And he began to go round the table, exciting her to pursue him, while
she came after him, smiling with a species of polite condescension, and
sometimes extending her hand to touch him, but without ever giving way
so far as to run. He stopped, stooped down, and when she drew near with
her little hesitating steps, sprung up in the air like a
jack-in-the-box, and then bounded with a single stride to the other end
of the dining-room. She thought it funny, ended by laughing, and
becoming aroused, began to trot after him, giving little gleeful yet
timid cries when she thought she had him. He shifted the chairs and used
them as obstacles, forcing her to go round and round one of them for a
minute at a time, and then leaving that one to seize upon another.
Laurine ran now, giving herself wholly up to the charm of this new game,
and with flushed face, rushed forward with the bound of a delighted
child at each of the flights, the tricks, the feints of her companion.
Suddenly, just as she thought she had got him, he seized her in his
arms, and lifting her to the ceiling, exclaimed: "Touch."
The delighted girl wriggled her legs to escape, and laughed with all her
heart.
Madame de Marelle came in at that moment, and was amazed. "What,
Laurine, Laurine, playing! You are a sorcerer, sir."
He put down the little girl, kissed her mother's hand, and they sat down
with the child between them. They began to chat, but Laurine, usually so
silent, kept talking all the while, and had to be sent to her room. She
obeyed without a word, but with tears in her eyes.
As soon as they were alone, Madame de Marelle lowered her voice. "You do
not know, but I have a grand scheme, and I have thought of you. This is
it. As I dine every week at the Forestiers, I return their hospitality
from time to time at some restaurant. I do not like to entertain company
at home, my household is not arranged for that, and besides, I do not
understand anything about domestic affairs, anything about the kitchen,
anything at all. I like to live anyhow. So I entertain them now and then
at a restaurant, but it is not very lively when there are only three,
and my own acquaintances scarcely go well with them. I tell you all this
in order to explain a somewhat irregular invitation. You understand, do
you not, that I want you to make one of us on Saturday at the Cafe
Riche, at half-past seven. You know the place?"
He accepted with pleasure, and she went on: "There will be only us four.
These little outings are very amusing to us women who are not accustomed
to them."
She was wearing a dark brown dress, which showed off the lines of her
waist, her hips, her bosom, and her arm in a coquettishly provocative
way. Duroy felt confusedly astonished at the lack of harmony between
this carefully refined elegance and her evident carelessness as regarded
her dwelling. All that clothed her body, all that closely and directly
touched her flesh was fine and delicate, but that which surrounded her
did not matter to her.
He left her, retaining, as before, the sense of her continued presence
in species of hallucination of the senses. And he awaited the day of the
dinner with growing impatience.
Having hired, for the second time, a dress suit--his funds not yet
allowing him to buy one--he arrived first at the rendezvous, a few
minutes before the time. He was ushered up to the second story, and into
a small private dining-room hung with red and white, its single window
opening into the boulevard. A square table, laid for four, displaying
its white cloth, so shining that it seemed to be varnished, and the
glasses and the silver glittered brightly in the light of the twelve
candles of two tall candelabra. Without was a broad patch of light
green, due to the leaves of a tree lit up by the bright light from the
dining-rooms.
Duroy sat down in a low armchair, upholstered in red to match the
hangings on the walls. The worn springs yielding beneath him caused him
to feel as though sinking into a hole. He heard throughout the huge
house a confused murmur, the murmur of a large restaurant, made up of
the clattering of glass and silver, the hurried steps of the waiters,
deadened by the carpets in the passages, and the opening of doors
letting out the sound of voices from the numerous private rooms in which
people were dining. Forestier came in and shook hands with him, with a
cordial familiarity which he never displayed at the offices of the _Vie
Francaise_.
"The ladies are coming together," said he; "these little dinners are
very pleasant."
Then he glanced at the table, turned a gas jet that was feebly burning
completely off, closed one sash of the window on account of the draught,
and chose a sheltered place for himself, with a remark: "I must be
careful; I have been better for a month, and now I am queer again these
last few days. I must have caught cold on Tuesday, coming out of the
theater."
The door was opened, and, followed by a waiter, the two ladies appeared,
veiled, muffled, reserved, with that charmingly mysterious bearing they
assume in such places, where the surroundings are suspicious.
As Duroy bowed to Madame Forestier she scolded him for not having come
to see her again; then she added with a smile, in the direction of her
friend: "I know what it is; you prefer Madame de Marelle, you can find
time to visit her."
They sat down to table, and the waiter having handed the wine card to
Forestier, Madame de Marelle exclaimed: "Give these gentlemen whatever
they like, but for us iced champagne, the best, sweet champagne,
mind--nothing else." And the man having withdrawn, she added with an
excited laugh: "I am going to get tipsy this evening; we will have a
spree--a regular spree."
Forestier, who did not seem to have heard, said: "Would you mind the
window being closed? My chest has been rather queer the last few days."
"No, not at all."
He pushed too the sash left open, and returned to his place with a
reassured and tranquil countenance. His wife said nothing. Seemingly
lost in thought, and with her eyes lowered towards the table, she smiled
at the glasses with that vague smile which seemed always to promise and
never to grant.
The Ostend oysters were brought in, tiny and plump like little ears
enclosed in shells, and melting between the tongue and the palate like
salt bon-bons. Then, after the soup, was served a trout as rose-tinted
as a young girl, and the guests began to talk.
They spoke at first of a current scandal; the story of a lady of
position, surprised by one of her husband's friends supping in a private
room with a foreign prince. Forestier laughed a great deal at the
adventure; the two ladies declared that the indiscreet gossip was
nothing less than a blackguard and a coward. Duroy was of their opinion,
and loudly proclaimed that it is the duty of a man in these matters,
whether he be actor, confidant, or simple spectator, to be silent as the
grave. He added: "How full life would be of pleasant things if we could
reckon upon the absolute discretion of one another. That which often,
almost always, checks women is the fear of the secret being revealed.
Come, is it not true?" he continued. "How many are there who would yield
to a sudden desire, the caprice of an hour, a passing fancy, did they
not fear to pay for a short-lived and fleeting pleasure by an
irremediable scandal and painful tears?"
He spoke with catching conviction, as though pleading a cause, his own
cause, as though he had said: "It is not with me that one would have to
dread such dangers. Try me and see."
They both looked at him approvingly, holding that he spoke rightly and
justly, confessing by their friendly silence that their flexible
morality as Parisians would not have held out long before the certainty
of secrecy. And Forestier, leaning back in his place on the divan, one
leg bent under him, and his napkin thrust into his waistcoat, suddenly
said with the satisfied laugh of a skeptic: "The deuce! yes, they would
all go in for it if they were certain of silence. Poor husbands!"
And they began to talk of love. Without admitting it to be eternal,
Duroy understood it as lasting, creating a bond, a tender friendship, a
confidence. The union of the senses was only a seal to the union of
hearts. But he was angry at the outrageous jealousies, melodramatic
scenes, and unpleasantness which almost always accompany ruptures.
When he ceased speaking, Madame de Marelle replied: "Yes, it is the only
pleasant thing in life, and we often spoil it by preposterous
unreasonableness."
Madame Forestier, who was toying with her knife, added: "Yes--yes--it is
pleasant to be loved."
And she seemed to be carrying her dream further, to be thinking things
that she dared not give words to.
As the first _entree_ was slow in coming, they sipped from time to time
a mouthful of champagne, and nibbled bits of crust. And the idea of
love, entering into them, slowly intoxicated their souls, as the bright
wine, rolling drop by drop down their throats, fired their blood and
perturbed their minds.
The waiter brought in some lamb cutlets, delicate and tender, upon a
thick bed of asparagus tips.
"Ah! this is good," exclaimed Forestier; and they ate slowly, savoring
the delicate meat and vegetables as smooth as cream.
Duroy resumed: "For my part, when I love a woman everything else in the
world disappears." He said this in a tone of conviction.
Madame Forestier murmured, with her let-me-alone air:
"There is no happiness comparable to that of the first hand-clasp, when
the one asks, 'Do you love me?' and the other replies, 'Yes.'"
Madame de Marelle, who had just tossed a fresh glass of champagne off at
a draught, said gayly, as she put down her glass: "For my part, I am not
so Platonic."
And all began to smile with kindling eyes at these words.
Forestier, stretched out in his seat on the divan, opened his arms,
rested them on the cushions, and said in a serious tone: "This frankness
does you honor, and proves that you are a practical woman. But may one
ask you what is the opinion of Monsieur de Marelle?"
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, with infinite and prolonged
disdain; and then in a decided tone remarked: "Monsieur de Marelle has
no opinions on this point. He only has--abstentions."
And the conversation, descending from the elevated theories, concerning
love, strayed into the flowery garden of polished blackguardism. It was
the moment of clever double meanings; veils raised by words, as
petticoats are lifted by the wind; tricks of language; clever disguised
audacities; sentences which reveal nude images in covered phrases; which
cause the vision of all that may not be said to flit rapidly before the
eye and the mind, and allow the well-bred people the enjoyment of a
kind of subtle and mysterious love, a species of impure mental contact,
due to the simultaneous evocation of secret, shameful, and longed-for
pleasures. The roast, consisting of partridges flanked by quails, had
been served; then a dish of green peas, and then a terrine of foie gras,
accompanied by a curly-leaved salad, filling a salad bowl as though with
green foam. They had partaken of all these things without tasting them,
without knowing, solely taken up by what they were talking of, plunged
as it were in a bath of love.
The two ladies were now going it strongly in their remarks. Madame de
Marelle, with a native audacity which resembled a direct provocation,
and Madame Forestier with a charming reserve, a modesty in her tone,
voice, smile, and bearing that underlined while seeming to soften the
bold remarks falling from her lips. Forestier, leaning quite back on the
cushions, laughed, drank and ate without leaving off, and sometimes
threw in a word so risque or so crude that the ladies, somewhat shocked
by its appearance, and for appearance sake, put on a little air of
embarrassment that lasted two or three seconds. When he had given vent
to something a little too coarse, he added: "You are going ahead nicely,
my children. If you go on like that you will end by making fools of
yourselves."
Dessert came, and then coffee; and the liquors poured a yet warmer dose
of commotion into the excited minds.
As she had announced on sitting down to table, Madame de Marelle was
intoxicated, and acknowledged it in the lively and graceful rabble of a
woman emphasizing, in order to amuse her guests, a very real
commencement of drunkenness.
Madame Forestier was silent now, perhaps out of prudence, and Duroy,
feeling himself too much excited not to be in danger of compromising
himself, maintained a prudent reserve.
Cigarettes were lit, and all at once Forestier began to cough. It was a
terrible fit, that seemed to tear his chest, and with red face and
forehead damp with perspiration, he choked behind his napkin. When the
fit was over he growled angrily: "These feeds are very bad for me; they
are ridiculous." All his good humor had vanished before his terror of
the illness that haunted his thoughts. "Let us go home," said he.
Madame de Marelle rang for the waiter, and asked for the bill. It was
brought almost immediately. She tried to read it, but the figures danced
before her eyes, and she passed it to Duroy, saying: "Here, pay for me;
I can't see, I am too tipsy."
And at the same time she threw him her purse. The bill amounted to one
hundred and thirty francs. Duroy checked it, and then handed over two
notes and received back the change, saying in a low tone: "What shall I
give the waiter?"
"What you like; I do not know."
He put five francs on the salver, and handed back the purse, saying:
"Shall I see you to your door?"
"Certainly. I am incapable of finding my way home."
They shook hands with the Forestiers, and Duroy found himself alone with
Madame de Marelle in a cab. He felt her close to him, so close, in this
dark box, suddenly lit up for a moment by the lamps on the sidewalk. He
felt through his sleeve the warmth of her shoulder, and he could find
nothing to say to her, absolutely nothing, his mind being paralyzed by
the imperative desire to seize her in his arms.
"If I dared to, what would she do?" he thought. The recollection of all
the things uttered during dinner emboldened him, but the fear of scandal
restrained him at the same time.
Nor did she say anything either, but remained motionless in her corner.
He would have thought that she was asleep if he had not seen her eyes
glitter every time that a ray of light entered the carriage.
"What was she thinking?" He felt that he must not speak, that a word, a
single word, breaking this silence would destroy his chance; yet courage
failed him, the courage needed for abrupt and brutal action. All at once
he felt her foot move. She had made a movement, a quick, nervous
movement of impatience, perhaps of appeal. This almost imperceptible
gesture caused a thrill to run through him from head to foot, and he
threw himself upon her, seeking her mouth with his lips, her form with
his hands.
But the cab having shortly stopped before the house in which she
resided, Duroy, surprised, had no time to seek passionate phrases to
thank her, and express his grateful love. However, stunned by what had
taken place, she did not rise, she did not stir. Then he was afraid that
the driver might suspect something, and got out first to help her to
alight.
At length she got out of the cab, staggering and without saying a word.
He rang the bell, and as the door opened, said, tremblingly: "When shall
I see you again?"
She murmured so softly that he scarcely heard it: "Come and lunch with
me to-morrow." And she disappeared in the entry, pushed to the heavy
door, which closed with a noise like that of a cannon. He gave the
driver five francs, and began to walk along with rapid and triumphant
steps, and heart overflowing with joy.
He had won at last--a married woman, a lady. How easy and unexpected it
had all been. He had fancied up till then that to assail and conquer one
of these so greatly longed-for beings, infinite pains, interminable
expectations, a skillful siege carried on by means of gallant
attentions, words of love, sighs, and gifts were needed. And, lo!
suddenly, at the faintest attack, the first whom he had encountered had
yielded to him so quickly that he was stupefied at it.
"She was tipsy," he thought; "to-morrow it will be another story. She
will meet me with tears." This notion disturbed him, but he added:
"Well, so much the worse. Now I have her, I mean to keep her."
He was somewhat agitated the next day as he ascended Madame de Marelle's
staircase. How would she receive him? And suppose she would not receive
him at all? Suppose she had forbidden them to admit him? Suppose she had
said--but, no, she could not have said anything without letting the
whole truth be guessed. So he was master of the situation.
The little servant opened the door. She wore her usual expression. He
felt reassured, as if he had anticipated her displaying a troubled
countenance, and asked: "Is your mistress quite well?"
She replied: "Oh! yes, sir, the same as usual," and showed him into the
drawing-room.
He went straight to the chimney-glass to ascertain the state of his hair
and his toilet, and was arranging his necktie before it, when he saw in
it the young woman watching him as she stood at the door leading from
her room. He pretended not to have noticed her, and the pair looked at
one another for a few moments in the glass, observing and watching
before finding themselves face to face. He turned round. She had not
moved, and seemed to be waiting. He darted forward, stammering: "My
darling! my darling!"
She opened her arms and fell upon his breast; then having lifted her
head towards him, their lips met in a long kiss.
He thought: "It is easier than I should have imagined. It is all going
on very well."
And their lips separating, he smiled without saying a word, while
striving to throw a world of love into his looks. She, too, smiled, with
that smile by which women show their desire, their consent, their wish
to yield themselves, and murmured: "We are alone. I have sent Laurine to
lunch with one of her young friends."