ROSE

He was a child. He was no longer dressed as a little boy, but neither was he dressed as a man. His figure was lithe, his hair curly; one could fairly see him grow; he played billiards during the season and chaffed the girls all the year round.

But he didn’t chaff Christiane, however, because Christiane was ten years older than he, and because she seemed a lady, like her mother—a younger lady and not yet married. On the contrary, he loved her, because she was kind, affectionate and good-humored. Life is a thing that must laugh, think little boys, and when one isn’t laughing, one isn’t living.

All of Christiane’s friends were married, having settled down here and there. She would visit them, hoping, here or there, to find a husband in her turn, but she scarcely had a dot and that made matters difficult. She would often come to the little boy’s mother, because their houses were nearby and also because the father of the little boy, who collected prints, frequently received visits from wealthy enthusiasts, to whom he liked to exhibit his collection. Who knows? It was her own explanation. She repeated it at every opportunity, with confidence in the future. Christiane was twenty-five.

In the summer, Christiane’s friends would foregather at a little seashore in Brittany and the one who had found the most spacious cottage would invite Christiane, whose parents, old and weak, preferred not to stir from their home. This made of the coterie the gayest gathering of childhood and youth. There, the little boy became more than ever amphibious. He no longer knew which of his instincts to obey. To rear fortresses of pebbles against the rising tide was really tempting; to remain reading near the young women who sat sewing and beside Christiane who was embroidering, was also mightily tempting. Then he would divide himself in two, and when he thought that he had played the serious young man long enough, he would run off to the little fellows and gleefully wade in the foam-washed sand.

Thus the time had been passing by for several days when the print collector received a mysterious letter: “Monsieur, your departure, of which I learned when I came to your house this past Thursday, interfered with a project that I had for some time been dreaming about. A certain impatience does not permit me to wait till you return. Would I be indiscreet to take the liberty of disturbing you for a few moments at the shore, to which you have gone for the precise purpose of fleeing such indiscreet persons as I?” ... The signature, “Durand, of the Institute,” recalled to the print lover a visitor whom he had received two or three times and who, at his last visit, seemed distrait. He recalled, too, that on the first day Christiane had been with this gentleman, and that he had greeted her with great deference, that he had spoken with her, tenderly, and that for her he had even stopped examining the portfolio of rare examples.

Christiane had conquered a husband. One doubted this no longer when M. Durand was seen to install himself in the Beach hotel, and, declaring that he would finish his vacation season there, mingle gravely in the frivolous pursuits of the young women. The little boy had detested him from the first day. He thought:

“That fellow is no print lover, he’s a lover of Christiane.”

This thought, which often recurred to him, he even permitted to escape aloud, before his mother, who gave him a proper scolding, at the same time repressing her intense desire to laugh. Soon M. Durand was known only as the lover of Christiane, and this name was to cling to him for the rest of his life.

This was the sole allusion to a marriage that was decided in silence. Toward the end of the month, when everybody, spontaneously, began to speak of preparations to return, M. Durand drew the print collector aside and said to him:

“I’m leaving. I’m firmly decided. I certainly am ‘Christiane’s lover.’”

“Ah! You have heard?...

“Yes, and joyfully. That proves that I have been understood.”

“But she?”

“I don’t care.”

The print collector took it upon himself to place Christiane’s hand into that of M. Durand. Christiane opened her eyes in astonishment. M. Durand blushingly kissed the obedient little hand and Christiane understood that this man loved her and desired her happiness. This thought rendered her already happy.

Christiane freed herself of the felicitations, the kisses of her friends. She went up to her room, and, seated at the window, contemplated the sea, which, naively, she found similar to the infinitude of her existence.

She had been dreaming thus a moment, when a noise caused her to turn her head. She listened. It sounded like sobbing. She arose and looked. On his knees near the bed, and half concealed by the drawn curtain, the little boy was crying, his head buried in the covers.

Christiane approached and, taking the boy by the shoulders, raised him and drew him toward her:

“What’s the matter, my little fellow?”

“Christiane! Christiane!”

“What is it?”

“Oh! Christiane!”

“Come now. Sit down right beside me tell me what is the trouble.” She had sunk down upon the bed, quite touched by this immense sorrow. She began again, when the little boy had drawn near to her with his head leaning against her shoulder.

“Did they give you a scolding?”

“No.”

“Does something hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come now,” she said, a little rudely. “Be reasonable. Speak.”

“Oh! Christiane, it’s you who scold me. You whom I love so much!”

Then Christiane understood, and the child began to frighten her. But his words had softened her, too, and, in order to make up for her rudeness she clasped him to her bosom.

“Christiane, is he going to take you away, then?”

“Why, not at all. I shall remain with all of you, with you.”

“That’s not true!”

“But it is, I assure you. I’ll come to see you, just as usual, and I’ll always love you, my dear little fellow.”

“And I,—I love you so!”

A pair, of innocent and curious hands clutched at Christiane and pressed her flesh. She looked, perturbed, into the languishing eyes that sought her own. She looked at the young mouth, and the young mouth rose toward hers and seized it. They remained a long time in this position, then in a sudden ecstasy they rolled over upon the bed. The little boy opened his eyes and his instinct threw him upon Christiane. He opened her corsage, caressed her soft flesh, thrust his hand in under her shoulders. Christiane started up, arranged her clothes, then, all of a sudden, finding herself unhooked:

“Yes, my little one, kiss my heart. Here! Give me my first kiss of love!”

And the little boy, with both hands pressing Christiane’s swelling breast, placed his happy lips upon the pale rose that budded there, ready to open.

She uttered a cry, as if bitten, arose, arranged her toilette, and said:

“Now I am content. My tender little friend, I will love you always. Preserve the taste of my heart. Who knows?”