Chapter IV

Do you know that it will soon be five months, yes, fully five months, five eternities that I have been the titular Celadon of Madame Rosette? That is admirable to the last degree. I would not have believed myself to be so constant, nor would she, I will wager. We are in very truth a couple of plucked pigeons, for only turtle-doves are capable of such affection. How we have cooed! how we have pecked at each other! what pictures of clinging ivy! what a charming existence _à deux!_ Nothing could be more touching, and our two poor little hearts might have been placed on a dial pierced by the same spit, and as though trembling in a gust of wind.

Five months' tête-à-tête, so to speak, for we see each other every day and almost every night--the door being always closed to visitors; doesn't it make your flesh creep simply to think of it? Well! to the glory of the incomparable Rosette be it said, I am not greatly bored, and those months will doubtless prove to be the most agreeable in my life. I do not think it would be possible to entertain more constantly and more successfully a man who has no passion in his heart, and God knows what pitiable idleness it is that is attributable to an empty heart! You cannot imagine that woman's expedients. She began by taking them from her mind, then from her heart, for she loves me to adoration.--With what skill she makes the most of the slightest spark and how well she knows how to fan it into a conflagration! how adroitly she guides the slightest impulses of the heart! how she transforms languor into tender reverie! and by what roundabout roads does she bring back to her the mind that is slipping away!--It is marvellous!--And I admire her as one of the greatest geniuses imaginable.

I have been to her house in very bad humor, sulky, looking for a quarrel. I have no idea how the witch did it, but in a very few minutes she had compelled me to say flattering things to her, although I hadn't the slightest desire to do it, to kiss her hands and laugh with all my heart, although I was horribly angry. Can you conceive of such tyranny as that?--However, adroit as she is, the tête-à-tête cannot last much longer, and in the course of the last fortnight I have frequently done what I never did before--open the books on the chimney and on the table and read a few lines during the pauses in the conversation. Rosette has noticed it, it has alarmed her so that she has had hard work to dissemble her feelings, and she has taken all the books out of her room. I confess that I regret them, although I dare not ask for them.--The other day--an alarming symptom!--some one called while we were together, and instead of flying into a rage as I used to do at the beginning, I was conscious of a sort of pleasure. I was almost affable: I kept up the conversation when Rosette tried to let it languish so that monsieur would take his leave, and when he had gone I ventured to say that he didn't lack wit and that he was a very agreeable fellow. Rosette reminded me that only two months before I had found the same man intensely stupid and the most annoying idiot on earth, to which I had no reply to make, for I did actually say it; and I was right, too, despite the apparent contradiction: for the first time he disturbed a charming tête-à-tête, and the second he came to the assistance of a conversation that was exhausted and running dry--on one side at least--and spared me for that day a tender scene that I was tired of acting.

That is the point at which we now are; it is a serious state of things, especially when one of the two is still in love and is clinging desperately to the remains of the other's love. I am in great perplexity. Although I am not in love with Rosette, I am very, very fond of her, and I should hate to do anything to cause her pain. I wish her to believe, as long as possible, that I love her.

In gratitude for all the hours to which she has lent wings, in gratitude for the love she has given me for pleasure, I wish it.--I shall deceive her; but is not pleasurable deceit preferable to painful truth?--for I shall never have the heart to tell her that I do not love her. The empty shadow of love on which she is feeding seems to her so adorable and so dear, she embraces the pale spectre with such rapture and effusion that I do not dare cause it to vanish; and, yet I am afraid that she will discover at last that it is only a phantom. This morning we had an interview which I propose to repeat in dramatic form for greater accuracy, and which makes me fear that I cannot prolong our liaison very long.

The scene is Rosette's bed. A sunbeam streams through the curtains: it is ten o'clock. Rosette has one arm under my neck and lies perfectly still for fear of waking me. From time to time she rises a little on her elbow and leans over my face, holding her breath. I see all this through my eyelashes, for I have been awake an hour. Rosette's night-dress has a neck ruffle of Malines lace which is all torn: it has been a stormy night; her hair protrudes in disorder from under her little cap. She is as pretty as a woman can be, when one doesn't love her and is lying in bed with her.

ROSETTE (_seeing that I am awake)._

Oh! sleepyhead!

I (_yawning_).

Ah-h-h!

ROSETTE.

Don't yawn like that or I won't kiss you for a week.

I.

Oh!

ROSETTE.

It seems, monsieur, that you don't care much whether I
kiss you or not.

I.

Yes, I do.

ROSETTE.

How indifferently you say it!--All right; you can depend
upon it that I won't touch you with the end of my lips for
a week to come.--To-day is Tuesday: not till next Tuesday.

I.

Nonsense!

ROSETTE.

What's that? nonsense?

I.

Yes, nonsense! you'll kiss me before night, or I shall die.

ROSETTE.

You die! What a silly fellow!--I have spoiled you,
monsieur.

I.

I shall live.--I am not silly and you have not spoiled
me--quite the contrary. In the first place I demand the
instant suppression of _monsieur;_ I know you well enough
for you to call me by my name and speak in the language of
intimates.

ROSETTE.

I have spoiled you, D'Albert.

I.

Very good.--Now put your mouth over here.

ROSETTE.

No, next Tuesday.

I.

Well, well! has it come to this, that we exchange
caresses, calendar in hand? We are both a little too young
for that.--Come, your mouth, my child, or I shall get a
crick in my neck.

ROSETTE.

No.

I.

Ah! you want me to force you, mignonne; _pardieu_! then I
will force you. The thing is feasible, although perhaps it
has never been done.

ROSETTE.

Impertinent!

I.

Notice, my lovely one, that I was courteous enough to say
_perhaps;_ that was very good of me.--But we are getting
away from the subject. Put down your head. Hoity-toity!
what is all this, my favorite sultana? and what means the
sulky expression on your face? It is a pleasure to kiss a
smile and not a pout.

ROSETTE. (_stooping to kiss me)._

How do you expect me to laugh? you say such harsh things
to me!

I.

My purpose is to say very tender things to you. Why should
I say harsh things?

ROSETTE.

I don't know; but you do say them.

I.

You mistake meaningless jests for harshness.

ROSETTE.

Meaningless! You call it meaningless, do you? everything
has a meaning in love. I tell you I would rather have you
beat me than laugh as you do.

I.

Then you would like to see me weep?

ROSETTE.

You always go from one extreme to the other. No one asks
you to weep, but to talk reasonably and drop that tone of
persiflage that becomes you so ill.

I.

It is impossible for me to talk reasonably and not joke;
I'll beat you, if that's what you want!

ROSETTE.

Do it.

I (_giving her a little tap or two on the shoulder)._

I would rather cut off my own head than mar your adorable
little body and make blue stripes on that lovely white
back.--However much a woman may enjoy being beaten, my
goddess, I swear that you shan't be.

ROSETTE.

You don't love me any more.

I.

That doesn't follow very logically from what precedes;
it's almost as logical as to say: "It rains, so don't give
me my umbrella;" or: "It's cold, open the window."

ROSETTE.

You don't love me, you have never loved me.