There was a grand ball at the Bourjots' in honour of the approaching
marriage of their daughter with M. Mauperin de Villacourt.
"You are going in for it to-day. How you are dancing!" said Renée to
Noémi, fanning her as she stood talking in a corner of the vast
drawing-room.
"I have never danced so much, that's quite true," answered Noémi, taking
her friend's arm and leading her away into the small drawing-room. "No,
never," she continued, drawing Renée to her and kissing her. "Oh, how
lovely it is to be happy," and then kissing her again in a perfect fever
of joy, she said: "_She_ does not care for him now. Oh, I'm quite sure
she doesn't care for him. In the old days I could see she did by the
very way she got up when he came; by her eyes, her voice, the very
rustle of her dress, everything. Then when he wasn't there, I could tell
by her silence she was thinking of him. You are surprised at my
noticing, silly thing that I am; but there are some things that I
understand with this"--and she drew Renée's hand on to her white moiré
dress just where her heart was--"and this never deceives me."
"And you love him now, do you?" asked Renée.
Noémi stopped her saying any more by pressing her bouquet of roses
against her friend's lips.
"Mademoiselle, you promised me the first redowa," and a young man took
Noémi away. She turned as she reached the door and threw a kiss to Renée
with the tips of her fingers.
Noémi's confession had given Renée a thrill of joy, and she had revelled
in the smile on her friend's face. She herself felt immensely comforted
and relieved. In an instant everything had changed for her, and the
thought that Noémi loved her brother chased away all other ideas. She no
longer saw the shame and the crime which she had so long seen in this
marriage. She kept repeating to herself that Noémi loved him, that they
both loved each other. The rest all belonged to the past, and they would
each of them forget that past, Noémi by forgiving it, and Henri by
redeeming it. Suddenly the remembrance of something came back to her,
bringing with it an anxious thought and a vague dread. She was
determined, however, just then to see no dark clouds in the horizon and
nothing threatening in the future. Chasing all this from her mind, she
began to think of her brother and of Noémi once more. She pictured to
herself the wedding-day and their future home, and she recalled the
voices of some children she had once heard calling "Auntie! Auntie!"
"Will mademoiselle do me the honour of dancing with me?"
It was Denoisel who was bowing in front of her.
"Do we dance together--you and I? We know each other too well. Sit down
there, and don't crease my dress. Well, what are you looking at?"
Renée was wearing a dress of white tulle, trimmed with seven narrow
flounces and bunches of ivy leaves and red berries. In her bodice and
the tulle ruches of her sleeves she wore ivy and berries to match. A
long spray of the ivy was twisted round her hair with a few berries here
and there and the leaves hung down over her shoulders. She was leaning
her head back on the sofa, and her beautiful chestnut hair, which was
brought forward, fell slightly over her white forehead. There was a new
gleam, a soft intense light in her brown, dreamy eyes, the expression of
which could not be seen. A shadow played over her mouth at the corners,
and her lips, which were generally closed in a disdainful little pout,
were unsealed and half open, partially revealing the gladness which came
from her very soul. The light fell on her chin, and a ring of shadow
played round her neck each time that she moved her head. She looked
charming thus, the outline of her features indistinct under the full
light of the chandeliers, and her whole face beaming with childish joy.
"You are very pretty this evening, Renée."
"Ah--this evening?"
"Well, to tell the truth, just lately you've looked so worried and so
sad. It suits you much better to enjoy yourself."
"Do you think so? Do you waltz?"
"As though I had just learnt and had been badly taught. But you have
only this very minute refused."
"I, refused? What an idea! Why, I want to dance dreadfully. Well,
there's plenty of time--oh, don't look at your watch; I don't want to
know the time. And so you think I am gay, do you? Well, no, I don't feel
gay. I'm happy--I'm very happy--there, now! I say, Denoisel, when you
are strolling about in Paris, you know those old women who wear Lorraine
caps, and who stand in the doorways selling matches--well, you are to
give a sovereign each to the first five you meet; I'll give it you back.
I've saved some money--don't forget. Is that waltz still going on? Is it
really true that I refused to dance? Well, after this one I'm going to
dance everything, and I shall not be particular about my partners. They
can be as ugly as they like, they can wear shoes that have been resoled,
and talk to me about Royer-Collard if they like, they can be too tall
or too short, they can come up to my elbow or I can come up to their
waist--it won't matter to me even if their hands perspire--I'll dance
with any of them. That's how I feel to-night, and yet people say that I
am not charitable."
Just at that moment a man entered the little drawing-room. It was M.
Davarande.
"Invite me for this waltz, please," said Renée, and as she passed by
Denoisel she whispered:
"You see I'm beginning with the family."