Autobiographical fiction; Impressionist artists -- France -- Paris -- Fiction; Paris (France) -- Intellectual life -- Fiction
when she had striven to compel herself to work, in order to please
her mother; her blood rebelled; she would have liked to shout and jump
about, in her desire for life. But madame treated her so gently, sending
her away from her room, and ordering her to take long walks, that she
felt full of remorse when, on her return to the Quai de Bourbon, she was
obliged to tell a falsehood; to talk of the Bois de Boulogne or invent
some ceremony at church where she now never set foot. Madame seemed to
take to her more and more every day; there were constant presents, now a
silk dress, now a tiny gold watch, even some underlinen. She herself was
very fond of Madame Vanzade; she had wept one day when the latter had
called her daughter; she had sworn never to leave her, such was her
heart-felt pity at seeing her so old and helpless.
‘Well,’ said Claude one morning, ‘you’ll be rewarded; she’ll leave you
her money.’
Christine looked astonished. ‘Do you think so? It is said that she is
worth three millions of francs. No, no, I have never dreamt of such a
thing, and I won’t. What would become of me?’
Claude had averted his head, and hastily replied, ‘Well, you’d become
rich, that’s all. But no doubt she’ll first of all marry you off--’
On hearing this, Christine could hold out no longer, but burst into
laughter. ‘To one of her old friends, eh? perhaps the general who has a
silver chin. What a good joke!’
So far they had gone no further than chumming like old friends. He was
almost as new to life as she, having had nothing but chance adventures,
and living in an ideal world of his own, fanciful amid romantic amours.
To see each other in secret like this, from pure friendship, without
anything more tender passing between them than a cordial shake of the
hand at her arrival, and another one when she left, seemed to them quite
natural. Still for her part she scented that he was shy, and at
times she looked at him fixedly, with the wondering perturbation of
unconscious passion. But as yet nothing ardent or agitating spoilt the
pleasure they felt in being together. Their hands remained cool; they
spoke cheerfully on all subjects; they sometimes argued like friends,
who feel sure they will not fall out. Only, this friendship grew so keen
that they could no longer live without seeing one another.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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