All Over
Compte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a parting glanceat the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in his dressing-roomand smiled.He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall,slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache ofdoubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility, a"chic," in short, that indescribable something which establishes agreater difference between two men than would millions of money. Hemurmured:"Lormerin is still alive!"And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaited him.On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of thegentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying beside threenewspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spread out allthese letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; and he scannedthe handwriting, a thing he did each morning before opening theenvelopes.It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vagueanxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What didthey contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed themwith a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selecting them,making two or three lots, according to what he expected from them. Here,friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent; further on,strangers. The last kind always gave him a little uneasiness. What didthey want from him? What hand had traced those curious characters fullof thoughts, promises, or threats?This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple,nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at ituneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: "From whom canit be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identify it."He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between twofingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making up hismind to open it.Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifyingglass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. Hesuddenly felt unnerved. "Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me,very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often.But this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can it befrom? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money."And he tore open the letter. Then he read:MY DEAR FRIEND: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is nowtwenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old.When I bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into theprovinces my husband, my old husband, whom you used to call "myhospital." Do you remember him? He died five years ago, and now Iam returning to Paris to get my daughter married, for I have adaughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whom you have never seen.I informed you of her birth, but you certainly did not pay muchattention to so trifling an event.You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well, ifyou still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, comeand dine with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vanceyour ever faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy,reaches out to you a devoted hand, which you must c1asp, but nolonger kiss, my poor Jaquelet.LISE DE VANCE.Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair withthe letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by apoignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes!If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise,Lise de Vance, whom he called "Ashflower," on account of the strangecolor of her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty,pretty, charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of thatgouty, pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces,shut her up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of thehandsome Lormerin.Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he too, had been truly loved.She familiarly gave him, the name of Jaquelet, and would pronounce thatword in a delicious fashion.A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far, off and sweet andmelancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from aball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in eveningdress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the weather wasbeautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warm air-the odorof her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her skin. What adivine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's rays fell acrossthe branches into the water, she began to weep. A little surprised, heasked her why."I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time Isee poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have to cry."He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion charming--the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman, whom every sensationoverwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:"My little Lise, you are exquisite."What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and overall too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old brute ofa baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one see herafterward.Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months. Onewoman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a bachelor! Nomatter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for he had lovedher alone! He assured himself now that this was so.He rose, and said aloud : "Certainly, I will go and dine with her thisevening!"And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself fromhead to foot. He reflected: "She must look very old, older than I look."And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her stillhandsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling her withemotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far distant!He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of noimportance.The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was shelike now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-fiveyears! But would he recognize her?He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat,which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for thehairdresser to give him a finishing touch With the curling iron, for hehad preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show hiseagerness to see her.The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly furnishedwas his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days whenhe was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame.He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended bothhands toward him.He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who,while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.He could not abstain from murmuring:"Is it you, Lise?"She replied:"Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would you?I have had so much sorrow--so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my life.Look at me now--or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome you havekept--and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I would haveexclaimed: 'Jaquelet!'. Now, sit down and let us, first of all, have achat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up daughter. You'llsee how she resembles me--or, rather, how I resembled her--no, it is notquite that; she is just like the 'me' of former days--you shall see! ButI wanted to be alone with you first. I feared that there would be someemotion on my side, at the first moment. Now it is all over; it is past.Pray be seated, my friend."He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what tosay; he did not know this woman--it seemed to him that he had never seenher before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk about?Of the long ago? What was there in common between him and her? He couldno longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly face. Hecould no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter,that had come to his mind that morning when he thought of the other, oflittle Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had become of her, theformer one, the one he had loved? That woman of far-off dreams, theblonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to call him "Jaquelet" soprettily?They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,profoundly ill at ease.As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and slowly,she rose and pressed the button of the bell."I am going to call Renee," she said.There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a youngvoice exclaimed:"Here I am, mamma!"Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.He stammered:"Good-day, mademoiselle"Then, turning toward the mother:"Oh! it is you!In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise whohad vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won twenty-five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more childlike.He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart again,murmuring in her ear:"Good-morning, Lison!"A man-servant announced:"Dinner is ready, madame."And they proceeded toward the dining-room.What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could hesay in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strange dreamswhich border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with a fixed idea inhis mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:"Which is the real one?"The mother smiled again repeating over and over:"Do you remember?" And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl thathe found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened hismouth to say to her: "Do you remember, Lison?" forgetting this white-haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.And yet, there were moments when, he no longer felt sure, when he losthis head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly thewoman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, inher glances, in her entire being, something which he did not find again.And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seizeagain what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated one did notpossess.The baronne said:"You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend."He murmured:"There are many other things that I have lost!"But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing tolife once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then some familiarintonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain style of speakingand thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which people acquire byliving together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these thingspenetrated him, making the reopened wound of his passion bleed anew.He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image ofthis young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamedhis blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a young one,the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as he had lovedher in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after an intervalof twenty-five years.He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to thinkwhat he should do.But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the glass,the large glass in which he had contemplated himself and admired himselfbefore he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man;and suddenly he recollected what he had been in olden days, in the daysof little Lise. He saw himself charming and handsome, as he had beenwhen he was loved! Then, drawing the light nearer, he looked at himselfmore closely, as one inspects a strange thing with a magnifying glass,tracing the wrinkles, discovering those frightful ravages, which he hadnot perceived till now.And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of hislamentable image, murmuring:"All over, Lormerin!"
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