Purification Page #2

"Purification" by Robert Barr is a thought-provoking novel that delves into themes of morality, redemption, and the quest for self-identity. The story follows the journey of its protagonist as they navigate a world laden with moral ambiguity and personal demons, seeking a path toward purification and understanding. Barr's narrative intertwines rich character development with philosophical questions, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of sin, forgiveness, and the transformative power of introspection. Through compelling storytelling and vivid imagery, the novel explores the complexities of the human experience and the eternal search for meaning.

• Short story

								


"I have come, madame," he began, "as the friend of your husband, to
talk with you regarding his affairs."

"Ah!" said Valdorême; and Henri saw with dismay the fires deep down in
her eyes rekindle. But she merely gave some instructions to an
assistant, and, turning to Lacour, asked him to be so good as to follow
her.

She led him through the shop and up a stair at the back, throwing open
a door on the first floor. Lacour entered a neat drawing-room, with
windows opening out upon the street. Madame Caspilier seated herself at
a table, resting her elbow upon it, shading her eyes with her hand, and
yet Lacour felt them searching his very soul.

"Sit down," she said. "You are my husband's friend. What have you to
say?"

Now, it is a difficult thing for a man to tell a beautiful woman that
her husband--for the moment--prefers some one else, so Lacour began on
generalities. He said a poet might be likened to a butterfly, or
perhaps to the more industrious bee, who sipped honey from every
flower, and so enriched the world. A poet was a law unto himself, and
should not be judged harshly from what might be termed a shopkeeping
point of view. Then Lacour, warming to his work, gave many instances
where the wives of great men had condoned and even encouraged their
husbands' little idiosyncrasies, to the great augmenting of our most
valued literature.

Now and then, as this eloquent man talked, Valdorême's eyes seemed to
flame dangerously in the shadow, but the woman neither moved nor
interrupted him while he spoke. When he had finished, her voice sounded
cold and unimpassioned, and he felt with relief that the outbreak he
had feared was at least postponed.

"You would advise me then," she began, "to do as the wife of that great
novelist did, and invite my husband and the woman he admires to my
table?"

"Oh, I don't say I could ask you to go so far as that," said Lacour;
"but----"

"I'm no halfway woman. It is all or nothing with me. If I invited my
husband to dine with me, I would also invite this creature--What is her
name? Tenise, you say. Well, I would invite her too. Does she know he
is a married man?"

"Yes," cried Lacour eagerly; "but I assure you, madame, she has nothing
but the kindliest feelings towards you. There is no jealousy about
Tenise."

"How good of her! How very good of her!" said the Russian woman, with
such bitterness that Lacour fancied uneasily that he had somehow made
an injudicious remark, whereas all his efforts were concentrated in a
desire to conciliate and please.

"Very well," said Valdorême, rising. "You may tell my husband that you
have been successful in your mission. Tell him that I will provide for
them both. Ask them to honour me with their presence at breakfast to-
morrow morning at twelve o'clock. If he wants money, as you say, here
are two hundred francs, which will perhaps be sufficient for his wants
until midday to-morrow."

Lacour thanked her with a profuse graciousness that would have
delighted any ordinary giver, but Valdorême stood impassive like a
tragedy queen, and seemed only anxious that he should speedily take his
departure, now that his errand was done.

The heart of the poet was filled with joy when he heard from his friend
that at last Valdorême had come to regard his union with Tenise in the
light of reason. Caspilier, as he embraced Lacour, admitted that
perhaps there was something to be said for his wife after all.

The poet dressed himself with more than usual care on the day of the
feast, and Tenise, who accompanied him, put on some of the finery that
had been bought with Valdorême's donation. She confessed that she
thought Eugène's wife had acted with consideration towards them, but
maintained that she did not wish to meet her, for, judging from
Caspilier's account, his wife must be a somewhat formidable and
terrifying person; still she went with him, she said, solely through
good nature, and a desire to heal family differences. Tenise would do
anything in the cause of domestic peace.

The shop assistant told the pair, when they had dismissed the cab, that
madame was waiting for them upstairs. In the drawing-room Valdorême was
standing with her back to the window like a low-browed goddess, her
tawny hair loose over her shoulders, and the pallor of her face made
more conspicuous by her costume of unrelieved black. Caspilier, with
the grace characteristic of him, swept off his hat, and made a low,
deferential bow; but when he straightened himself up, and began to say
the complimentary things and poetical phrases he had put together for
the occasion at the café the night before, the lurid look of the
Russian made his tongue falter; and Tenise, who had never seen a woman
of this sort before, laughed a nervous, half-frightened little laugh,
and clung closer to her lover than before. The wife was even more
forbidding than she had imagined. Valdorême shuddered slightly when she
saw this intimate movement on the part of her rival, and her hand
clenched and unclenched convulsively.

"Come," she said, cutting short her husband's halting harangue, and
sweeping past them, drawing her skirts aside on nearing Tenise, she led
the way up to the dining-room a floor higher.

"I'm afraid of her," whimpered Tenise, holding back. "She will poison
us."

"Nonsense," said Caspilier, in a whisper. "Come along. She is too fond
of me to attempt anything of that kind, and you are safe when I am
here."

Valdorême sat at the head of the table, with her husband at her right
hand and Tenise on her left. The breakfast was the best either of them
had ever tasted. The hostess sat silent, but no second talker was
needed when the poet was present. Tenise laughed merrily now and then
at his bright sayings, for the excellence of the meal had banished her
fears of poison.

"What penetrating smell is this that fills the room? Better open the
window," said Caspilier.

"It is nothing," replied Valdorême, speaking for the first time since
they had sat down. "It is only naphtha. I have had this room cleaned
with it. The window won't open, and if it would, we could not hear you
talk with the noise from the street."

The poet would suffer anything rather than have his eloquence
interfered with, so he said no more about the fumes of naphtha. When
the coffee was brought in, Valdorême dismissed the trim little maid who
had waited on them.

"I have some of your favourite cigarettes here. I will get them."

She arose, and, as she went to the table on which the boxes lay, she
quietly and deftly locked the door, and, pulling out the key, slipped
it into her pocket.

"Do you smoke, mademoiselle?" she asked, speaking to Tenise. She had
not recognised her presence before.

"Sometimes, madame," answered the girl, with a titter.
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