, and it is that which does me harm. For example, in La Nuit du 23 octobre, which is being rehearsed now, I am Florentin: I have only six lines; it's a washout. But I have increased the importance of the character enormously. Durville is furious. He deliberately crabs all my effects."

      Madame Nanteuil, placid and kindly, found words to comfort him. Obstacles there were, no doubt, but in the end one overcame them. Her own daughter had fallen foul of the ill-will of certain critics.

      "Half-past twelve!" said Chevalier gloomily. "Félicie is late."

      Madame Nanteuil supposed that she had been detained by Madame Doulce.

      "Madame Doulce as a rule undertakes to see her home, and you know she never hurries herself."

      Chevalier rose, as if to take his leave, to show that he remembered his manners. Madame Nanteuil begged him to stay.

      "Don't go; Félicie won't be long now. She will be pleased to find you here. You will have supper with her."

      Madame Nanteuil dozed off again in her chair. Chevalier sat gazing in silence at the clock hanging on the wall, and as the hand travelled across the dial he felt a burning wound in his heart, which grew bigger and bigger, and each little stroke of the pendulum touched him to the quick, lending a keener eye to his jealousy, by recording the moments which Félicie was passing with Ligny. For he was 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, СКАЧАТЬ