The Gods Will Have Blood by Anatole France

Author:Anatole France
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 1978-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

XI

ON the morning of September 7th the Citizeness Rochemaure went to visit Gamelin, the new magistrate, in order to solicit his help on behalf of a friend who had been denounced as a suspect. On the stairs she met the ci-devant Brotteaux des Ilettes who had, in the happy days now past, been her lover. Brotteaux was on his way to deliver a gross of his dancing dolls to the toy merchant in the Rue de la Loi, and, to carry them more easily, he had tied them to the end of a pole, as street-hawkers do. His manners to women were always courteous, even to those towards whom long familiarity had made him indifferent, as could hardly fail to be the case with Madame de Rochemaure – unless indeed the added seasoning of betrayal, absence, unfaithfulness and obeseness proved an added appetizer to the fascination she had formerly held for him. Whether that was so or no, he greeted her now, on those sordid stairs with their cracked tiles, as chivalrously as he had ever done on the entrance steps at Les Ilettes, and begged her to do him the honour of entering his garret. She climbed the ladder quite nimbly and found herself under the sloping, wooden beams which supported the tiled roof pierced by one skylight. It was impossible to stand upright and she sat down on the only chair in the wretched place. After a brief glance around, she asked in a tone of surprise and sorrow:

‘Is this where you live, Maurice? You must have little fear of anyone intruding on you. Only a devilish imp or a cat could find you here.’

‘I am somewhat cramped,’ the ci-devant wealthy aristocrat replied, ‘and I do not deny that occasionally it rains on my bed. A trifling inconvenience. On fine nights I am able to see the moon, that symbol and confidant of lovers. For the moon, madame, ever since the world began has been invoked by lovers, and when full, with her pale, round face, she recalls to lovers the object of their desires.’

‘I know,’ the citizeness sighed.

‘Of course, the same thing makes the cat create a fine row outside there in the gutter. But we must forgive love if it makes cats caterwaul on the tiles, considering how it fills the lives of men and women with betrayal and torment.’

Both of them had had the tact to speak as if they were friends who had parted only the night before, and though they had now become strangers to each other, their conversation was gracious and friendly.

Even so, Madame Rochemaure’s thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. The Revolution had for a long time been a source of pleasure and profit to her. Lately, however, it had begun to cause her anxiety and disquietude. Her suppers were growing less joyous and brilliant; her music no longer charmed the clouds from sad faces; her tables were being forsaken by the most avid of punters. Many of her acquaintances, now under

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