was wet with tears: he leaned forward and let one roll on to the back of his hand.
What, what was he? A hero? Had he done something extremely brave? How terribly he was suffering: how terribly an artist must suffer. How shockingly wide is the range of an artist’s feelings, he thought, only an artist could suffer so much: and the tears rolled on.
CHAPTER THREE
“ B UT, MY DEAR A LAIN, how very yellow your face appears,” she said, settling down comfortably, now that she had got him alone at last.
“My dear Aunt Margot,” he replied, “I suppose it does.”
“But, my dear Alain,” she said in a kindly but serious tone, leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, “ why is it so yellow?”
A vision of the Luong river, sliding dark and smooth in the suffocating gloom; the matted forest steaming in the thunderous rain; paddy fields, lichee trees, mushroom hats, flashed across his mind; but he despaired of his ability to describe the causes and the circumstances of his face’s yellowness, and replied vaguely, “It is the climate, you know.”
“The climate? Yes; and the food, no doubt. I cannot think that the climate has so much to do with it, or the people here would be blue, if not yellow and black as well. There never was such a disagreeable climate as this, with its unhealthy dryness and clouds of dust, and the dreadful wind that never stops except in midsummer, when you need it. This last winter . . . I am sure I was better off in the Pas-de-Calais, where at least it does not pretend to be warm, and where the houses are properly built for the winter. But Alain, you would be far better with a wife to look after your house and see that you are properly fed: these birds’ nests and extraordinary dishes—mice, sharks’ fins—I don’t know indeed, but they cannot be good for you in the long run, however interesting at first, as curiosities.”
“You are a friend to marriage, Aunt Margot: you rarely miss an opportunity of recommending me to take some young woman or other back with me. Yet the idea of Xavier having a wife again does not seem to please you?”
“Ah, that! No, indeed. And I am surprised that you should refer to it so lightly, Alain; if you knew how it grieved me, I am sure you would not do so.”
“Tell me, has anything definite happened since you wrote to me last?”
“I wrote to you last in—” With her lips pursed and her eyes thrown up to the ceiling she numbered the days, weeks, months. “No. I cannot say that anything definite has happened, if you mean by that has he publicly announced that he is going to marry her, or has he been taken off in a strait jacket to the madhouse. That is where he would be if I had my way: I often tell him so. No: it has gone on in the same fashion, but now of course it is still more widely known. I have had letters of sympathy from Mme. Marty in Toulouse and from André at Constantine.”
“I cannot see what it has to do with them. But when you say it is going on in the same fashion, what exactly do you mean? I have not gathered an exact impression: judging from Côme’s remarks I should have supposed the girl to be a flaunting Jezebel, Xavier’s acknowledged mistress—practically a common woman. But then, as I remember, she was very often with you before her marriage; and I cannot reconcile that with a very high degree of open depravity.” He smiled tentatively, having intended to be a little facetious. However, his aunt frowned and said coldly, “No; I do not suppose you can.” She paused; and then, with an air of almost masculine candor, quite characteristic of her, she said, “I do not know what Côme has said, but I should say that it is certainly untrue. This girl is not a bad girl at all. She sees her advantage, and she wishes to profit by it: that is all. If it were not that her gain is our loss, I should have nothing to say, nothing at all. But as it is . . . No. This question apart, I have nothing to say against Madeleine:
What, what was he? A hero? Had he done something extremely brave? How terribly he was suffering: how terribly an artist must suffer. How shockingly wide is the range of an artist’s feelings, he thought, only an artist could suffer so much: and the tears rolled on.
CHAPTER THREE
“ B UT, MY DEAR A LAIN, how very yellow your face appears,” she said, settling down comfortably, now that she had got him alone at last.
“My dear Aunt Margot,” he replied, “I suppose it does.”
“But, my dear Alain,” she said in a kindly but serious tone, leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, “ why is it so yellow?”
A vision of the Luong river, sliding dark and smooth in the suffocating gloom; the matted forest steaming in the thunderous rain; paddy fields, lichee trees, mushroom hats, flashed across his mind; but he despaired of his ability to describe the causes and the circumstances of his face’s yellowness, and replied vaguely, “It is the climate, you know.”
“The climate? Yes; and the food, no doubt. I cannot think that the climate has so much to do with it, or the people here would be blue, if not yellow and black as well. There never was such a disagreeable climate as this, with its unhealthy dryness and clouds of dust, and the dreadful wind that never stops except in midsummer, when you need it. This last winter . . . I am sure I was better off in the Pas-de-Calais, where at least it does not pretend to be warm, and where the houses are properly built for the winter. But Alain, you would be far better with a wife to look after your house and see that you are properly fed: these birds’ nests and extraordinary dishes—mice, sharks’ fins—I don’t know indeed, but they cannot be good for you in the long run, however interesting at first, as curiosities.”
“You are a friend to marriage, Aunt Margot: you rarely miss an opportunity of recommending me to take some young woman or other back with me. Yet the idea of Xavier having a wife again does not seem to please you?”
“Ah, that! No, indeed. And I am surprised that you should refer to it so lightly, Alain; if you knew how it grieved me, I am sure you would not do so.”
“Tell me, has anything definite happened since you wrote to me last?”
“I wrote to you last in—” With her lips pursed and her eyes thrown up to the ceiling she numbered the days, weeks, months. “No. I cannot say that anything definite has happened, if you mean by that has he publicly announced that he is going to marry her, or has he been taken off in a strait jacket to the madhouse. That is where he would be if I had my way: I often tell him so. No: it has gone on in the same fashion, but now of course it is still more widely known. I have had letters of sympathy from Mme. Marty in Toulouse and from André at Constantine.”
“I cannot see what it has to do with them. But when you say it is going on in the same fashion, what exactly do you mean? I have not gathered an exact impression: judging from Côme’s remarks I should have supposed the girl to be a flaunting Jezebel, Xavier’s acknowledged mistress—practically a common woman. But then, as I remember, she was very often with you before her marriage; and I cannot reconcile that with a very high degree of open depravity.” He smiled tentatively, having intended to be a little facetious. However, his aunt frowned and said coldly, “No; I do not suppose you can.” She paused; and then, with an air of almost masculine candor, quite characteristic of her, she said, “I do not know what Côme has said, but I should say that it is certainly untrue. This girl is not a bad girl at all. She sees her advantage, and she wishes to profit by it: that is all. If it were not that her gain is our loss, I should have nothing to say, nothing at all. But as it is . . . No. This question apart, I have nothing to say against Madeleine:
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