I watched the girl whom they called Lutetia. I watched her, no longer as a policeman, but as a jealous lover; no longer because of my duty, but because of my heart. And it gave me a quite particular pleasure to watch her and to know, every moment, that she was really in my power. So cruel, my friends, is human nature! For even when we realize that we have been vile, we still remain vile. We are men! Good and bad. Bad and good. Nothing more than men!
I suffered the tortures of Hell while I was watching that girl. I was madly jealous. Every moment I trembled lest another man, another of my colleagues, might perchance be ordered to take my place in guarding her. I was young then, my friends. And when a man is young it sometimes happens that jealousy comes with the beginning of love; and a man can be happy in the midst of his jealousy, even because of his jealousy. Suffering makes us just as happy as joy. Indeed, one can scarcely distinguish between suffering and joy. The real ability to draw that distinction only comes with age. And by then we are already too feeble to avoid suffering and appreciate joy.
In reality — or have I told you already — the name of my beloved was, of course, not Lutetia. It may seem pointless to you that I mention this, but to me it meant much that she had two names, a real one and a false one. For a long time I kept her passport in my pocket. I took it to police headquarters, copied down even the dates on it, had, as was customary with us, the photograph retaken, kept two prints for myself, and put them in a special envelope. Both names fascinated me, each in a different way. Both names I had heard for the first time. From her real name there emanated a warm, subtle glamour, from the name Lutetia a resplendent, imperious glitter. It was almost as though I loved two women instead of one, and, since they were one, as though I had to love that one twice as much.
During the evenings when the girls were in the theater, parading the dresses — or, as the newspapers called them, the “creations”—we had to stand on duty in the dressing rooms. Monsieur Charron made a furious protest against this. He went to the widow of General Portchakoff, who at that time was an important personage in Petersburg society and who had been the main instigator of his visit to Russia. In spite of her famous embonpoint the widow was extraordinarily impetuous. She possessed the astonishing ability of being able to visit, on the same morning, two archdukes, the governor-general, three lawyers, and the intendant of the Imperial opera, in order to protest against this decree of the police. But, my friends, of what use in old Russia, in circumstances such as these, was a protest against a decree? The Czar himself could have done nothing — he least of all, perhaps.
Of course, I was fully aware of all the activities of this energetic old woman. Indeed, I even paid out of my own salary for the sleigh which I hired in order to be able to follow her; and also out of my own pocket came the bribes which I gave to the servants and lackeys in return for detailed accounts of the conversations which took place in every house she visited. I did not fail immediately to report the results of my investigations to my chief. He congratulated me, but I was ashamed of his congratulations. For I was no longer working for the police. I was in the service of something higher; I was in the service of my passion.
In those days I was probably the smartest of all the secret agents. For I possessed not only the capacity of being quicker than the impetuous widow, but also the extraordinary gift of being in several different places almost simultaneously. Thus I was able to watch not only Lutetia, but also the general’s widow and the dressmaker at one and the same time. There was only one thing I did not see, my friends, only one thing. And you will shortly hear what that was. One day, therefore, I saw the famous dressmaker come out of his house. He was wrapped in an enormous fur coat which he had had made in Paris — for it was not a real Russian coat, but only such a one as the Parisians think is worn in Russia. Round his shoulders was an effeminate little cape of astrakhan, and on his head a hood of blue fox with a silver tassel. He climbed into a sleigh and drove off to the general’s widow. I followed, reached the house long before him, relieved him of his remarkable furs — for I was a friend of the footman’s — and waited in the hall. The enterprising widow had disastrous news for him. I, too, succeeded in listening to it. All her efforts had been in vain. I heard this with satisfaction. Against the Ochrana, and therefore, to a certain extent, against me, not even an archduke could do anything, not even a Jewish lawyer. But in old Russia, as you know, there were three infallible means of getting what one wanted — and these she told him: Money, money, and money.
The dressmaker was prepared to pay. He took his leave, put on his curious furs, and drove away.
On the first evening on which his exhibition of “creations” was to take place, he appeared, friendly, rotund and yet rectangular, beaming, and dressed in a tailcoat and a white waistcoat with wonderful little red buttons which looked like ladybirds. He came out from behind the wings and took up a position in front of his girls’ dressing rooms. But he was quite incapable of bribing even the least of us! He clinked a handful of silver coins in his tail pocket, like a monk with his collecting bag; and in spite of his resplendence he looked less like a potential briber than an actual begger. Even the most venal among us could never have taken any money from the man. One thing was clear: he was more at home with archdukes than with spies.
He disappeared. We went into the dressing rooms.
I was trembling. You must believe me when I tell you that at that moment I knew fear, real fear, hollow-eyed fear, for the first time in my life. I was afraid of Lutetia, afraid of my desire to see her, afraid of my eager anticipation, afraid of the unknown, of nakedness, of hesitation, afraid of my own power. So I turned around. I turned my back on her while she undressed. And she laughed at me. While I so fearfully turned my back, she may well have sensed, with the infallible instinct of a woman, the terror and impotence of a man in love; she probably realized that I was the most harmless spy in the whole of Russia. But what am I talking about instinct! She knew well enough that it was my duty to keep a close watch on her, and she had seen how I had turned my back and thereby delivered myself into her hands. I was already lost! She had already seen through me! Ah, my friends, it were better for a man to deliver himself over to his bitterest enemy than to let a woman see that he is in love with her. An enemy destroys quickly! But a woman… You will soon see how slowly, how murderously slowly.…
Well! There I stood, with my face to the door, watching the immobile white handle, as though I had been ordered to spy upon this harmless little object. It was, as I can remember clearly, an ordinary porcelain door handle. Not even a crack was to be seen on it. I stood thus for a long time. And all the while my beloved sang and whistled and twittered behind my back — and in front of the mirror, as I discovered later — as carefree as the tender airs she sang. Yet in her singing, her whistling, her twittering, was derision. Nothing but derision…!
Suddenly there came a knock on the door. I turned around immediately, and of course saw Lutetia. She was sitting in front of an oval gold-framed mirror, trying to powder her back with an immense powder puff. She was already dressed. She was wearing a black dress, cut at the back into a low triangle which was edged with strips of blood-red satin, and she was trying, with her right hand, to reach her back in order to powder it with that oversized puff. More even than her nakedness had confused me, was I dazzled by this almost hellish — I can find no other expression for it — by this almost hellish combination of colors. From that hour I have firmly believed that the colors of Hell, which I shall certainly one day see for myself, are black, white, and red; and round the walls of Hell, here and there, will be seen the triangular outline of a woman’s back; and the powder puff, too.