NSPECTOR JOLY had always maintained that conclusions were more important than stability. Not to change one's opinion under the pressure of evidence was the proof of mediocrity. Yet, after voluntarily retiring from active service and acquiring that suburban retreat which had so long been a dream, not for worlds would he have admitted to Madame Joly that any disappointment lurked in the dream's realization.
Monrepos certainly was not responsible for the disappointment. The reality coincided in all respects with the dream. In one, as in the other, on opening the gate between the high inclosing walls, one saw a straight walk, freshly graveled and bordered with box, on one side of which was the fountain with the goldfish, and on the other the arbor where he was now sitting; and at the end of the walk that house, a little naked as yet, being fresh from the hands of the architect, to which he had looked forward as a very heaven of rest.
Surveying this heaven, M. Joly said to himself: "It appears one is happy only in remembering or in anticipating. That being the case, since I have nothing more to anticipate, I am like the moon, one side of which is in perpetual darkness—and the other," he added, with a sigh, "shines only by reflected light."
Sitting opposite him, the curé of Saint-Médard, who had come to spend the day and found Monrepos to his liking, was almost asleep. No master of ceremonies would have presented these two to each other with the idea that either could afford the other a moment of pleasure. It amazed M. Joly that so superior a woman as Madame Joly should have such a confessor. It also amused him—for what could a woman like Madame Joly possibly have to confess?
"Monsieur le curé," he said, abruptly, "after Paradise, what?"
"After Paradise," stammered the curé, rousing himself, "there is nothing. Paradise is the sum of all things, the realization of every dream."
"In that case," replied M. Joly, "I advise you on going there to hold a few dreams in reserve, lest even Paradise prove wearisome."
The curé relapsed into silence. To disturb his state of mental repose was for M. Joly an irresistible delight. He also dearly loved the curé's arguments, drawn from sources which reminded him how old was human thought. But the cure's eyes were closing again. M. Joly observed him a moment meditatively, then walked down the gravel path toward the gate.
Just within, among the vines on the wall, hung a bell. In the earlier days of his retirement, its call from the outer world had awakened in his breast emotions of curiosity and hope. But he had long since realized that the stream of life does not tarry to converse with what it has cast up on its banks. Observing this bell, hampered by encroaching vines and yellow with rust, M. Joly was muttering to himself. "A symbol of oblivion and decay!" when suddenly, as if in indignant denial, it began to ring violently.
"Come now," he said ironically, "what joke are you up to?"
For answer the bell rang again, this time with a tone of imperious impatience. At this second summons he opened the gate, to find himself looking into a pair of blue eyes.
Instantly he dived down into the depths of memory and brought up two pictures: one of a woman crumbling bread to the fishes over the railing of the garden of the Hôtel d'ltalie et d'Angleterre in Freyr, the other of this same woman ordering his breakfast on the terrace of Madame de Caraman's villa in Bourg-la-Reine.
"Madame de Wimpffen!" he exclaimed.
A smile of pleasure came into the blue eyes.
"I am so glad to find you, Monsieur Joly. May I come in? You have not forgotten me in all these years?"
His thought was that no one could possibly forget her, but in his momentary embarrassment he said:—
"That is not to my credit, I have such a good memory."
She answered him with her bright, understanding smile as she stepped within the gate.
"Where may I speak with you? here,—on this seat by the wall? Shall we sit down here? Will you please tell the coachman to wait?" And when he had delivered the message and closed the gate, "Sit down, please, Monsieur Joly,"—making room for him;—"something has occurred which made me wish to consult you. You see, I, too, deserve no credit, having also a good memory."
He took the proffered seat, a little awkwardly, crossing his hands as usual over his waistcoat, experiencing at the same time that feeling of mingled admiration and intimacy which this woman had inspired once before.