The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence

"M. de Luceval, the extremely disagreeable events of the day have fatigued me very much, and you will oblige me by not annoying me further. I shall merely add that if any one deserves the contempt of all decent people, it is M. d'Infreville, for it was his shameful treatment of his wife that drove her to ruin. As for Valentine, what she deserves, and will always be sure of from me, is the tenderest compassion."

"Why, this is outrageous! It is enough to put you in a madhouse, I tell you!"

"Understand me once for all, M. de Luceval. No one will shut me up in a madhouse. I shall have my liberty, and you will have yours; and I shall make such use of mine as I think proper."

"We will see about that, madame!"

"Or rather, you will see, monsieur."

CHAPTER VII

FOUR YEARS LATER

FOUR years have elapsed since the events we have just related.

It is a winter's day; the cold is intense, the sky gray and lowering. A woman is walking down the Rue de Vaugirard, pausing now and then to glance at the numbers on the houses, as if in search of some particular one.

This woman, who is dressed in mourning, seems to be about twenty-three years of age. She is tall and slender, a decided brunette, with large black eyes, full of expression. Her features are regular, though a little haggard, and her mobile face reveals, in turn, a bitter sadness or a mingled anxiety and impatience. Her quick, somewhat irregular tread also betrays deep agitation.

When this young woman had walked nearly half way down the street, she paused again to study the numbers, and finding herself opposite Number 57, she gave a quick start, and pressed her hand upon her heart, as if to quiet its throbbings; then, after standing a moment perfectly motionless, she directed her steps towards the porte-cochère, then paused again in evident hesitation, but having seen several notices announcing that there were apartments to rent in the house, she resolutely entered the courtyard and walked straight to the porter's lodge.

"You have several apartments to rent, I see, monsieur," she said to the concierge.

"Yes, madame. The first and the third floor, and two separate rooms."

"The first floor would be too dear for me, I fear. The third would probably suit me better. What do you ask for it?"

"Six hundred francs, madame. That is the lowest, for it has just been freshly done up."

"How many rooms are there?"

"A kitchen, a small dining-room, a parlour, a large bedchamber with a big dressing-room, and another small room that would do for a servant. If madame will go up-stairs, she can see for herself."

"I would first like to know who lives in the house. I am a widow and live alone, so you can understand why I ask this question."

"Certainly, madame. The house is very respectable and extremely quiet. The first floor is not occupied, as I told you. A professor in the law school, a highly respectable man, lives on the second floor. He has a wife but no children. The third floor is the one I offered to madame. On the fourth floor there are two small rooms which are occupied by a young man. When I say a young man I don't exactly mean that, however, for M. Michel Renaud must be about thirty."

On hearing the name of Michel Renaud, the young woman, in spite of her self-control, turned first red and then pale, a sad smile flitted across her lips, and her large black eyes gleamed more brightly under their long lashes; but, conquering her emotion, she replied calmly and with a well-feigned air of indifference:

"And the rooms on the third floor are directly under those occupied by this gentleman, I suppose?"

"Yes, madame."

"Is the gentleman married?"

"No, madame."

"I hope you will not be surprised at the questions I put to you, but I have such a horror of a noise over my head, and of bad company, that I should like to be sure that my future neighbour is not boisterous like so many young men, and that his acquaintances are not such persons as it would be disagreeable for me to meet on the stairways as I go and come."

"M. Michel Renaud have any such company as that! Oh, no, madame; oh, no!" exclaimed the concierge, indignantly.

An expression of hope and joy irradiated the lady's sad face for an instant, and she replied, with a smile:

"I had no intention of maligning the gentleman, and the evident astonishment my question causes you is very reassuring."

"M. Renaud is one of the steadiest of men. Every day of the world – Sundays and holidays as well – he leaves his rooms at half-past three or four o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and never returns until midnight, so he has no visitors."

"They would certainly have to be remarkably early ones, in that case," remarked the young woman, who seemed to take a deep interest in these details. "But does the gentleman leave as early as that every morning?"

"Yes, madame, in winter as well as summer. Nothing keeps him."

"But what business does the gentleman follow that it is necessary for him to leave home by four o'clock in the morning, and remain away until midnight?"

"That is more than I know, madame; but this much is certain, this tenant is not likely to annoy you in any way."

"I believe I could not find a house that would suit me better, judging from what you say. But is it really true that you have no idea what business your tenant follows?"

"How should I know, madame? During the three years that M. Renaud has lived here he has received only one letter. That was merely addressed to M. Michel Renaud, and no living soul ever comes to see him."

"But he is not dumb, I suppose?"

"He might almost as well be. When he goes out in the morning, I am in bed; when he returns, it is just the same. In the morning, he says, 'The door, please;' in the evening, when he takes his candle, 'Good night, M. Landré' (that is my name). That is the extent of our conversation."

"But doesn't he keep a servant?"

"No, madame, he does all his own housework. That is to say, he makes his own bed, blacks his shoes, brushes his clothes, and sweeps his room."

"He!" exclaimed the young woman, in accents of the most profound astonishment.

Then bethinking herself, she added:

"It seems so strange that a gentleman should do all those things for himself."

"Oh, I don't know," replied the concierge, who seemed surprised at the lady's evident astonishment; "everybody hasn't an income of fifty thousand francs a year, and when one hasn't the money to pay a servant, one must serve oneself."

"That is very true, monsieur."

"And now would madame like to see the third floor?"

"Yes, for, after all, I think it would be difficult for me to find a house that would suit me better."

CHAPTER VIII

ANOTHER SEARCH

AS the prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining house, the lower floor of which was used as a café.

This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table, on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a glass of absinthe.

This patron, who had entered the café only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.

The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.

"Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.

"But your glass is still full, monsieur."

"True."

The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it.

"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.

And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fashion:

"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"

"But, monsieur – "

"Do you or do you not? Answer me."

"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"

"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?"

"Ever since the café opened, about ten years ago."

"Do you live here in the house?"

"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."

"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"

"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."

After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice:

"Who lives on the fourth floor?"

"A lady, monsieur."

"Nobody else?"

"No, monsieur."

"Is she a widow?"

"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you."

"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something."

"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."

"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady – this Madame – What did you call her?"

"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."

"What?"

"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?"

"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."

"It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added:

"What does this lady do to take her out so early?"

"I have no idea, monsieur."

"But what do the people in the house think of it?"

"Nothing, monsieur."

"Nothing! Do you mean that they see nothing remarkable about a lady going out at four o'clock in the morning?"

"When Madame Luceval first came here, about four years ago, her manner of living did seem rather peculiar, but people soon ceased to trouble themselves about it; for, as I told you just now, nobody ever sees her, so people forget all about her, though she is wonderfully pretty."

"If she is so pretty, she must have a lover, of course," said the stranger, with a sarcastic smile, but as if the words, somehow, burned his tongue.

"I have heard persons say that this lady never has a visitor, monsieur."

"But when she returns home so late at night, she does not return alone, I fancy."

"I cannot say whether any one accompanies her to the house or not, but I do know that no man ever crosses her threshold."

"She is really a paragon of virtue, then?"

"She certainly seems to be, and I am sure that everybody in the house will tell you the same thing that I do."

"Do you know what her resources are? What she lives on, in short?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, though it is not at all likely that she lives on her income, monsieur. Rich people don't get up at that hour, especially on a morning like this, when the cold cuts you like a knife, and the clock in the Luxembourg was striking half-past three when I heard the lady leave her room this morning."

"It is strange, passing strange! It seems to me I must be dreaming," muttered the gentleman. Then —

"Is that all you know?" he asked aloud.

"That is all, monsieur. But I can vouch for it that nobody in the house knows any more."

The man with the cigar remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes, during which he sipped his second glass of absinthe abstractedly, then, throwing a foreign gold coin on the table, he said:

"Take out the amount of my bill, and keep one hundred sous for yourself. Your money was very easily earned, it strikes me."

"I did not ask you for the money, monsieur, and if you – "

"I mean what I say. Pay yourself, and don't talk any more about it."

After he had received the change due him the stranger left the café. Almost at the same instant, the lady dressed in mourning came out of the adjoining house, and started down the street in the opposite direction from that which the gentleman had taken.

As they passed each other, their eyes met. The man paused for an instant, as if the sight of this woman aroused some vague recollection, then, thinking his memory must have deceived him, he walked on up the street.

CHAPTER IX

A STRANGE MEETING

BUT before the man with the cigar had gone a dozen yards, his first impression reasserted itself so vividly that he turned, almost involuntarily, to take another look at the lady in mourning.

She, too, turned almost simultaneously, but seeing that the man she had noticed had done the same thing, she hastily turned her head and walked on at a rather more rapid pace. Nevertheless, as she crossed the street to enter the garden of the Luxembourg, she could not resist the temptation to cast another quick glance behind her, and, as she did so, she saw that the man with the cigar was still standing in the same place watching her. Angry at having been caught in the act of thus violating the rules of good breeding a second time, she hastily lowered her black veil, and, quickening her pace still more, entered the garden. The man with the cigar, after a moment's hesitation, hurriedly retraced his steps, and, on reaching the entrance to the garden, saw the young woman some distance ahead of him in the broad path leading to the Observatory.

One of those peculiar instincts which often apprise us of things that we cannot see made the young woman feel almost certain that she was followed. She hesitated a long time before she could make up her mind to again satisfy herself of the fact, however; but she was about to yield to the temptation when she heard hurried footsteps behind her, then some one passed her.

It was the man with the cigar. He walked on until he was about twenty yards ahead of her, then turned, resolutely approached the young woman, and raising his hat, said, with perfect politeness:

"Madame, I ask a thousand pardons for thus accosting you."

"I have not the honour of knowing you, monsieur."

"Permit me to ask a single question, madame?"

"Really, monsieur – "

"I should not be under the necessity of asking you this question if I could be fortunate enough to see your veil lifted."

"Monsieur – "

"Pray do not think that I am actuated by any impertinent curiosity, madame. I am incapable of such rudeness; but as I passed you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, it seemed to me that I had met you before, and under very peculiar circumstances."

"And I must confess that I, too, thought – "

"You had met me before?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"In Chili, was it not?"

"About eight months ago?"

"A few miles from Valparaiso?"

"About nightfall?"

"On the borders of a lake. A party of bandits had attacked your carriage, madame."

"The approach of a party of travellers mounted upon mules, whose bells could be heard a long distance off, frightened the scoundrels away. This party which had just left Valparaiso met us – "

"Precisely as I met you on the Rue de Vaugirard, a few minutes ago, madame," said the man, smiling; "and to ensure your safety, one of the gentlemen of the party, with three of his escort, decided to accompany your carriage as far as the nearest village."

"And this traveller was you, monsieur. I remember you perfectly now, though I had the pleasure of seeing you only for a few moments, and in the dusk, as night comes on so quickly in Chili."

"And it was very dark by the time we reached the village of – of Balaméda, if my memory does not play me false, madame."

"I do not remember the name of the village, monsieur, but what I do, and what I always shall remember, is your extreme kindness; for after you had escorted us to the village, you had to make great haste to overtake your party, which was travelling northward, it seems to me."

"Yes, madame."

"And you overtook your friends without any unpleasant accident, I trust? We felt very uneasy on that score, the roads along those precipices are so dangerous; besides, those same bandits might still be lurking behind the rocks."

"My return was made in the most peaceful manner. My mule only had to quicken his pace a little, that is all."

"You must admit, monsieur, that it is very singular that an acquaintance made in the wilds of Chili should be renewed in the garden of the Luxembourg."

"It is, indeed, madame. But I see that it is beginning to snow. Will you permit me to offer you my arm and a shelter under my umbrella, until we can reach the nearest cab-stand?"

"I really fear that I am trespassing too much on your kindness," replied the lady, accepting the proffered courtesy, nevertheless.

Arm in arm, they accordingly directed their steps towards the cab-stand near the Odéon. They found but one vehicle there. The young woman entered it, but her companion, from delicacy, seemed in doubt as to whether he should or should not follow her.

"What are you waiting for, monsieur?" the lady asked, affably. "There are no other carriages here; will you not make use of this one?"

"I scarcely dared to ask such a favour," replied the gentleman, eagerly availing himself of the permission thus accorded. Then —

"What address shall I give the coachman?" he added.

"Ask him to take me where the Rue de Rivoli intersects the Place de la Concorde," replied the lady, with some slight embarrassment. "I will wait under the arcade there until it stops snowing, as I have some business to attend to in that locality."

This order given, the coachman turned his horses' heads towards the right bank of the Seine.

"Do you know, I think our meeting more and more marvellous," remarked the young woman.

"While I admit that the meeting is singular, it seems to me even more agreeable than singular."

"No compliments, if you please, monsieur. They do very well for people who have nothing else to say to each other; and I confess that if you are inclined to gratify my curiosity, you will not have answered half the questions I want to put to you, when the time comes for us to separate."

"You should not tell me that; I shall be sure to become very diffuse in my style of conversation, in the hope that your curiosity – "

"Will inspire me with the desire to meet you a second time, if you do not tell me all to-day. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, madame."

The lady smiled faintly, then she continued:

"But in order that we may take things in their natural course, tell me first what you were going to do in the northern part of Chili. I was returning from there myself, when I met you, eight months ago, and, as I know it is a region little frequented by travellers, you will understand and excuse a question which might otherwise sound too inquisitive, perhaps."

"Before answering this question, madame, it is absolutely necessary that I should give you some insight into my character; otherwise, you might mistake me for a madman."

"And why, monsieur?"

"Because I am possessed – devoured, perhaps, would be a better word – by such a continual desire to be moving, that for several years past, especially, I have not been able to remain a month in the same place. In short, I have a passion, perhaps I ought rather to say a positive mania, for travel."

"Strange to say, I, too, experience the same unconquerable restlessness, the same longing to be continually on the go, the same intense aversion to repose, and, like you, I, myself, have found a most welcome diversion in travel, for several years past," the young woman responded, smothering a sigh.

"So you, too, madame, have a horror of the dull, lethargic, monotonous life which reminds one of that of an oyster on his bank, or of a snail in his shell?"

"To me torpor and immobility are death itself, yes, worse than death, for, unfortunately, one must be conscious of this apathy of mind and body."

"And yet, there are persons – one can scarcely call them living beings – who would gladly remain for months, and even years, in the same place, lost in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, and enjoying what they style the charm of dolce far niente."

"Yes, monsieur, yes; there are such people, as I know only too well."

"So you have had a like experience, madame? So you, too, have seen how hopelessly intractable such persons are, – how they will eventually triumph over the strongest wills?"

And the two gazed at each other in a sort of bewilderment, so astonished were they by this strange similarity in their experiences.

CHAPTER X

CONTRADICTIONS

THE young woman was the first to break the silence.

"Let us drop the subject, monsieur," she said, sighing heavily. "It arouses too many painful recollections."

"Yes, let us drop it, madame, for I, too, am tortured by many painful recollections from which I am ever striving to escape, for it is cowardly and degrading to permit one's mind to dwell continually upon persons one hates and despises. Ah, madame, I sincerely hope you may never know that mixture of regret, aversion, and love, which renders one's life for ever miserable."

The young woman listened to her companion with profound astonishment, for, when he spoke of himself, it seemed as if he must also be speaking of her, so identical had been their experience; but the reserve which she must necessarily display in her intercourse with a comparative stranger, prevented any such admission on her part; so, quite as much to conceal her real feelings as to gratify her growing curiosity, she remarked:

"You speak of mingled aversion and love, monsieur. How can one both love and hate the same person or thing? Is such a strange contradiction possible?"

"Ah, madame, is not the human heart the greatest of mysteries, – the strangest of enigmas? Ever since the world began, the inexplicable attraction which opposites have for each other has been admitted. How often we see a person who is weak admire one who is strong, and one who is violent and impetuous seek out one who is gentle and timid! What is the cause of this? Is it the desire for a contrast? Or, is it the charm of overcoming a certain difficulty? Nobody knows. The fact remains that persons whose characters are diametrically opposed to our own exercise an inexplicable attraction over us, – inexplicable, yes; for we curse them, we pity them, we despise them, and we hate them; and yet, we can not do without them; or, if they escape us, we regret them as much as we hate them, and forthwith begin to dream of the impossible, that is to say, of acquiring sufficient influence over them to transform them, to imbue them with our own ideas and tastes. Dreams, idle dreams these are, of course, which only serve to make us forget the sad reality for a brief time."

"I, too, have often heard of these strange contradictions. They are the more incomprehensible to me, as the only chance of happiness seems to me to consist in perfect congeniality of temperament."

The young woman paused suddenly, and blushed, deeply regretting words which might be construed as an advance made to a comparative stranger (though this had really been furthest from her thoughts), especially after both she and he had commented on the remarkable similarity in their tastes. But this fear on her part was entirely unnecessary, as the turn the conversation had taken seemed to have plunged her companion into a profound reverie.

A few minutes afterwards, the carriage stopped at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli, and the driver got down from the box to open the door.

"What! are we here already?" exclaimed the stranger, arousing himself; then, motioning the coachman to close the door again, he said:

"I sincerely hope you will pardon me for having made such poor use of the last few minutes of the interview you have been kind enough to grant me, but I yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of certain memories. You will not refuse, I trust, to indemnify me by permitting me to see you again, and to have the honour of calling on you at your own home."