This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By PAUL BOURGET
"I could not act differently," repeated Dorsenne on the evening of thateventful day. He had given his entire afternoon to caring for Gorka. Hemade him lunch. He made him lie down. He watched him. He took him in aclosed carriage to Portonaccio, the first stopping-place on the Florenceline. Indeed, he made every effort not to leave alone for a moment theman whose frenzy he had rather suspended than appeased, at the price,alas, of his own peace of mind! For, once left alone, in solitude and inthe apartments on the Place de la Trinite, where twenty details testifiedto the visit of Gorka, the weight of the perjured word of honor became aheavy load to the novelist, so much the more heavy when he discovered thecalculating plan followed by Boleslas. His tardy penetration permittedhim to review the general outline of their conversation. He perceivedthat not one of his interlocutor's sentences, not even the most agitated,had been uttered at random. From reply to reply, from confidence toconfidence, he, Dorsenne, had become involved in the dilemma withoutbeing able to foresee or to avoid it; he would either have had to accusea woman or to lie with one of those lies which a manly conscience doesnot easily pardon. He did not forgive himself for it.
"It is so much worse," said he to himself, "as it will prevent nothing.A person vile enough to pen anonymous letters will not stop there. Shewill find the means of again unchaining the madman…. But who wrotethose letters? Gorka may have forged them in order to have anopportunity to ask me the question he did…. And yet, no…. There aretwo indisputable facts—his state of jealousy and his extraordinaryreturn. Both would lead one to suppose a third, a warning. But given bywhom?…. He told me of twelve anonymous letters…. Let us assume thathe received one or two…. But who is the author of those?"
The immediate development of the drama in which Julien found himselfinvolved was embodied in the answer to the question. It was not easy toformulate. The Italians have a proverb of singular depth which thenovelist recalled at that moment. He had laughed a great deal when heheard sententious Egiste Brancadori repeat it. He repeated it tohimself, and he understood its meaning. 'Chi non sa fingersi amico, nonsa essere nemico. "He who does not know how to disguise himself as afriend, does not know how to be an enemy." In the little corner ofsociety in which Countess Steno, the Gorkas and Lincoln Maitland moved,who was hypocritical and spiteful enough to practise that counsel?
"It is not Madame Steno," thought Julien; "she has related all herself toher lover. I knew a similar case. But it involved degraded Parisians,not a Dogesse of the sixteenth century found intact in the Venice oftoday, like a flower of that period preserved. Let us strike her off.Let us strike off, too, Madame Gorka, the truthful creature who could noteven condescend to the smallest lie for a trinket which she desires. Itis that which renders her so easily deceived. What irony!…. Let usstrike off Florent. He would allow himself to be killed, if necessary,like a Mameluke at the door of the room where his genial brother-in-lawwas dallying with the Countess…. Let us strike off th