Part 7 (1/2)

Through the eyes of the little girl he saw abruptly the penury of heart, the desert-like aridity of this _bourgeois_ cla.s.s of which he formed a part. Dry and wornout earth which little by little has imbibed all the juices of life and does not renew them any more, just like those lands in Asia where the fecundating rivers, drop by drop, have disappeared under the vitreous sand. Even those whom they believe they love are loved in a proprietary way; they sacrifice them to their egotism, to their b.u.t.tressed pride, to their narrow and headstrong intelligence.

Pierre took a sorrowful review of his parents and himself. He was silent. The panes of the apartment vibrated under the shock of a distant cannonade. And Pierre, who was thinking of those who were dying, said with bitterness:

”And that, too, is their work.”

Yes, the hoa.r.s.e barking of these cannon away off there, the universal war, the grand catastrophe--the dryness of heart and the inhumanity of that braggart and limited _bourgeoisie_ had a large part in the responsibility for all that. And now (which was only just) the unchained monster would never stop until it had devoured them.

And Luce said:

”That is true.”

For without knowing that she did so she followed the thought of Pierre.

He started at the echo:

”Yes, it is true,” said he, ”what has come about is just. This world was too old; it ought to, it must die.”

And Luce, bowing her head, sorrowful and resigned, said once more:

”Yes.”

Solemn faces of children bent beneath Destiny, whose youthful brows touched by the wing of care bore within them such distressful ponderings!...

Darkness increased in the room. It was not very warm in there. Her hands being icy, Luce stopped her work, which Pierre was not allowed to see.

They went to the window and contemplated the evening shadows across mournful fields and wooded hills. The violet forests formed a half circle against a greenish sky powdered with dust of a pale gold. A bit of the soul of Puvis de Chavannes floated there. A simple phrase of Luce made it evident that she understood how to read that subtle harmony. He was almost astonished. She was not miffed at that, and said that one might easily feel a thing that one would be incapable of expressing.

Though she painted very badly, it was not altogether her fault. Through an economical turn, perhaps ill-advised, she had not finished her course at the Arts Decoratifs. Besides, poverty alone had made her turn to painting. What use in painting without a purpose? And did not Pierre think that almost all those who produce art do it without actual necessity, through vanity, in order to occupy their time, or else because at first they think they need it and later on will not confess they were mistaken? One should not be an artist save when one absolutely cannot keep to oneself the feeling one has--only when one has too much feeling. But Luce said she possessed just enough for one. She went on:

”No, for two.”

(Because he made a face at her.)

The lovely golden tints in the sky began to turn to brown. The deserted plain put on a disconsolate mask. Pierre asked Luce if she was not afraid in that solitude.

”No.”

”When you get home late?”

”There is no danger. The Apaches don't come here. They have their own customs. They are _bourgeois_, too. Besides, we have over there an old ragpicker, and his dog. And besides, I have no fear. Oh, I'm not boasting about myself! I have no merit at all in it. I am not courageous naturally. Only, I have not as yet had any occasion to meet with real fear. The day I do see it, perhaps I shall be more of a poltroon than the next one. Does one ever know what one really is?”

”Well, I for my part know what you are,” quoth Pierre.

”Ah, that is much easier. I myself likewise, I know ... as to you! One always knows better about another.”

The moist chill of evening entered the room through the closed windows.

Pierre felt a little shudder. Luce, who perceived it at once on his neck, ran to make him a cup of chocolate, which she heated on her spirit-lamp. They took a bit of food. Luce had thrown her shawl maternally over Pierre's shoulders; and he let her do it like a cat enjoying the warmth of the stuff. Once more the current of their thoughts brought them back to the family history which Luce had interrupted.

Pierre continued:

”Both of you all alone, so entirely alone, you and your mother: you must be deeply attached to one another.”

”Yes,” said Luce. ”We were very much attached.”