Daniel had an instinct of what was passing through that young head, and he vowed with ungovernable anger that he could never allow such a marriage to take place. It was revolting to him. In fact, he had forgotten his mission; he no longer sought to conform simply to the wish of the dead woman; his whole being was urging him to snatch Jeanne from Lorin’s arms.
In the evening, after a long day of agony, he stopped the young girl on the banks of the Seine.
“Are you going to be married?” he asked her, abruptly.
“Yes,” she answered, amazed at the emotion he betrayed.
“Do you know Monsieur Lorin well?”
“Most decidedly.”
“But it is twelve years since I first met him, and I have not the least respect for him.”
Jeanne drew herself up haughtily. She was about to answer him when Daniel violently stayed her, saying:
“Not a word! Believe me, the marriage is an impossible one. I will not allow you to marry this man.”
He spoke as a master, an angered father who intends to be obeyed. Jeanne looked at him with an expression of contemptuous stupefaction.
For one instant Daniel had the thought of telling her everything, and of commanding her in the name of her mother to dismiss Lorin. He, however, deferred the confession, and only added in a more gentle voice: “For pity’s sake, reflect, and do not drive me to desperation.”
Jeanne set off laughing. The astonishing audacity of the secretary disarmed her. She merely said: “Monsieur Daniel, do you then happen to be in love with me?”
Then, as if warned of the devotion and affection of the poor young man, she added, in a milder voice: “Come, my friend, do not talk foolishly. We must not part in anger.” When she had gone Daniel stood there motionless, crushed, mechanically repeating the young girl’s words: “Do you then happen to be in love with me?” There was, as it were, a great buzzing in his head which prevented him from hearing himself; and suddenly he fled towards the park, muttering as he went: “She has said it, she has said it. I am in love.” A fire seemed to be raging within him and he staggered like a drunken man. A fine, cold rain began to fall, and so he went out into the dark night, deliriously weeping, seeing at last clearly, in his coma, the true state of things.
He loved Jeanne, poor wretched youth that he was, and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in deep despair. What! had he succeeded in lying to himself? Was all this self-sacrifice nothing but love? He only wished to protect the young girl from Lorin, because he wanted to keep her for himself. At this thought he was ready to sink with shame, for he realised that he would not have the courage to fight for her any more.
After all, what was he to Jeanne? Not even a friend. What right had he to come and speak like a master in this family, and of what account would his orders be to them? His powerlessness and mean position were always crushing him.
If he asserted that Lorin was a dishonourable man, he had no proof to give of it; if he spoke of the mission he had to accomplish, they would look on him as a madman, they would laugh at him, drive him out of the house, and tell him plainly that he was jealous and in love.
And they would be right. He loved Jeanne when she was only six years of age. He quite realised it now. In the impasse St. Dominique d’Enfer he had loved the sweet image his heart had formed of the child. Later he had begun to adore the young girl. He had in truth grown jealous, and wickedly followed her everywhere, dreading lest her heart should be snatched away from him.
After that he went on to think of their excursions to the islets, of all the tender solace he then felt in his love. How happy he was when he did not know himself! How good it was to watch over the dear object of his affection, and think that all his sentiments were only those of a father!
Now he knew all! And, while remorse tortured him, passion gnawed at his heart, he sank to the ground and lay shivering under the falling rain. In his agony, in the abuse he heaped on himself, in his shame and suffering, a thought came unceasingly to his mind — an implacable, bitter thought. It was that Jeanne would belong to another. He strove desperately to drive away this image. He desired to kill his passion. He recalled with despair the memory of his good saint. But Jeanne and Lorin were always there mockingly before him, young and smiling. Then his head throbbed as if ready to burst, and he saw everything of a blood-red colour.
In this way he spent a greater part of the night. An overwhelming despondency succeeded this crisis of self-abnegation and shame. In the morning he felt that he had no longer any business or right at the Tellier’s, that the battle was finished, and that he was beaten. He gave way faintheartedly before what he considered accomplished facts; the whole of his sorrow-stricken being clamoured for peace.
He determined to go away by himself, and reach Paris some hours before the household from the Mesuil Rouge arrived.
He went to George’s lodgings. The latter abstained from asking any questions, and he spent several months there in a state of utter prostration. Only once he betook himself to the rue d’Amsterdam to bid farewell to the deputy. An irresistible longing, which he would not confess to himself, drove him to the house. He felt a desire to know the exact date of the celebration of the marriage; the uncertainty tortured him. But when he had satisfied his curiosity he suffered still more. He counted the days, and every fresh hour which brought him nearer to the fatal date became more burdensome.
He had sworn not to be present at the ceremony, but the night before the fateful day a fever seized him which drove him irresistibly to the church. There he passed through all the horrors of death. He hid himself behind a pillar, shuddering, thinking it was all some hideous nightmare.
When he reached home again George imagined he was drunk, and put him to bed as though he were a child.
But the next day, notwithstanding the fever which was upon him, Daniel got up and declared that he was leaving Paris, that he would be off and go back to Saint-Henri by the seaside, where he had lived so peacefully in olden times. George was unwilling to let him leave. He saw that his friend was extremely feeble, but in the face of Daniel’s fierce determination he could only beseech him to at least allow him to accompany him. Daniel grew angry and refused all consolation. He had a longing desire for solitude.
He left, leaving George in despair and ignorant of everything that had happened to his friend.
When Daniel saw the great blue ocean stretched out before him he felt calmer, but he still suffered a profound sadness. He hired a room, of which the window looked on to the sea, and there he lived a whole year doing nothing, not finding it irksome, though he was eating up, day by day, the little saving he had hoarded up. For whole days he remained perfectly motionless, facing the sea. The sound of the waves had, as it were, an echo in his bosom and allowed him to nurse his thoughts. He sat down at a corner of the rocks, turning his back to the world of the living, absorbed in the infinite. And he was only happy when the waves had put his memory to sleep, and he could sit there inert, in an ecstasy, sleeping, so to speak, with his eyes wide open.
Then a strange hallucination haunted him.
He imagined himself the sport of the waves, he thought the sea had risen to seize him, and was now rocking him — rocking him gently to and fro. It was in this unceasing contemplation, in this absorption of mind, that he brought peace to his heart. A moment came when he suffered no longer, and no longer thought of Jeanne as a sweetheart. His wound was closed, and only a dull heaviness was left. He thought himself cured. Little by little his active habits returned to him. He ran about the rocks; he relaxed his limbs that had been stiffened during his long period of despondency. All his old thoughts were awakened one by one. He wrote to George, and asked him what was going on in Paris; but he dared not yet leave the seaside, which had kept him from despair, and more.
This new inrush of vitality worried him, for he did not know what to do with his renewed vigour. He almost wished to begin the fight all over again, to suffer once more, and recommence loving and weeping. Now that the fever of love troubled him no longer, he felt indignant