PAGE 33
The Planter of Malata
by
She listened as if in a dream. He had succeeded so well in his effort to drive back the flood of his passion that his life itself seemed to run with it out of his body. At that moment he felt as one dead speaking. But the headlong wave returning with tenfold force flung him on her suddenly, with open arms and blazing eyes. She found herself like a feather in his grasp, helpless, unable to struggle, with her feet off the ground. But this contact with her, maddening like too much felicity, destroyed its own end. Fire ran through his veins, turned his passion to ashes, burnt him out and left him empty, without force–almost without desire. He let her go before she could cry out. And she was so used to the forms of repression enveloping, softening the crude impulses of old humanity that she no longer believed in their existence as if it were an exploded legend. She did not recognise what had happened to her. She came safe out of his arms, without a struggle, not even having felt afraid.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she said, outraged but calm in a scornful way.
He got down on his knees in silence, bent low to her very feet, while she looked down at him, a little surprised, without animosity, as if merely curious to see what he would do. Then, while he remained bowed to the ground pressing the hem of her skirt to his lips, she made a slight movement. He got up.
“No,” he said. “Were you ever so much mine what could I do with you without your consent? No. You don’t conquer a wraith, cold mist, stuff of dreams, illusion. It must come to you and cling to your breast. And then! Oh! And then!”
All ecstasy, all expression went out of his face.
“Mr. Renouard,” she said, “though you can have no claim on my consideration after having decoyed me here for the vile purpose, apparently, of gloating over me as your possible prey, I will tell you that I am not perhaps the extraordinary being you think I am. You may believe me. Here I stand for truth itself.”
“What’s that to me what you are?” he answered. “At a sign from you I would climb up to the seventh heaven to bring you down to earth for my own–and if I saw you steeped to the lips in vice, in crime, in mud, I would go after you, take you to my arms–wear you for an incomparable jewel on my breast. And that’s love–true love–the gift and the curse of the gods. There is no other.”
The truth vibrating in his voice made her recoil slightly, for she was not fit to hear it–not even a little–not even one single time in her life. It was revolting to her; and in her trouble, perhaps prompted by the suggestion of his name or to soften the harshness of expression, for she was obscurely moved, she spoke to him in French.
“Assez! J’ai horreur de tout cela,” she said.
He was white to his very lips, but he was trembling no more. The dice had been cast, and not even violence could alter the throw. She passed by him unbendingly, and he followed her down the path. After a time she heard him saying:
“And your dream is to influence a human destiny?”
“Yes!” she answered curtly, unabashed, with a woman’s complete assurance.
“Then you may rest content. You have done it.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. But just before reaching the end of the path she relented, stopped, and went back to him.
“I don’t suppose you are very anxious for people to know how near you came to absolute turpitude. You may rest easy on that point. I shall speak to my father, of course, and we will agree to say that he has died–nothing more.”