The fear of living

“Here they come, here they come!” shouted Jean Berlier, pointing to the end of the race-course.

The course at Marlioz is less than two miles from Aix-les-Bains, on the road to Chambéry. The view from the stands, which occupy one of the slopes facing Mont Revard is fine and picturesque. Beyond a foreground of green fields, separated by screens of poplar-trees, the eyes light suddenly on the craggy escarpments of the mountain-chain, resembling some old fortress. By day there is little grace or beauty in the scene, but at eventide the setting sun lends to it a wonderful attractiveness.

“Here they come,” repeated Isabelle Orlandi, clapping her hands.

The flower-decked carriages had indeed reached the edge of the green sward, ready to file past the stands filled with a brilliant crowd. The spectators stamped enthusiastically and, swarming about like a lot of mad people or a hive of bees, tore flowers from the baskets of the passing vendors, spread their ammunition in front of them, and preluded the coming battle with the excited and useless shouts of soldiers on the point of assault. Under the light of a cloudless sky the fairy-like procession advanced, radiant in the sunshine. From afar all that was to be seen of it was a succession of bright patches and at intervals the rapid flashes reflected from the polished harness of the horses and the dazzling carriage-wheels as they caught the sun’s rays. It grew bigger and bigger, and outlined against the golden horizon, it brought to mind in its splendor and richness the procession of the Magi painted by some Venetian artist who adored color.

The Dulaurens family and their party filled the first row of the grand stand, Jean Berlier next to Isabelle, Marcel Guibert between Madame Dulaurens and Alice. Paule had refused to come with her brother, who sat quite silent, thinking of the sad faces of the women at home and regretting the peace and sweetness of Le Maupas, while beginning to experience the first humiliating inner symptoms of love.

The band began to play dance music, and to the strains of its light rhythm, almost drowned by laughter and shouting, the battle opened. Late arrivals, hurrying across the race course eager to take part in the fun, were mingled in a distracted mass of gay parasols and dresses on the lawn.

It was at the little ones that the first bouquets were thrown, gently tossed by delicate hands. The children opened the flowery procession like harbingers of spring, delicious buds of humanity. Rosy babies with bare arms, riding donkeys which carried them triumphantly in big red baskets; small sailor boys proudly wielding their pasteboard oars in long canoes decked with reeds, drawn by Arab horses whose tails and flowing manes served as angry waves; tiny girls dressed in pink, peeping out from green nests like wonderful birds; all this little company, guarded by an escort of careful nurses, was mad with applause and sunshine, with music and gaiety. It was like the youthful Bacchus in his triumph.

Slowly the carriages following them came up one after another and took their part in the gentle strife. They bore the very grace of the earth, the beauty of women and the scent of flowers. The soul of the plundered gardens still pervaded these moving flower-beds. English dog-carts, tilburies, victorias, phaetons, landaus, all were smothered in flowers of a thousand hues—heavy moon-daisies, purple as an autumn sunset; while marguerites, the lover’s fortune-teller; gladioles with their red bells merrily a-ring; cyclamens the color of the lees of wine, the rare and precious jewels of Mont Revard’s crown; hydrangeas with their pink and pale blue globes; orchids of varying hue, splendid in their triumphant leaflessness, or still more glorious in a setting of exotic palm-branches or of red forest-heather, whose tiny branches are so slender and sensitive that the heat of the day is sufficient to stir them.

Half outstretched among these sumptuous spoils of the ransacked gardens, the young women of the procession smiled in quiet confidence. They relied on the pleasure stirred by their irreproachable forms to complete their own success in the contest against the beautiful blossoms of mother earth. For they knew full well that they themselves were the sovereign flowers, more seductive and intoxicating than all others, since they could supplement the still unconscious grace of nature with the harmony of motion and the wonder of the intelligent mind. On the splendid, supple stem of a woman’s perfect form, is not the face set as though it were the divine calyx of beauty?

The enthusiasm of the crowd made no distinction between the charm of earth and the charm of woman. The incessant stream of flying bouquets was a link between the occupants of the stands and the beauties of the procession, who bent before the tributes paid to them and, amid the perfume that invaded earth and air alike, made their wondrous progress over a carpet of flowers, under a rain of flowers. The popular excitement grew still greater as the spectators saw the Allegory of Summer approaching. On a chariot with golden wheels drawn by white horses, ears of wheat were bound in sheaves whose gold was enhanced by the red and blue of the poppies and cornflowers, the rubies and sapphires of the fields. Young girls, whose flowing robes were the color of straw, whose unbound hair streamed in fair waves, veritable types of the supple maidens of Botticelli’s Primavera, symbolised, like the ripe grain itself, prosperity and happiness.

“Bravo!” cried the crowd, designating this golden car to the jury for the first prize. Isabelle Orlandi and Jean Berlier emptied their baskets with joyful gaiety. The girl was wearing a white dress, and her bodice, half covered by a bolero, was trimmed with pleated satin of the color of mother-of-pearl. Pleasure intoxicated her, and her flushed brown cheeks betrayed her quickened pulses. The two young people reserved their hardest shots for the arrival of a few ancient crones who were not afraid to dishonor this procession of youth by their presence. They are to be met with at all fashionable promenades at Nice, at Monte Carlo, at Aix. In fact, they are apparently the same at all these functions. They try to forget or to cheat death, and their very faces adjure us to make the best of life or remind us of the threats of time. One of them was at last hit, and kept on her hat and head-dress with difficulty under the shocks of the missiles. Isabelle and Jean could no longer restrain their laughter.

Beside Alice Dulaurens, whose mauve dress trimmed with white lace enhanced her ethereal grace, Marcel felt his will weakening and his melancholy disappearing. A cloud of colors and scents surrounded and enervated him. He could see nothing but flowers on the path of his future life. At intervals, however, a strange vision would come back to his memory, some vivid landscape of his childhood, or some dark valley in the Colonies, and he regretted these pictures of his old enthusiasms which he tried in vain to keep fresh. But why seek to bring back the past when the present had so many charms? He gazed, not without that sadness which accompanies a growing desire, at the dazzling white neck of the girl as she bent forward to get a better view of the course of her awkwardly thrown bouquet and he could not but admire the bloom of her pale skin.

Alice turned to her companion, whose silence troubled her, and one look from her blue eyes was purification to the young man’s thoughts. With her little ungloved hand she pointed to the basket which was rapidly emptying itself.

“Here are some flowers,” she cried. “Aren’t you going to throw any?”

She blushed as she uttered these simple words, and her extreme shyness made her look the lovelier.

The allegorical chariot of Summer passed on, and, following a carriage covered with vervain and roses, came the regimental break of the dragoons quartered at Chambéry, artistically decorated with brilliant sunflowers and big bunches of jonquils. Among the officers in uniform the only one standing was Lieutenant de Marthenay, whose elegance was of the rather cumbersome kind which evidences the passing of youth. He carried a bouquet of rare and lovely orchids. It was very evident that he was looking for someone on the stands. When he saw Mademoiselle Dulaurens, he smiled, bowed, and made as if he would throw the bouquet to her. This bold impertinence, drawing the public gaze upon the young girl, vexed Marcel Guibert, who dived into Alice’s basket and with a very efficacious zeal was the first to begin the fight with his rival. His aim was well-calculated, but not so the strength. He struck the Dragoon full in the face, thereby extinguishing the bright smile. De Marthenay, taken aback, let the precious orchids fall on the ground where they were picked up at once by a watchful collector of flowers.

Furious at this, he swept the stand with his glance, only to see Isabelle Orlandi, who was clapping her hands and crying:

“Well hit! Three cheers for the Tirailleurs!”

Jean Berlier backed her up, amused at her exuberant spirits. De Marthenay, however, paid no attention to their raillery. At last he noticed Marcel Guibert’s strong, contemptuous face a little behind Alice. But while his anger and malice grew stronger and stronger, the Dragoon’s chariot passed on.

At every turn which brought him in front of the Dulaurens party, he saw Alice, forgetful of the battle, talking to his rival; she seemed a changed, absorbed, and less retiring Alice. And, every time, Isabelle and her admirer took a spiteful joy in interrupting his observations by incessantly bombarding him. They had the advantage of the position, and they kept at it all the afternoon.

In the meantime an unexpected carriage had appeared in the procession. Entirely decorated with scarlet, copper red, and orange cannas, flame-like in shape and color, Clément Dulaurens’ motor puffed past snorting and panting. In the brilliant daylight it looked like a raging fire.

It was the first motor car allowed to take part in the show, and it was by no means welcome. Its abominable smell overwhelmed the scent of the flowers, and the horrible noise which accompanied its quivering progress brought down upon it the wrath of the crowd, in spite of indignant protests from some lovers of the sport.

Shouts of “Poisonous monster!” “Go to the ‘devil’” were heard.

“Fire! fire!” cried others at this wizard of the flaming flowers.

In the face of all this outcry, the young man did not try to force public favor. He was clever enough to leave the procession and on reaching the deserted race-course he let his swift obedient machine go. Across the lawn he went at full speed in his flaming car like a dazzling rocket and disappeared in the direction of the sun, but not too soon to hear the far-off cheers which at last greeted the matchless power of the machine and its meteor-like beauty.

Either from satiety or fatigue the battle was dying down. In vain the flower-sellers offered their flowers at a reduction. Cradled on their donkeys, the happy babies were the only ones who took much interest in the show. Foreseeing that people would soon be tired of it the jury began to distribute the prizes.

The sun was already setting on the Marlioz plain. Delicate shades of pink, violet, gold, and mauve were dusted over the horizon like some impalpable powder. And as the sun set, keeping to themselves all its vanishing glory the rocks of Mount Revard spread themselves with a robe of brilliant red, under which they seemed to quiver with joy as in a bath of light. As he was leaving the stand after Alice, Marcel stopped to admire this rapturous display of nature; the girl turned round to call him and wondered at the joy in his face. He had felt in himself a similar exaltation of all his vital forces.

The Dulaurens and their guests got into the coach awaiting them on the road and drove back to Aix-les-Bains.

On the evening of the Battle of Flowers it is the custom to dine in the open air, either at the Club or at the Villa, weather permitting. The restaurants encroach upon the gardens and on the well-worn lawns; Rows of little tables are set out, where lamps with many colored shades shine among the trees like scintillating glow-worms.

Armand de Marthenay, who had been asked to dine with the Dulaurenses, joined the party in the big hall of the Club. They had reserved one of the favorite and most sheltered tables, at the end of the terrace, for Alice was sensitive to cold and at nights a fresh breeze blew from the mountains. The cavalry lieutenant was in a bad humor. He could not swallow his discomfiture of the afternoon. As soon as he saw Marcel Guibert he came up to him rashly and remarked:

“You fail to distinguish, my dear sir, between war and play.”

Marcel drew himself up to his full height. Much taller than de Marthenay, he looked down on him contemptuously and said, “You fail to distinguish between respect and mere gallantry.”

Hearing the sound of this dialogue and fearing a scene, Madame Dulaurens came up to them. The title of one and the fame of the other were equally in her mind, and it suited her vanity to have the two officers in the party.

De Marthenay, unable to complain of the words addressed to him, tried to find an excuse for a quarrel, when Isabelle Orlandi came up like a whirl-wind and saved the compromising situation.

“Come here, Jean, quickly. Here is the dragoon.”

And with the unchecked caprice of a spoilt child she added quickly, “Show me your face!”

“But, Mademoiselle Orlandi—” protested the lieutenant, growing pale.

“Just for a minute, only just for a minute.”

She pretended to examine his face and said, as though she were presenting him to the public, “It’s simply wonderful! There’s not a mark.”

“What do you want of me?” stammered de Marthenay.

The young girl burst out laughing and went on making fun of him.

“You can’t deny it! These colonials can shoot splendidly—You beat them in a cotillion! But in war! Hardly!”

“I don’t understand you—”

“Oh, yes you do! You understand me perfectly. M. Guibert here has beaten you! We applaud him because, as you know, he is our hero. Now you are anything but a hero. When your uniform gets wet you talk about it for a week! Besides, when one really wants to fight, one doesn’t go into the cavalry!”

Now for a man to extricate himself wittily from the embarrassment caused by a pretty woman’s jokes is no easy matter, and Lieutenant de Marthenay was far from being witty. He attacked Marcel Guibert once more.

“The ladies are your protection, sir!”

But Isabelle Orlandi did not let him go. It was she who answered:

“Oh! he needs no protection to advance him.”

Madame Dulaurens intervened at last:

“Come, Isabelle, you are not considerate.”

The girl lifted her arms heavenwards with a comical gesture:

“One must not strike an officer of the Dragoons,” she said. “Even with flowers.”

It was a joy to her to humiliate this young man. Before life humbled her—and she was quite determined to sacrifice everything, including love itself, to her luxurious ideas—she gave herself up entirely to the joy of being beautiful, coquettish, and daring.

Clément Dulaurens, arriving at this point, turned the conversation completely by questioning Marcel about the Malagasy names which afforded him so much amusement.

“Captain, do tell me, is Antanimbarindra Tsoksoraka a real name? Or is it just a journalist’s invention?”

“Not at all. It is a village.”

“And Ramazombazaha?”

“He was the chief of the Hovas at the beginning of the war. Our men to simplify matters called him Ramasse ton bazar.”

“There you see,” said Clément, “I’m the only one able to talk about the Madagascar expedition with you in technical terms. And I know some even more complicated names than these.”

During the whole scene Alice had kept nervously silent.

They sat down to dinner, and soon the little skirmish was forgotten in the general merriment which followed a day spent in the open air and in physical exercise.

Isabelle, less aggressive now, amused everybody including even her enemy. Alice, seated between Marcel and Armand de Marthenay, tried to make herself agreeable to both of them, though showing as usual considerable reserve. When they left the table she forgot the bouquet of cyclamen, which she had worn in her belt in the afternoon. Marcel promptly seized it. The girl noticed this.

“Will you give it to me?” he asked, but his voice was scarcely that of a suppliant. However, he added, “You thought so little of it that you left it behind and the flowers are quite faded already.”

She did not answer, but she smiled and blushed. In her smile he read her preference.

Marcel left first, to get back to Le Maupas early and not to cause his mother needless worry. The night was so lovely that, getting out at the station at Chambéry about 10 o’clock, he thought he would walk home. It was but two miles of a flat country along an avenue of plane-trees and up a little wooded hill.

He walked quickly, inhaling from time to time the still fresh scent of the cyclamens. As he neared Le Maupas in the twofold darkness of the night and the trees he could see just a few stars, which shone through the leaves, their brightness augmented by the dark dome of the heavens. Greedily he breathed the fresh, balmy air. He inflated his chest and felt a new thrill through his whole being.

Was he in love? He did not know yet. But the sight of a young girl had been enough to revive all his youthful fire.

A memory suddenly came to him. He felt that he was transported back to Algiers some years ago. It was one of those never-to-be-forgotten nights of the East, with their dark skies, their warm, soft breezes. Alone on horseback he was riding slowly through the bush, when suddenly his horse stopped. Round him he could see only the silhouettes of a few stunted shrubs. Neither pats nor spurs had any effect; the animal refused to move and his body trembled. Was there some living thing in the shadow beside them? In the dead silence of the dark and deserted plain some invisible presence made itself felt. But even in the face of this mysterious peril, from which there was no escape, he did not feel afraid. On the contrary, he felt conscious of all his strength and energy.

With a violent effort he forced his horse forward until it galloped away into the darkness. And he never knew if the animal had shuddered at some imaginary fear or if they really had passed within reach of death....

Why should this memory come back to him at this hour? He lived through the same strange feelings of that night of long ago. As then, he guessed at an unknown danger; he could not tell if it were a future of joy or of sorrow that was awaiting him. But he felt all his power now as he did then. He put his hand to his breast, inhaled deep breaths of the soft, fragrant night air, and drew himself up to his full height; then intoxicated with hope and pride he began to run.

When he stopped, the inexplicable sense of danger which had visited him had not vanished; it was alive within him.

In the wood the soft night sighed sadly.... And later Marcel had reason to remember this hour when he had run through the shadows towards something intoxicating and to be feared—which was love.