Penguin Island — 56 Bk7 Ch7 - The First Consequences
VII. THE FIRST CONSEQUENCES
When Eveline confided to Paul Visire that she had never experienced
anything similar, he did not believe her.
He had had a good deal to do
with women and knew that they readily say these things to men in order
to make them more in love with them.
Thus his experience, as sometimes
happens, made him disregard the truth.
Incredulous, but gratified all
the same, he soon felt love and something more for her.
This state at
first seemed favourable to his intellectual faculties.
Visire delivered
in the chief town of his constituency a speech full of grace, brilliant
and happy, which was considered to be a masterpiece.
The re-opening of Parliament was serene.
A few isolated jealousies, a
few timid ambitions raised their heads in the House, and that was all.
A smile from the Prime Minister was enough to dissipate these shadows.
She and he saw each other twice a day, and wrote to each other in the
interval.
He was accustomed to intimate relationships, was adroit, and
knew how to dissimulate; but Eveline displayed a foolish imprudence:
she made herself conspicuous with him in drawing-rooms, at the theatre,
in the House, and at the Embassies; she wore her love upon her face,
upon her whole person, in her moist glances, in the languishing smile
of her lips, in the heaving of her breast, in all her heightened,
agitated, and distracted beauty.
Soon the entire country knew of their
intimacy.
Foreign Courts were informed of it.
The President of the
Republic and Eveline’s husband alone remained in ignorance.
The
President became acquainted with it in the country, through a misplaced
police report which found its way, it is not known how, into his
portmanteau.
Hippolyte Cérès, without being either very subtle, or very
perspicacious, noticed that there was something different in his home.
Eveline, who quite lately had interested herself in his affairs, and
shown, if not tenderness, at least affection, towards him, displayed
henceforth nothing but indifference and repulsion.
She had always had
periods of absence, and made prolonged visits to the Charity of St. Orberosia; now, she went out in the morning, remained out all day, and
sat down to dinner at nine o’clock in the evening with the face of a
somnambulist.
Her husband thought it absurd; however, he might perhaps
have never known the reason for this; a profound ignorance of women, a
crass confidence in his own merit, and in his own fortune, might
perhaps have always hidden the truth from him, if the two lovers had
not, so to speak, compelled him to discover it.
When Paul Visire went to Eveline’s house and found her alone, they used
to say, as they embraced each other; “Not here!
not here!” and
immediately they affected an extreme reserve.
That was their invariable
rule.
Now, one day, Paul Visire went to the house of his colleague
Cérès, with whom he had an engagement.
It was Eveline who received him,
the Minister of Commerce being delayed by a commission.
“Not here!” said the lovers, smiling.
They said it, mouth to mouth, embracing, and clasping each other.
They
were still saying it, when Hippolyte Cérès entered the drawing-room.
Paul Visire did not lose his presence of mind.
He declared to Madame
Cérès that he would give up his attempt to take the dust out of her
eye.
By this attitude he did not deceive the husband, but he was able
to leave the room with some dignity.
Hippolyte Cérès was thunderstruck.
Eveline’s conduct appeared
incomprehensible to him; he asked her what reasons she had for it.
“Why?
why?” he kept repeating continually, “why?”
She denied everything, not to convince him, for he had seen them, but
from expediency and good taste, and to avoid painful explanations.
Hippolyte Cérès suffered all the tortures of jealousy.
He admitted it
to himself, he kept saying inwardly, “I am a strong man; I am clad in
armour; but the wound is underneath, it is in my heart,” and turning
towards his wife, who looked beautiful in her guilt, he would say: “It ought not to have been with him.”
He was right—Eveline ought not to have loved in government circles.
He suffered so much that he took up his revolver, exclaiming: “I will
go and kill him!” But he remembered that a Minister of Commerce cannot
kill his own Prime Minister, and he put his revolver back into his
drawer.
The weeks passed without calming his sufferings.
Each morning he
buckled his strong man’s armour over his wound and sought in work and
fame the peace that fled from him.
Every Sunday he inaugurated busts,
statues, fountains, artesian wells, hospitals, dispensaries, railways,
canals, public markets, drainage systems, triumphal arches, and
slaughter houses, and delivered moving speeches on each of these
occasions.
His fervid activity devoured whole piles of documents; he
changed the colours of the postage stamps fourteen times in one week.
Nevertheless, he gave vent to outbursts of grief and rage that drove
him insane; for whole days his reason abandoned him.
If he had been in
the employment of a private administration this would have been noticed
immediately, but it is much more difficult to discover insanity or
frenzy in the conduct of affairs of State.
At that moment the
government employees were forming themselves into associations and
federations amid a ferment that was giving alarm both to the Parliament
and to public feeling.
The postmen were especially prominent in their
enthusiasm for trade unions.
Hippolyte Cérès informed them in a circular that their action was
strictly legal.
The following day he sent out a second circular
forbidding all associations of government employees as illegal.
He
dismissed one hundred and eighty postmen, reinstated them, reprimanded
them—and awarded them gratuities.
At Cabinet councils he was always on
the point of bursting forth.
The presence of the Head of the State
scarcely restrained him within the limits of the decencies, and as he
did not dare to attack his rival he consoled himself by heaping
invectives upon General Débonnaire, the respected Minister of War.
The
General did not hear them, for he was deaf and occupied himself in
composing verses for the Baroness Bildermann.
Hippolyte Cérès offered
an indistinct opposition to everything the Prime Minister proposed.
In
a word, he was a madman.
One faculty alone escaped the ruin of his
intellect: he retained his Parliamentary sense, his consciousness of
the temper of majorities, his thorough knowledge of groups, and his
certainty of the direction in which affairs were moving.
