Madame Ronald’s return to Paris gave Monsieur de Limeray great pleasure. During the twenty months that his absence had lasted, constant correspondence had given their relations a charming character of intimacy. The “Prince” immediately tried to guess the state of heart of his American friend. He did not believe in the duration of an unhappy love in a pretty woman, any more than in the duration of regrets in a woman who was very fond of the toilet. He claimed that admiration and rags quickly get the better of a passion or a heartache. However, at the first question he asked about Count and Countess Sant’Anna, the withdrawal of Helene’s gaze, the harshness of her accent, proved to him that she had not recovered her beautiful indifference of the past. . Although this upset his little theories, he was charmed to see that she was capable of a deep feeling. He had a thousand occasions to realize that oblivion had not yet come to her. In fact, the stay in Europe seemed to be bad for Mrs. Ronald. Was it the closer distance between her and Lelo, was it the letters Dora persecuted her with? Whatever she did, whatever she said, her thoughts remained focused on Rome.
One evening, on returning from the theater, she found a large yellow fold on her dress bearing the stamp of Italy. She took it, felt it, and, guessing what was in it, she opened it with nervous fingers. That was it!… Two photographs! those of Count and Countess Sant’Anna! She rejected them sharply, and they went to spread out on her brushes. But the damage was done, the shock received: his gaze had met Lelo’s face, and she had been touched to the heart. As if suddenly embarrassed by the presence of her maid, she sent him to bed. Left alone, she resumed the portrait of Dora, examined it with feverish curiosity. The young woman, in a large evening dress, looked quite pretty. His features were less sharp, his expression softer.
– She is quite capable of having embellished! said Mrs. Ronald aloud. – She’s capable of anything! she added with almost comical anger, throwing the photograph away from her.
Hélène then began to turn in her room. She began her night dress, returned to sit in front of her mirror, brushed her hair indefinitely, raised it coquettishly on the top of her head, resisting the urge to take a second glance at the other portrait that was there. At the end, unable to stand it any longer, she seized him abruptly, and, her lips tight, her face hard, she looked at him for a moment.
– Flattered! retouched! she said with an inflection of disdain.
The photography is not artistic, but it is scientifically brutal and true. The light is relentless. It captures the features and the soul of the individual. It can reveal criminal thought, as well as hidden disease. We do not yet know how to read his revelations. On this piece of cardboard Helene was holding, the beautiful Italian head of Sant’Anna stood out with extreme vigor. He was alive; he looked at her as he had often looked at her in Lucerne, in Ouchy: under the magnetism of his caress, the young woman’s face softened, took on an air of tenderness that he had never had.
By one of those ironies which seem deliberate and sometimes give our destinies a comedy character, it happened that, that very morning, M. Ronald had bought a magnifying glass, assuring that in Paris they are more perfect than elsewhere. He had come to show it to his wife and had forgotten her on the toilet; she was still there. Helene, curiously inspired, took it to examine Lelo’s photograph. Then his heart began to beat violently. She saw them very close, their eyes wonderfully set, their noses finely modeled, their lips so pure in design. And, in the pupils, there was that warm light which is the very reflection of the Latin soul; on the sensual mouth floated a smile, something tender, a desire perhaps. The illusion of life came to her so overwhelming that she let the magnifying glass drop. She stood up quite pale, trembling from head to toe, and, under the impulse of remorse, of acute pain, she threw the portrait into the fireplace where a blaze of wood sparkled. He fell straight down, his face towards her. The fire seized him only slowly, as if with regret; under the combined action of acids and heat, the face fixed on the paper seemed to come alive; from the midst of the flames, the eyes looked at her, the mouth smiled at her. Helene was frozen with horror. She followed, with eyes dilated with anguish, the progress of her auto-da-fé. When the image of Sant’Anna was no more than a light gray ash, she passed her handkerchief over her forehead, damp with a nightmare sweat. she threw the portrait into the fireplace where a blaze of wood sparkled. He fell straight down, his face towards her. The fire seized him only slowly, as if with regret; under the combined action of acids and heat, the face fixed on the paper seemed to come alive; from the midst of the flames, the eyes looked at her, the mouth smiled at her. Helene was frozen with horror. She followed, with eyes dilated with anguish, the progress of her auto-da-fé. When the image of Sant’Anna was no more than a light gray ash, she passed her handkerchief over her forehead, damp with a nightmare sweat. she threw the portrait into the fireplace where a blaze of wood sparkled. He fell straight down, his face towards her. The fire seized him only slowly, as if with regret; under the combined action of acids and heat, the face fixed on the paper seemed to come alive; from the midst of the flames, the eyes looked at her, the mouth smiled at her. Helene was frozen with horror. She followed, with eyes dilated with anguish, the progress of her auto-da-fé. When the image of Sant’Anna was no more than a light gray ash, she passed her handkerchief over her forehead, damp with a nightmare sweat. his mouth was smiling at him. Helene was frozen with horror. She followed, with eyes dilated with anguish, the progress of her auto-da-fé. When the image of Sant’Anna was no more than a light gray ash, she passed her handkerchief over her forehead, damp with a nightmare sweat. his mouth was smiling at him. Helene was frozen with horror. She followed, with eyes dilated with anguish, the progress of her auto-da-fé. When the image of Sant’Anna was no more than a light gray ash, she passed her handkerchief over her forehead, damp with a nightmare sweat.
– It’s awful, awful! she said out loud.
To herself she added:
“There may well be a few bits of human life in a photograph …”
This little incident troubled Helene’s soul more deeply than anything had been able to do for twenty months. She was suddenly resumed by that nostalgia for unrealizable things which gives disgust for pleasures, simple affections, for life itself, and which is more difficult to endure than frank pain.
And then the Count and Countess Sant’Anna urged her to come to Rome. From there an attractive force seemed to act on all the fibers of his heart. The insidious desire to see Dora in her role of great lady, and to reconcile her with her uncle, had seized Helene and threatened to overcome her will.
Happiness and healing often come as unexpectedly as unhappiness and illness. One morning reading the New York Herald, Hélène’s eyes fell on the announcement of a conference that would be given, that very afternoon, at La Bodinière, by the Brahmin Cetteradji, on “the influence of the missing Masters”. The Hindu was to be introduced by Jules Bois, the French high priest of occultism, whose name is well known in the United States. The curiosity of the American woman can be considered as a real strength: her mind, eager for light, space, knowledge, is constantly looking for something new. Nowhere perhaps as much as in America one does not deal with the psychic sciences; Madame Ronald was interested in it with passion. In addition, in New York, in Philadelphia, in Boston, Buddhism is in great favor. Çakya-Mouni has worshipers; Buddha, symbol of peace and rest, meets today, by a sharp contrast, and as a lesson perhaps,
A lecture from a Brahmin! This intellectual treat could only tempt Hélène. She immediately sent a note to one of her friends inviting her to come with her. The latter having accepted, the two Americans went to La Bodinière and were happy enough to find some armchairs that had just been brought back to the office. The small hall fills up with a very special audience, not bright, not elegant, but very interesting. There were grave men with pointed heads, priests, Protestant pastors, women over thirty, dressed to make people cry out, with neurotic faces, worried eyes, fiery faces. In this cerebral environment stood out the peaceful, cold faces of half a dozen pretty and well-dressed American women.
And, on the little stage where so many different spectacles have followed one another, appeared the priest of Brahma, a young and majestic figure, framed by Jules Bois and an interpreter. Cetteradji wore a dress of fine white silk, with a sort of stole placed across it, tied at the left, the ends of which his brown fingers held. The graceful Indian turban, crossed over her forehead, was placed like a miter over her slightly long black hair. Her complexion had the warm coloring of the Far East. Her face with broad cheekbones, heavy features, would have seemed common, if it had not been transfigured by eyes full of mystical fire. His whole person gave an impression of strength, purity, gentleness. He looked for a moment with his luminous gaze over the audience, as if he wanted to take possession of it. This look caused a slight tremor among the spectators, more marked among the spectators. Then, the established psychic communication, Cetteradji, in an English which the Hindu accent made singularly harmonious, spoke of the “Missing Masters”, of Plato, of Aristotle, of Buddha, of Christ. He affirmed that they had not left our planet, that they were around us, in the ether where the spirits live, the great invisible ones, that they had a constant action on our progress, on our civilization. He assured, moreover, that he had had tangible proof of their presence and that there were means of communication between them and us. At these words, all the eyes hanging on his lips assumed an expression of religious expectation. The silence became sensitive. We hoped to learn the magic words that open the doors to the beyond. Alas! the Brahmin shied away like all the others, but he did so with particular skill. He declared that, in order to enter into communication with the Masters, it was necessary to have attained, through successive incarnations, a high degree of spirituality. Then arose from the assembly that pathetic sigh which issues from the breasts of humanity after each of its deceived hopes. In order to soften the disappointment, Cetteradji added that, by a very pure life, a perpetual aspiration towards the good, one could however attract towards oneself the higher spirits. through successive incarnations, a high degree of spirituality. Then arose from the assembly that pathetic sigh which issues from the breasts of humanity after each of its deceived hopes. In order to soften the disappointment, Cetteradji added that, by a very pure life, a perpetual aspiration towards the good, one could however attract towards oneself the higher spirits. through successive incarnations, a high degree of spirituality. Then arose from the assembly that pathetic sigh which issues from the breasts of humanity after each of its deceived hopes. In order to soften the disappointment, Cetteradji added that, by a very pure life, a perpetual aspiration towards the good, one could however attract towards oneself the higher spirits.
Although the French translation of each of the English sentences would have spoiled this lecture a little for Mrs. Ronald, it was affected very strongly by that apostle magnetism that the Brahmin possessed. He had taught her nothing new: but, either by an effect of his imagination, or by a real psychic action, his word had done him extraordinary good. His speech finished, Cetteradji announced that he would receive at his home, 4, rue Boccador, people who had questions to ask him.
Then Jules Bois, getting up, added a few words, in that smooth voice he made for himself. He said that we needed the psychic forces to react against the pervading evil, against the darkness of materialism: he hoped that a large number of people would go and ask the Brahmin for the help of his prayers, of his higher will, and to receive from him the impulse to walk unabatedly towards the light.
It was all very nicely delivered, in a minor key, with a sufficiently mystical air. But, after the ardent, convinced word of the Hindu priest, the secular word of Jules Bois seemed discolored, without relief. Moreover, the French apostle of occultism, with his skimpy European clothes, looked rather poor next to the Brahmin white with the silk robe.
Madame Ronald immediately saw the cause of this inferiority:
‘Definitely,’ she said to her friend, ‘you can’t talk about these things with a socialite’s beard and a frock coat. You should have a shaved face, a dress, a garment that drapes… wings, even!
– Oh ! I have always said it, replied Mrs. Carrington, who adored the dress, the costume is half the individual.
– Everything, sometimes! Helene declared, with her pretty philosopher’s tone.
