They were both of them drunk, quite drunk, little Baroness Andrée de la
Fraisières and little Countess Noemi de Gardens. They had been dining
alone together, in the large room which faced the sea. The soft breeze
of a summer evening blew in at the open window, soft and fresh at the
same time, a breeze that smelt of the sea. The two young women, extended
in their lounging chairs, sipped their Chartreuse from time to time, as
they smoked their cigarettes, and they were talking most confidentially,
telling each other details which nothing but this charming intoxication
could have induced their pretty lips to utter.
Their husbands had returned to Paris that afternoon, and had left them
alone on that little deserted beach, which they had chosen so as to
avoid those gallant marauders who are constantly met with in fashionable
watering places. As they were absent for five days in the week, they
objected to country excursions, luncheons on the grass, swimming lessons
and those sudden familiarities which spring up in the idle life of
watering places. Dieppe, Etratat, Trouville seemed to them to be places
to be avoided, and they had rented a house which had been built and
abandoned by an eccentric individual in the valley of Roqueville, near
Fécamp, and there they buried their wives for the whole summer.
They were drunk. Not knowing what to hit upon to amuse themselves, the
little Baroness had suggested a good dinner and champagne. To begin
with, they had found great amusement in cooking this dinner themselves,
and then they had eaten it merrily, and had drunk freely, in order to
allay the thirst which the heat of the fire had excited. Now they were
chatting and talking nonsense, while gently gargling their throats with
Chartreuse. In fact they did not in the least know any longer what they
were saying.
The Countess, with her legs in the air on the back of a chair, was
further gone than her friend.
"To complete an evening like this," she said, "we ought to have a lover
apiece. If I had foreseen this some time ago, I would have sent for a
couple from Paris, and I would have let you have one...." "I can always
find one," the other replied; "I could have one this very evening, if I
wished." "What nonsense! At Roqueville, my dear? It would have to be
some peasant, then." "No, not altogether." "Well, tell me all about it."
"What do you want me to tell you?" "About your lover." "My dear, I do
not want to live without being loved, for I should fancy I was dead if I
were not loved." "So should I." "Is not that so?" "Yes. Men cannot
understand it! And especially our husbands!" "No, not in the least. How
can you expect it to be different? The love which we want is made up of
being spoilt, of gallantries and of pretty words and actions. That is
the nourishment of our hearts; it is indispensable to our life,
indispensable, indispensable...." "Indispensable."
"I must feel that somebody is thinking of me, always, everywhere. When I
go to sleep and when I wake up, I must know that somebody loves me
somewhere, that I am being dreamt of, longed for. Without that, I should
be wretched, wretched! Oh! yes, unhappy enough to do nothing but cry."
"I am just the same."
"You must remember that anything else is impossible. When a husband has
been nice for six months, or a year, or two years, he necessarily
becomes a brute, yes, a regular brute.... He does not put himself out
for anything, but shows himself just as he is, and makes a scene on the
slightest provocation, or without any provocation whatever. One cannot
love a man with whom one lives constantly." "That is quite true." "Isn't
it?... What was I saying? I cannot the least remember?" "You were saying
that all husbands are brutes!" "Yes, brutes ... all of them." "That is
quite true." "And then?" "What do you mean?" "What was I saying just
then?" "I don't know because you did not say it!" "But I had something
to tell you." "Oh! yes, that is true; well?..." "Oh! I have got it...."
"Well, I am listening." "I was telling you that I can find lovers
everywhere." "How do you manage it?" "Like this. Now follow me
carefully. When I get to some fresh place, I take notes and make my
choice." "You make your choice?" "Yes, of course I do. First of all, I
take notes. I ask questions. Above all, a man must be discreet, rich and
generous; is not that so?" "It is quite true!" "And then he must please
me, as a man." "Of course." "Then I bait the hook for him." "You bait
the hook?" "Yes, just as one does to catch fish. Have you never fished
with a hook and line?" "No, never." "You are wrong; It is very amusing,
and besides that, it is instructive. Well then, I bait the hook...."
"How do you do it?" "How stupid you are. Does not one catch the man one
wants to catch, without their having any choice? And they really think
that they choose ... the fools ... but it is we who choose ...
always.... Just think, when one is not ugly, nor stupid, as is the case
with us, all men aspire to us, all ... without exception. We look them
over from morning till night, and when we have selected one, we fish for
him...." "But that does not tell me how you do it?" "How I do it?...
Why, I do nothing; I allow myself to be looked at, that is all." "You
allow yourself to be looked at?..." "Why yes; that is quite enough. When
one has allowed oneself to be looked at several times following, a man
immediately thinks you the most lovely, most seductive of women, and
then he begins to make love to you. I give him to understand that he is
not so bad looking, without saying anything to him, of course, and he
falls in love, like a dog. I have him fast, and it lasts a longer or a
shorter time, according to his qualities."
"And do you catch all whom you please, like that?" "Nearly all." "Oh! So
there are some who resist?" "Sometimes." "Why?" "Oh! Why? A man is a
Joseph for three reasons. Because he is in love with another woman.
Because he is excessively timid, or because he is ... how shall I say
it? ... incapable of carrying out the conquest of a woman to the
end...." "Oh! my dear!... Do you really believe?..." "I am sure of
it.... There are many of this latter class, many, many ... many more
than people think. Oh! they look just like everybody else ... they strut
like peacocks.... No, when I said peacocks ... I made a mistake, for
they could not display themselves." "Oh! my dear...." "As to the timid,
they are sometimes unspeakably stupid. They are the sort of men, who
ought not to undress themselves, even when they are going to bed alone,
when there is a looking-glass in their room. With them, one must be
energetic, make use of looks, and squeeze their hands, and even that is
useless sometimes. They never know how or where to begin. When one
faints in their presence ... as a last resource ... they try to bring
you round ... and if you do not recover your senses immediately ... they
go and get assistance.
"Those whom I prefer myself, are other women's lovers. I carry them by
assault ... at ... at ... at the point of the bayonet, my dear!" "That
is all very well, but when there are no men, like here, for instance?"
"I find them!" "You find them. But where?" "Everywhere. But that reminds
me of my story.
"Now listen. Just two years ago, my husband made me pass the summer on
his estate at Bougrolles. There was nothing there ... you know what I
mean, nothing, nothing, nothing, whatever! In the neighboring country
houses there were a few disgusting boors, who cared for nothing but
shooting, and who lived in country houses which had not even a bathroom,
men who perspire, go to bed covered with perspiration, and whom it would
be impossible to improve, because their principles of life are dirty.
Now just guess what I did!" "I cannot possibly." "Ha! ha! ha! I had
just been reading a number of George Sand's novels which exalt the man
of the people, novels in which the workmen are sublime, and all the men
of the world are criminals. In addition to this I had seen Ruy Blas the
winter before, and it had struck me very much. Well, one of our farmers
had a son, a good-looking young fellow of two and twenty who had studied
for a priest, but had left the seminary in disgust. Well, I took him as
footman!" "Oh!... And then?... What afterwards?"
"Then ... then, my dear, I treated him very haughtily, and showed him a
good deal of my person. I did not entice this rustic on, I simply
inflamed him!..." "Oh! Andrée!" "Yes, and I enjoyed the fun very much.
People say that servants count for nothing! Well he did not count for
much. I used to ring to give him his orders every morning while my maid
was dressing me, and every evening as well, while she was undressing
me." "Oh! Andrée!"
"My dear he caught fire like a thatched roof. Then, at meals, I used
continually to talk about cleanliness, about taking care of one's
person, about baths and shower baths, until at the end of a fortnight he
bathed in the river morning and night, and used to scent himself enough
to poison the whole château. I was even obliged to forbid him to use
perfumes, telling him, with furious looks, that men ought never to use
scent except Eau de Cologne."
"Oh! Andrée!"
"Then, I took it into my head to get together a library suitable to the
country. I sent for a few hundred moral novels, which I lent to all our
peasants, and all my servants. A few books ... a few ... poetical books
... such as excite the mind of ... schoolboys and schoolgirls ... had
found their way into my collection ... and I gave them to my footman.
That taught him life ... a funny sort of life." "Oh! Andrée!"
"Then I grew familiar with him, and used to say thou[18] to him. I had
given him the name of Joseph. And, my dear, he was in a state ... in a
terrible state.... He got as thin as ... as a barn-door cock ... and
rolled his eyes like an idiot. I was extremely amused; it was one of the
most delightful summers I ever spent...." "And then?..." "Then?... Oh!
yes.... Well, one day when my husband was away from home, I told him to
order the basket carriage and to drive me into the woods. It was warm,
very warm.... There!" "Oh Andrée, do tell me all about it.... It is so
amusing...." "Here have a glass of Chartreuse, otherwise I shall empty
the decanter myself. Well, I felt ill, on the road." "How?" "You are
very stupid. I told him that I was not feeling well, and that he must
lay me on the grass, and when I was lying there, I told him I was
choking, and that he must unlace me. And then, when I was unlaced, I
fainted." "Did you go right off?" "Oh! dear no, not the least." "Well?"
"Well, I was obliged to remain unconscious for nearly an hour, as he
could find no means of bringing me round. But I was very patient, and
did not open my eyes."
"Oh! Andrée!... And what did you say to him?" "I? Nothing at all! How
was I to know anything, as I was unconscious? I thanked him, and told
him to help me into the carriage, and he drove me back to the Château;
but he nearly upset us in turning into the gate!" "Oh! Andrée! And is
that all?..." "That is all...." "You did not faint more than that once?"
"Only once, of course! I did not want to take such a fellow for my
lover." "Did you keep him long after that?" "Yes, of course. I have him
still. Why should I have sent him away? I had nothing to complain of."
"Oh! Andrée! And is he in love with you still?" "Of course he is."
"Where is he?"
The little Baroness put out her hand to the wall and touched the
electric bell, and the door opened almost immediately, and a tall
footman came in who diffused a scent of Eau de Cologne all round him.
"Joseph," she said to him, "I am afraid I am going to faint; send my
lady's maid to me."
The man stood motionless, like a soldier before his officer, and fixed
an ardent look on his mistress, who continued: "Go quickly, you great
idiot, we are not in the wood to-day, and Rosalie will attend to me
better than you would." He turned on his heels and went, and the little
Baroness asked nervously: "But what shall you say to your maid?" "I
shall tell her what we have been doing! No, I shall merely get her to
unlace me; it will relieve my chest, for I can scarcely breathe. I am
drunk ... my dear ... so drunk that I should fall, if I were to get up
from my chair."