Читать книгу The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more - Guy de Maupassant - Страница 54
XI
ОглавлениеOn reaching the office next day, Du Roy sought out Boisrenard.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “I have a service to ask of you. It has been thought funny for some time past to call me Forestier. I begin to find it very stupid. Will you have the kindness to quietly let our friends know that I will smack the face of the first that starts the joke again? It will be for them to reflect whether it is worth risking a sword thrust for. I address myself to you because you are a calm-minded fellow, who can hinder matters from coming to painful extremities, and also because you were my second.”
Boisrenard undertook the commission. Du Roy went out on business, and returned an hour later. No one called him Forestier.
When he reached home he heard ladies’ voices in the drawingroom, and asked, “Who is there?”
“Madame Walter and Madame de Marelle,” replied the servant.
His heart beat fast for a moment, and then he said to himself, “Well, let’s see,” and opened the door.
Clotilde was beside the fireplace, full in a ray of light from the window. It seemed to George that she grew slightly paler on perceiving him. Having first bowed to Madame Walter and her two daughters, seated like two sentinels on each side of their mother, he turned towards his late mistress. She held out her hand, and he took it and pressed it meaningly, as though to say, “I still love you.” She responded to this pressure.
He inquired: “How have you been during the century that has elapsed since our last meeting?”
She replied with perfect ease: “Quite well; and you, Pretty-boy?” and turning to Madeleine, added: “You will allow me to call him Pretty-boy still?”
“Certainly, dear; I will allow whatever you please.”
A shade of irony seemed hidden in these words.
Madame Walter spoke of an entertainment that was going to be given by Jacques Rival at his residence, a grand assault-at-arms, at which ladies of fashion were to be present, saying: “It will be very interesting. But I am so vexed we have no one to take us there, my husband being obliged to be away at that time.”
Du Roy at once offered his services. She accepted, saying: “My daughters and I will be very much obliged to you.”
He looked at the younger daughter, and thought: “She is not at all bad looking, this little Susan; not at all.” She resembled a fair, fragile doll, too short but slender, with a small waist and fairly developed hips and bust, a face like a miniature, grayish-blue, enamel-like eyes, which seemed shaded by a careful yet fanciful painter, a polished, colorless skin, too white and too smooth, and fluffy, curly hair, in a charming aureola, like, indeed the hair of the pretty and expensive dolls we see in the arms of children much smaller than their plaything.
The elder sister, Rose, was ugly, dull-looking, and insignificant; one of those girls whom you do not notice, do not speak to, and do not talk about.
The mother rose, and, turning to George, said:
“Then I may reckon upon you for next Thursday, two o’clock?”
“You may reckon upon me, madame,” he replied.
As soon as she had taken her departure, Madame de Marelle rose in turn, saying: “Good afternoon, Pretty-boy.”
It was she who then clasped his hand firmly and for some time, and he felt moved by this silent avowal, struck again with a sudden caprice for this good-natured little, respectable Bohemian of a woman, who really loved him, perhaps.
As soon as he was alone with his wife, Madeleine broke out into a laugh, a frank, gay laugh, and, looking him fair in the face, said, “You know that Madame Walter is smitten with you.”
“Nonsense,” he answered, incredulously.
“It is so, I tell you; she spoke to me about you with wild enthusiasm. It is strange on her part. She would like to find two husbands such as you for her daughters. Fortunately, as regards her such things are of no moment.”
He did not understand what she meant, and inquired, “How of no moment?”
She replied with the conviction of a woman certain of the soundness of her judgment, “Oh! Madame Walter is one of those who have never even had a whisper about them, never, you know, never. She is unassailable in every respect. Her husband you know as well as I do. But with her it is quite another thing. She has suffered enough through marrying a Jew, but she has remained faithful to him. She is an honest woman.”
Du Roy was surprised. “I thought her a Jewess, too,” said he.
“She, not at all. She is a lady patroness of all the good works of the Church of Madeleine. Her marriage, even, was celebrated religiously. I do not know whether there was a dummy baptism as regards the governor, or whether the Church winked at it.”
George murmured: “Ah! so she fancied me.”
“Positively and thoroughly. If you were not bespoken, I should advise you to ask for the hand of — Susan, eh? rather than that of Rose.”
He replied, twisting his moustache: “Hum; their mother is not yet out of date.”
Madeleine, somewhat out of patience, answered:
“Their mother! I wish you may get her, dear. But I am not alarmed on that score. It is not at her age that a woman is guilty of a first fault. One must set about it earlier.”
George was reflecting: “If it were true, though, that I could have married Susan.” Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Bah! it is absurd. As if her father would have ever have accepted me as a suitor.”
He promised himself, though, to keep a more careful watch in the future over Madame Walter’s bearing towards him, without asking whether he might ever derive any advantage from this. All the evening he was haunted by the recollection of his love passages with Clotilde, recollections at once tender and sensual. He recalled her drolleries, her pretty ways, and their adventures together. He repeated to himself, “She is really very charming. Yes, I will go and see her tomorrow.”
As soon as he had lunched the next morning he indeed set out for the Rue de Verneuil. The same servant opened the door, and with the familiarity of servants of the middle-class, asked: “Are you quite well, sir?”
“Yes, thanks, my girl,” he replied, and entered the drawingroom, in which an unskilled hand could be heard practicing scales on the piano. It was Laurine. He thought that she would throw her arms round his neck. But she rose gravely, bowed ceremoniously like a grown-up person, and withdrew with dignity. She had so much the bearing of an insulted woman that he remained in surprise. Her mother came in, and he took and kissed her hands.
“How I have thought of you,” said he.
“And I,” she replied.
They sat down and smiled at one another, looking into each other’s eyes with a longing to kiss.
“My dear little Clo, I do love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then — then — you have not been so very angry with me?”
“Yes, and no. It hurt me a great deal, but I understood your reasons, and said to myself, ‘He will come back to me some fine day or other.’”
“I dared not come back. I asked myself how I should be received. I did not dare, but I dearly wanted to. By the way, tell me what is the matter with Laurine. She scarcely said good-morning to me, and went out looking furious.”
“I do not know. But we cannot speak of you to her since your marriage. I really believe she is jealous.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is so, dear. She no longer calls you Pretty-boy, but Monsieur Forestier.”
Du Roy reddened, and then drawing close to her said:
“Kiss me.”
She did so.
“Where can we meet again?” said he.
“Rue de Constantinople.”
“Ah! the rooms are not let, then?”
“No, I kept them on.”
“You kept them on?”
“Yes, I thought you would come back again.”
A gush of joyful pride swelled his bosom. She loved him then, this woman, with a real, deep, constant love.
He murmured, “I love you,” and then inquired, “Is your husband quite well?”
“Yes, very well. He has been spending a month at home, and was off again the day before yesterday.”
Du Roy could not help laughing. “How lucky,” said he.
She replied simply: “Yes, it is very lucky. But, all the same, he is not troublesome when he is here. You know that.”
“That is true. Besides, he is a very nice fellow.”
“And you,” she asked, “how do you like your new life?”
“Not much one way or the other. My wife is a companion, a partner.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more. As to the heart— “
“I understand. She is pretty, though.”
“Yes, but I do not put myself out about her.”
He drew closer to Clotilde, and whispered. “When shall we see one another again?”
“Tomorrow, if you like.”
“Yes, tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock.”
He rose to take leave, and then stammered, with some embarrassment: “You know I shall take on the rooms in the Rue de Constantinople myself. I mean it. A nice thing for the rent to be paid by you.”
It was she who kissed his hands adoringly, murmuring: “Do as you like. It is enough for me to have kept them for us to meet again there.”
Du Roy went away, his soul filled with satisfaction. As he passed by a photographer’s, the portrait of a tall woman with large eyes reminded him of Madame Walter. “All the same,” he said to himself, “she must be still worth looking at. How is it that I never noticed it? I want to see how she will receive me on Thursday?”
He rubbed his hands as he walked along with secret pleasure, the pleasure of success in every shape, the egotistical joy of the clever man who is successful, the subtle pleasure made up of flattered vanity and satisfied sensuality conferred by woman’s affection.
On the Thursday he said to Madeleine: “Are you not coming to the assault-at-arms at Rival’s?”
“No. It would not interest me. I shall go to the Chamber of Deputies.”
He went to call for Madame Walter in an open landau, for the weather was delightful. He experienced a surprise on seeing her, so handsome and young-looking did he find her. She wore a light-colored dress, the somewhat open bodice of which allowed the fullness of her bosom to be divined beneath the blonde lace. She had never seemed to him so well-looking. He thought her really desirable. She wore her calm and ladylike manner, a certain matronly bearing that caused her to pass almost unnoticed before the eyes of gallants. She scarcely spoke besides, save on well-known, suitable, and respectable topics, her ideas being proper, methodical, well ordered, and void of all extravagance.
Her daughter, Susan, in pink, looked like a newly-varnished Watteau, while her elder sister seemed the governess entrusted with the care of this pretty doll of a girl.
Before Rival’s door a line of carriages were drawn up. Du Roy offered Madame Walter his arm, and they went in.
The assault-at-arms was given under the patronage of the wives of all the senators and deputies connected with the Vie Francaise, for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris. Madame Walter had promised to come with her daughters, while refusing the position of lady patroness, for she only aided with her name works undertaken by the clergy. Not that she was very devout, but her marriage with a Jew obliged her, in her own opinion, to observe a certain religious attitude, and the gathering organized by the journalist had a species of Republican import that might be construed as anti-clerical.
In papers of every shade of opinion, during the past three weeks, paragraphs had appeared such as: “Our eminent colleague, Jacques Rival, has conceived the idea, as ingenious as it is generous, of organizing for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris a grand assault-at-arms in the pretty fencing-room attached to his apartments. The invitations will be sent out by Mesdames Laloigue, Remontel, and Rissolin, wives of the senators bearing these names, and by Mesdames Laroche-Mathieu, Percerol, and Firmin, wives of the well-known deputies. A collection will take place during the interval, and the amount will at once be placed in the hands of the mayor of the Sixth Arrondissement, or of his representative.”
It was a gigantic advertisement that the clever journalist had devised to his own advantage.
Jacques Rival received all-comers in the hall of his dwelling, where a refreshment buffet had been fitted up, the cost of which was to be deducted from the receipts. He indicated with an amiable gesture the little staircase leading to the cellar, saying: “Downstairs, ladies, downstairs; the assault will take place in the basement.”
He darted forward to meet the wife of the manager, and then shaking Du Roy by the hand, said: “How are you, Pretty-boy?”
His friend was surprised, and exclaimed: “Who told you that— “
Rival interrupted him with: “Madame Walter, here, who thinks the nickname a very nice one.”
Madame Walter blushed, saying: “Yes, I will admit that, if I knew you better, I would do like little Laurine and call you Pretty-boy, too. The name suits you very well.”
Du Roy laughed, as he replied: “But I beg of you, madame, to do so.”
She had lowered her eyes, and remarked: “No. We are not sufficiently intimate.”
He murmured: “Will you allow me the hope that we shall be more so?”
“Well, we will see then,” said she.
He drew on one side to let her precede him at the beginning of the narrow stairs lit by a gas jet. The abrupt transition from daylight to this yellow gleam had something depressing about it. A cellar-like odor rose up this winding staircase, a smell of damp heat and of moldy walls wiped down for the occasion, and also whiffs of incense recalling sacred offices and feminine emanations of vervain, orris root, and violets. A loud murmur of voices and the quivering thrill of an agitated crowd could also be heard down this hole.
The entire cellar was lit up by wreaths of gas jets and Chinese lanterns hidden in the foliage, masking the walls of stone. Nothing could be seen but green boughs. The ceiling was ornamented with ferns, the ground hidden by flowers and leaves. This was thought charming, and a delightful triumph of imagination. In the small cellar, at the end, was a platform for the fencers, between two rows of chairs for the judges. In the remaining space the front seats, ranged by tens to the right and to the left, would accommodate about two hundred people. Four hundred had been invited.
In front of the platform young fellows in fencing costume, with long limbs, erect figures, and moustaches curled up at the ends, were already showing themselves off to the spectators. People were pointing them out as notabilities of the art, professionals, and amateurs. Around them were chatting old and young gentlemen in frock coats, who bore a family resemblance to the fencers in fighting array. They were also seeking to be seen, recognized, and spoken of, being masters of the sword out of uniform, experts on foil play. Almost all the seats were occupied by ladies, who kept up a loud rustling of garments and a continuous murmur of voices. They were fanning themselves as though at a theater, for it was already as hot as an oven in this leafy grotto. A joker kept crying from time to time: “Orgeat, lemonade, beer.”
Madame Walter and her daughters reached the seats reserved for them in the front row. Du Roy, having installed them there, was about to quit them, saying: “I am obliged to leave you; we men must not collar the seats.”
But Madame Walter remarked, in a hesitating tone: “I should very much like to have you with us all the same. You can tell me the names of the fencers. Come, if you stand close to the end of the seat you will not be in anyone’s way.” She looked at him with her large mild eyes, and persisted, saying: “Come, stay with us, Monsieur — Pretty-boy. We have need of you.”
He replied: “I will obey with pleasure, madame.”
On all sides could be heard the remark: “It is very funny, this cellar; very pretty, too.”
George knew it well, this vault. He recalled the morning he had passed there on the eve of his duel, alone in front of the little white carton target that had glared at him from the depths of the inner cellar like a huge and terrible eye.
The voice of Jacques Rival sounded from the staircase: “Just about to begin, ladies.” And six gentlemen, in very tight-fitting clothes, to set off their chests, mounted the platform, and took their seats on the chairs reserved for the judges. Their names flew about. General de Reynaldi, the president, a short man, with heavy moustaches; the painter, Joséphin Roudet, a tall, ball-headed man, with a long beard; Matthéo de Ujar, Simon Ramoncel, Pierre de Carvin, three fashionable-looking young fellows; and Gaspard Merleron, a master. Two placards were hung up on the two sides of the vault. That on the right was inscribed “M. Crévecœur,” and that on the left “M. Plumeau.”
They were two professors, two good second-class masters. They made their appearance, both sparely built, with military air and somewhat stiff movements. Having gone through the salute with automatic action, they began to attack one another, resembling in their white costumes of leather and duck, two soldier pierrots fighting for fun. From time to time the word “Touched” was heard, and the six judges nodded with the air of connoisseurs. The public saw nothing but two living marionettes moving about and extending their arms; they understood nothing, but they were satisfied. These two men seemed to them, however, not over graceful, and vaguely ridiculous. They reminded them of the wooden wrestlers sold on the boulevards at the New Year’s Fair.
The first couple of fencers were succeeded by Monsieur Planton and Monsieur Carapin, a civilian master and a military one. Monsieur Planton was very little, and Monsieur Carapin immensely stout. One would have thought that the first thrust would have reduced his volume like that of a balloon. People laughed. Monsieur Planton skipped about like a monkey: Monsieur Carapin, only moved his arm, the rest of his frame being paralyzed by fat. He lunged every five minutes with such heaviness and such effort that it seemed to need the most energetic resolution on his part to accomplish it, and then had great difficulty in recovering himself. The connoisseurs pronounced his play very steady and close, and the confiding public appreciated it as such.
Then came Monsieur Porion and Monsieur Lapalme, a master and an amateur, who gave way to exaggerated gymnastics; charging furiously at one another, obliging the judges to scuttle off with their chairs, crossing and recrossing from one end of the platform to the other, one advancing and the other retreating, with vigorous and comic leaps and bounds. They indulged in little jumps backwards that made the ladies laugh, and long springs forward that caused them some emotion. This galloping assault was aptly criticized by some young rascal, who sang out: “Don’t burst yourselves over it; it is a time job!” The spectators, shocked at this want of taste, cried “Ssh!” The judgment of the experts was passed around. The fencers had shown much vigor, and played somewhat loosely.
The first half of the entertainment was concluded by a very fine bout between Jacques Rival and the celebrated Belgian professor, Lebegue. Rival greatly pleased the ladies. He was really a handsome fellow, well made, supple, agile, and more graceful than any of those who had preceded him. He brought, even into his way of standing on guard and lunging, a certain fashionable elegance which pleased people, and contrasted with the energetic, but more commonplace style of his adversary. “One can perceive the well-bred man at once,” was the remark. He scored the last hit, and was applauded.
But for some minutes past a singular noise on the floor above had disturbed the spectators. It was a loud trampling, accompanied by noisy laughter. The two hundred guests who had not been able to get down into the cellar were no doubt amusing themselves in their own way. On the narrow, winding staircase fifty men were packed. The heat down below was getting terrible. Cries of “More air,” “Something to drink,” were heard. The same joker kept on yelping in a shrill tone that rose above the murmur of conversation, “Orgeat, lemonade, beer.” Rival made his appearance, very flushed, and still in his fencing costume. “I will have some refreshments brought,” said he, and made his way to the staircase. But all communication with the ground floor was cut off. It would have been as easy to have pierced the ceiling as to have traversed the human wall piled up on the stairs.
Rival called out: “Send down some ices for the ladies.” Fifty voices called out: “Some ices!” A tray at length made its appearance. But it only bore empty glasses, the refreshments having been snatched on the way.
A loud voice shouted: “We are suffocating down here. Get it over and let us be off.” Another cried out: “The collection.” And the whole of the public, gasping, but good-humored all the same, repeated: “The collection, the collection.”
Six ladies began to pass along between the seats, and the sound of money falling into the collecting-bags could be heard.
Du Roy pointed out the celebrities to Madame Walter. There were men of fashion and journalists, those attached to the great newspapers, the old-established newspapers, which looked down upon the Vie Francaise with a certain reserve, the fruit of their experience. They had witnessed the death of so many of these politico-financial sheets, offspring of a suspicious partnership, and crushed by the fall of a ministry. There were also painters and sculptors, who are generally men with a taste for sport; a poet who was also a member of the Academy, and who was pointed out generally, and a number of distinguished foreigners.
Someone called out: “Good-day, my dear fellow.” It was the Count de Vaudrec. Making his excuses to the ladies, Du Roy hastened to shake hands with him. On returning, he remarked: “What a charming fellow Vaudrec is! How thoroughly blood tells in him.”
Madame Walter did not reply. She was somewhat fatigued, and her bosom rose with an effort every time she drew breath, which caught the eye of Du Roy. From time to time he caught her glance, a troubled, hesitating glance, which lighted upon him, and was at once averted, and he said to himself: “Eh! what! Have I caught her, too?”
The ladies who had been collecting passed to their seats, their bags full of gold and silver, and a fresh placard was hung in front of the platform, announcing a “surprising novelty.” The judges resumed their seats, and the public waited expectantly.
Two women appeared, foil in hand and in fencing costume; dark tights, a very short petticoat halfway to the knee, and a plastron so padded above the bosom that it obliged them to keep their heads well up. They were both young and pretty. They smiled as they saluted the spectators, and were loudly applauded. They fell on guard, amidst murmured gallantries and whispered jokes. An amiable smile graced the lips of the judges, who approved the hits with a low “bravo.” The public warmly appreciated this bout, and testified this much to the two combatants, who kindled desire among the men and awakened among the women the native taste of the Parisian for graceful indecency, naughty elegance, music hall singers, and couplets from operettas. Every time that one of the fencers lunged a thrill of pleasure ran through the public. The one who turned her back to the seats, a plump back, caused eyes and mouths to open, and it was not the play of her wrist that was most closely scanned. They were frantically applauded.
A bout with swords followed, but no one looked at it, for the attention of all was occupied by what was going on overhead. For some minutes they had heard the noise of furniture being dragged across the floor, as though moving was in progress. Then all at once the notes of a piano were heard, and the rhythmic beat of feet moving in cadence was distinctly audible. The people above had treated themselves to a dance to make up for not being able to see anything. A loud laugh broke out at first among the public in the fencing saloon, and then a wish for a dance being aroused among the ladies, they ceased to pay attention to what was taking place on the platform, and began to chatter out loud. This notion of a ball got up by the late-comers struck them as comical. They must be amusing themselves nicely, and it must be much better up there.
But two new combatants had saluted each other and fell on guard in such masterly style that all eyes followed their movements. They lunged and recovered themselves with such easy grace, such measured strength, such certainty, such sobriety in action, such correctness in attitude, such measure in their play, that even the ignorant were surprised and charmed. Their calm promptness, their skilled suppleness, their rapid motions, so nicely timed that they appeared slow, attracted and captivated the eye by their power of perfection. The public felt that they were looking at something good and rare; that two great artists in their own profession were showing them their best, all of skill, cunning, thought-out science and physical ability that it was possible for two masters to put forth. No one spoke now, so closely were they watched. Then, when they shook hands after the last hit, shouts of bravoes broke out. People stamped and yelled. Everyone knew their names — they were Sergent and Ravignac.
The excitable grew quarrelsome. Men looked at their neighbors with longings for a row. They would have challenged one another on account of a smile. Those who had never held a foil in their hand sketched attacks and parries with their canes.
But by degrees the crowd worked up the little staircase. At last they would be able to get something to drink. There was an outburst of indignation when they found that those who had got up the ball had stripped the refreshment buffet, and had then gone away declaring that it was very impolite to bring together two hundred people and not show them anything. There was not a cake, not a drop of champagne, syrup, or beer left; not a sweetmeat, not a fruit — nothing. They had sacked, pillaged, swept away everything. These details were related by the servants, who pulled long faces to hide their impulse to laugh right out. “The ladies were worse than the gentlemen,” they asserted, “and ate and drank enough to make themselves ill.” It was like the story of the survivors after the sack of a captured town.
There was nothing left but to depart. Gentlemen openly regretted the twenty francs given at the collection; they were indignant that those upstairs should have feasted without paying anything. The lady patronesses had collected upwards of three thousand francs. All expenses paid, there remained two hundred and twenty for the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement.
Du Roy, escorting the Walter family, waited for his landau. As he drove back with them, seated in face of Madame Walter, he again caught her caressing and fugitive glance, which seemed uneasy. He thought: “Hang it all! I fancy she is nibbling,” and smiled to recognize that he was really very lucky as regarded women, for Madame de Marelle, since the recommencement of their amour, seemed frantically in love with him.
He returned home joyously. Madeleine was waiting for him in the drawingroom.
“I have some news,” said she. “The Morocco business is getting into a complication. France may very likely send out an expeditionary force within a few months. At all events, the opportunity will be taken of it to upset the Ministry, and Laroche-Mathieu will profit by this to get hold of the portfolio of foreign affairs.”
Du Roy, to tease his wife, pretended not to believe anything of the kind. They would never be mad enough to recommence the Tunisian bungle over again. But she shrugged her shoulders impatiently, saying: “But I tell you yes, I tell you yes. You don’t understand that it is a matter of money. Now-a-days, in political complications we must not ask: ‘Who is the woman?’ but ‘What is the business?’”
He murmured “Bah!” in a contemptuous tone, in order to excite her, and she, growing irritated, exclaimed: “You are just as stupid as Forestier.”
She wished to wound him, and expected an outburst of anger. But he smiled, and replied: “As that cuckold of a Forestier?”
She was shocked, and murmured: “Oh, George!”
He wore an insolent and chaffing air as he said: “Well, what? Did you not admit to me the other evening that Forestier was a cuckold?” And he added: “Poor devil!” in a tone of pity.
Madeleine turned her back on him, disdaining to answer; and then, after a moment’s silence, resumed: “We shall have visitors on Tuesday. Madame Laroche-Mathieu is coming to dinner with the Viscountess de Percemur. Will you invite Rival and Norbert de Varenne? I will call tomorrow and ask Madame Walter and Madame de Marelle. Perhaps we shall have Madame Rissolin, too.”
For some time past she had been strengthening her connections, making use of her husband’s political influence to attract to her house, willy-nilly, the wives of the senators and deputies who had need of the support of the Vie Francaise.
George replied: “Very well. I will see about Rival and Norbert.”
He was satisfied, and rubbed his hands, for he had found a good trick to annoy his wife and gratify the obscure rancor, the undefined and gnawing jealousy born in him since their drive in the Bois. He would never speak of Forestier again without calling him cuckold. He felt very well that this would end by enraging Madeleine. And half a score of times, in the course of the evening, he found means to mention with ironical good humor the name of “that cuckold of a Forestier.” He was no longer angry with the dead! he was avenging him.
His wife pretended not to notice it, and remained smilingly indifferent.
The next day, as she was to go and invite Madame Walter, he resolved to forestall her, in order to catch the latter alone, and see if she really cared for him. It amused and flattered him. And then — why not — if it were possible?
He arrived at the Boulevard Malesherbes about two, and was shown into the drawingroom, where he waited till Madame Walter made her appearance, her hand outstretched with pleased eagerness, saying: “What good wind brings you hither?”
“No good wind, but the wish to see you. Some power has brought me here, I do not know why, for I have nothing to say to you. I came, here I am; will you forgive me this early visit and the frankness of this explanation?”
He uttered this in a gallant and jesting tone, with a smile on his lips. She was astonished, and colored somewhat, stammering: “But really — I do not understand — you surprise me.”
He observed: “It is a declaration made to a lively tune, in order not to alarm you.”
They had sat down in front of one another. She took the matter pleasantly, saying: “A serious declaration?”
“Yes. For a long time I have been wanting to utter it — for a very long time. But I dared not. They say you are so strict, so rigid.”
She had recovered her assurance, and observed: “Why to-day, then?”
“I do not know.” Then lowering his voice he added: “Or rather, because I have been thinking of nothing but you since yesterday.”
She stammered, growing suddenly pale: “Come, enough of nonsense; let us speak of something else.”
But he had fallen at her feet so suddenly that she was frightened. She tried to rise, but he kept her seated by the strength of his arms passed round her waist, and repeated in a voice of passion: “Yes, it is true that I have loved you madly for a long time past. Do not answer me. What would you have? I am mad. I love you. Oh! if you knew how I love you!”
She was suffocating, gasping, and strove to speak, without being able to utter a word. She pushed him away with her two hands, having seized him by the hair to hinder the approach of the mouth that she felt coming towards her own. She kept turning her head from right to left and from left to right with a rapid motion, closing her eyes, in order no longer to see him. He touched her through her dress, handled her, pressed her, and she almost fainted under his strong and rude caress. He rose suddenly and sought to clasp her to him, but, free for a moment, she had managed to escape by throwing herself back, and she now fled from behind one chair to another. He felt that pursuit was ridiculous, and he fell into a chair, his face hidden by his hands, feigning convulsive sobs. Then he got up, exclaimed “Farewell, farewell,” and rushed away.
He quietly took his stick in the hall and gained the street, saying to himself: “By Jove, I believe it is all right there.” And he went into a telegraph office to send a wire to Clotilde, making an appointment for the next day.
On returning home at his usual time, he said to his wife: “Well, have you secured all the people for your dinner?”
She answered: “Yes, there is only Madame Walter, who is not quite sure whether she will be free to come. She hesitated and talked about I don’t know what — an engagement, her conscience. In short, she seemed very strange. No matter, I hope she will come all the same.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying: “Oh, yes, she’ll come.”
He was not certain, however, and remained anxious until the day of the dinner. That very morning Madeleine received a note from her: “I have managed to get free from my engagements with great difficulty, and shall be with you this evening. But my husband cannot accompany me.”
Du Roy thought: “I did very well indeed not to go back. She has calmed down. Attention.”
He, however, awaited her appearance with some slight uneasiness. She came, very calm, rather cool, and slightly haughty. He became humble, discreet, and submissive. Madame Laroche-Mathieu and Madame Rissolin accompanied their husbands. The Viscountess de Percemur talked society. Madame de Marelle looked charming in a strangely fanciful toilet, a species of Spanish costume in black and yellow, which set off her neat figure, her bosom, her rounded arms, and her bird-like head.
Du Roy had Madame Walter on his right hand, and during dinner only spoke to her on serious topics, and with an exaggerated respect. From time to time he glanced at Clotilde. “She is really prettier and fresher looking than ever,” he thought. Then his eyes returned to his wife, whom he found not bad-looking either, although he retained towards her a hidden, tenacious, and evil anger.
But Madame Walter excited him by the difficulty of victory and by that novelty always desired by man. She wanted to return home early. “I will escort you,” said he.
She refused, but he persisted, saying: “Why will not you permit me? You will wound me keenly. Do not let me think that you have not forgiven me. You see how quiet I am.”
She answered: “But you cannot abandon your guests like that.”
He smiled. “But I shall only be away twenty minutes. They will not even notice it. If you refuse you will cut me to the heart.”
She murmured: “Well, then I agree.”
But as soon as they were in the carriage he seized her hand, and, kissing it passionately, exclaimed: “I love you, I love you. Let me tell you that much. I will not touch you. I only want to repeat to you that I love you.”
She stammered: “Oh! after what you promised me! This is wrong, very wrong.”
He appeared to make a great effort, and then resumed in a restrained tone: “There, you see how I master myself. And yet — But let me only tell you that I love you, and repeat it to you every day; yes, let me come to your house and kneel down for five minutes at your feet to utter those three words while gazing on your beloved face.”
She had yielded her hand to him, and replied pantingly: “No, I cannot, I will not. Think of what would be said, of the servants, of my daughters. No, no, it is impossible.”
He went on: “I can no longer live without seeing you. Whether at your house or elsewhere, I must see you, if only for a moment, every day, to touch your hand, to breathe the air stirred by your dress, to gaze on the outline of your form, and on your great calm eyes that madden me.”
She listened, quivering, to this commonplace love-song, and stammered: “No, it is out of the question.”
He whispered in her ear, understanding that he must capture her by degrees, this simple woman, that he must get her to make appointments with him, where she would at first, where he wished afterwards. “Listen, I must see you; I shall wait for you at your door like a beggar; but I will see you, I will see you tomorrow.”
She repeated: “No, do not come. I shall not receive you. Think of my daughters.”
“Then tell me where I shall meet you — in the street, no matter where, at whatever hour you like, provided I see you. I will bow to you; I will say ‘I love you,’ and I will go away.”
She hesitated, bewildered. And as the brougham entered the gateway of her residence she murmured hurriedly: “Well, then, I shall be at the Church of the Trinity tomorrow at halfpast three.” Then, having alighted, she said to her coachman: “Drive Monsieur Du Roy back to his house.”
As he reentered his home, his wife said: “Where did you get to?”
He replied, in a low tone: “I went to the telegraph office to send off a message.”
Madame de Marelle approached them. “You will see me home, Pretty-boy?” said she. “You know I only came such a distance to dinner on that condition.” And turning to Madeleine, she added: “You are not jealous?”
Madame Du Roy answered slowly: “Not over much.”
The guests were taking their leave. Madame Laroche-Mathieu looked like a housemaid from the country. She was the daughter of a notary, and had been married to the deputy when he was only a barrister of small standing. Madame Rissolin, old and stuck-up, gave one the idea of a midwife whose fashionable education had been acquired through a circulating library. The Viscountess de Percemur looked down upon them. Her “Lily Fingers” touched these vulgar hands with repugnance.
Clotilde, wrapped in lace, said to Madeleine as she went out: “Your dinner was perfection. In a little while you will have the leading political drawingroom in Paris.”
As soon as she was alone with George she clasped him in her arms, exclaiming: “Oh, my darling Pretty-boy, I love you more and more every day!”
