It was past eleven o'clock and Mme. Chambannes had almost finished
dressing when someone knocked at her door. Her maid opened it just
enough to allow one arm to pass in, holding a special delivery letter,
while a voice proclaimed:
"Telegram for Madame."
"Give it to me ... quick!" Mme. Chambannes said.
Her maid was fastening her dress, but left it and hurried to take the
message.
Mme. Chambannes tore it open with trembling fingers and read rapidly,
glancing hurriedly at the lines:
Tuesday morning, 10 A. M.
My dear little Zozé: I am sure I don't know what I could have been
thinking of at the dance last night when I told you we would lunch
together in our little nest. I pledged myself to the Mathays a week
ago. Thank Heaven, I remembered it in time. We shall make up for
this. Forgive my carelessness; till to-day at 4. In haste, all the
kisses of your old
G.
Quietly she folded the note and laid it on the wash-stand. Then she
selected two small pearl-headed pins and carefully pinned them on her
broad-winged cravat. She found it growing too hard for her to repress
her feelings, however, and there was a catch in her voice as she
murmured:
"Leave these things, Anna! Bring me my pink negligé...."
"Madame, then, is not going out?" the maid protested, in feigned
surprise.
Mme. Chambannes threw her corsage on a chair and feverishly began to
unfasten her skirt.
"No! I am not going out."
"Will Madame lunch here? Shall I call the cook?" "Yes.... No...." Zozé
stammered out. "Tell her to prepare lunch for me ... whatever she
has...."
"Very well, Madame."
A moment later she returned holding on her arm a long soft gown with
pink ribbons. Mme. Chambannes slipped into it; while she fastened the
ribbons she ordered dryly:
"Go now!"
Anna disappeared. Mme. Chambannes dropped into a little cretonne-covered
armchair.
* * * * *
They were not to lunch together. It was certain, definite, irrevocable.
Between her and that Mathay woman Gerald had not even hesitated. Yet he
must have foreseen how it would hurt her, and what poignant
disappointment he would cause her by breaking his promise at the last
moment.
Wretch! She conjured up a picture of him, sitting at the dining table
beside the countess, that small fair-haired woman with her turned-up
nose, her childish, impudent, saucy face. He was making himself
pleasant, prattling pretty nonsense, fashioning his glances to hers and
using his big eyes to offer himself. The lunch was perhaps ending, they
were going into the hall to drink their coffee! Who knew? Mathay might
be going out, leaving them alone, like the great fool of a husband he
was! Well, then, what would happen? Did they not all know that young
giddy countess? She had no name for being a stronghold, the Capitol!...
Oh! what infamy! what an abject situation!
Mme. Chambannes would have liked to snatch out her own heart and hurl it
through the window, far, far away. Her nails caught at her gown where it
was beating against the armor of her corset. Her mind dwelt on
reprisals, as it did whenever she saw Gerald's treason as an
accomplished fact.
Yes! She would have revenge! She would do as he did; she would give
herself to another, to anyone of the many who made love to her. Names of
men began to surge in her mind, with proper settings. There was the
studio of Mazuccio, the little sculptor, the flat of Burzig or that of
Pums, the husband of her friend Flora. They were all eager to welcome
her; all would receive her as a queen who condescended to offer herself.
She would cry out from the door: "Here I am! Take me!" And they would
fall on their knees, stammering their thanks with tears of happiness.
These flattering visions quieted her. She walked to her dressing-room,
trying to fix upon her choice. To whom would she appeal? They were
equally repugnant to her. As she imagined herself in the arms of any of
them, a shiver of repulsion caused her to shake her head. Phew! She
would require too much courage for her spite to make her lower herself
to that extent! Moreover, it might be that none of them was free. She
would then risk a polite refusal! No ... everything was against it ...
and she admitted sadly to herself that, besides, she never could go
through with it!
She fell back into her armchair. Her muscles pained her as if she had
been walking all day.
She took up the note from the marble. As she read it again, every word
in it seemed an insult or a lie. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sorrow took
the place of rage. How nasty, how cold and pitiless Gerald was
sometimes! She wished for the near presence of some mothering friend who
could understand and pity her, in whom she could confide and who would
weep with her. Yet she had none! Alas, neither Flora Pums, nor Rose
Silberschmidt, nor Germaine de Marquesse, her friends with whom she had
followed the lessons of Levannier, nor her kind Aunt Panhias had a soul
that was lofty and charitable enough! Zozé's pride revolted at the very
idea of their concealed joy or their coarse comforting words.
She fell to sobbing again.
An impression rose in her that she was stranded on a desert island. She
would have readily welcomed death. In such dramatic moments she felt
forlorn, very much the "little Mouzarkhi girl," quite alone and alien,
this unfortunate Mme. Chambannes, for all her French name and Parisian
education! She was only a poor exotic flower, planted near the surface
of an alien land and the short roots she had taken gave way at the
slightest storm as if they were mere threads! There was no help for her
in her distress! She had not even the solace of a trust in Heaven, of a
refuge in God, since she had been brought up without any religion. When
she wanted to pray, there came back to her nothing but a short, strange
prayer, one that her kind Aunt Panhias used to make her repeat every
night when she was a child, kneeling down in her nightdress by the side
of her bed. Unconsciously she now repeated it.
"Be blessed, O my God!
"Help me to be good, to work well, to satisfy Father, Mother, my aunt
and my uncle and not to let Father be ruined on the Stock Exchange
to-morrow. Amen!"
The last words brought a smile to her lips. She remembered her father,
dead these seven years, her good old father, at once so strangely kind
and so dishonest.
He had been a type, that Mouzarkhi. His origin had remained obscure and
inexplicable to his intimates, to his own countrymen as much as to the
others.
He had, one day, landed in Paris from Aleppo, without knowing anyone,
with no references, no patrons of any kind. In six months he had gained,
on 'Change, one of the most powerful situations any broker could secure
there. Of course, people said that he gambled and gained more by his
coups than through his commissions. But he enjoyed the benefit of the
respectful indulgence which, in such circles, is readily bestowed upon
lucky gamblers. Nor did he hide his speculations. He had sworn to stop,
to give up all work, as soon as he reached the million mark. He was on
the eve of touching it when he met with his first smash. His liabilities
amounted to twice his assets. He disappeared discreetly for a few weeks.
Then he came back. He was active, cordial, and ingenuous and rapidly
built himself up a new credit and a new clientele. His activities had
now assumed a nobler aim, that of paying his debts. During the next two
years he was most regular in paying sums on account. At the end of that
time, there was left only an amount of 300,000 francs for him to pay. He
lost patience, however, gambled once more to liberate himself faster,
and thus he met his second "smash." Ill-luck did not break him. Once
more he took up his traffic, leading a merry, easy-going life, working,
paying off, speculating, being "hammered," springing up again like a
light, strong balloon. He did not, however, survive his sixth smash.
That time he had fallen from too high a flight, from a fictitious
fortune of at least two millions down to nothing. He died of apoplexy,
right on 'Change, insolvent, of course, but leaving the reputation of a
very sympathetic fellow and of a highly gifted financier.
He had, nevertheless, as a good father should, assured beforehand the
future of his family.
First of all, when Mme. Mouzarkhi had died a few years after their
arrival in Paris, he had called his brother-in-law, M. Panhias, and his
wife, and entrusted them with the bringing up of little Zozé. Where had
they come from? From Aleppo, Ghazir or Stambul? Were they Greeks, Jews,
Turks or Maronites? Nobody had been able to find out, since the Panhias
had proved as reserved concerning their origin as M. Mouzarkhi himself.
Both had an undefinable accent which suggested all in one the Spanish,
the Hungarian and the Moldo-Vallach languages. Panhias, modest and
reserved, acted as confidential clerk in his brother-in-law's business
house. Mme. Panhias watched with faithful care over the education of the
little girl; she took her to her lessons during the day and sat up with
her in the evenings, while the father went to the theater or elsewhere.
She was large, pleasant and, by fits, communicative. Through her, people
learned that the Panhias had not been seriously affected by the débâcle
of their relation and that they still had, despite their losses, about
15,000 a year. Upon the other points, she had preserved the silence
which was a traditional virtue of the family.
Again, M. Mouzarkhi had had the foresight to give his daughter a
husband, a year before taking his final jump. The affair, which had been
broached by one of his Bourse colleagues, had not been settled without
difficulties. They were cautious on both sides. Inquiring agencies had
been consulted and forwarded particulars that induced certain fears.
They gave M. Mouzarkhi the character of a man personally popular among
his colleagues but with a credit that was doubtful and often weak. As to
George Chambannes, the son of a little doctor in the province of Berri,
himself an ex-student of the École Centrale, they made him out to be an
engineer of talent, industrious and daring, but one who had, so far,
achieved nothing and who sought his way through dubious enterprises.
They had, however, debated the matter on both sides, each side feeling
that too much precaution would be out of place. A compromise was struck,
on the ground of future expectations, of respective faith in better
times to come. Finally the negotiations came to a successful issue.
Zozé, who had but one wish--marriage which would free her from the
Panhias guardianship and assure her liberty, showed her willingness from
her first meeting with young Chambannes. He was, moreover, good-looking
and smart and had caressing, winning ways. He did not insist upon a
Church wedding when M. Mouzarkhi, who was anxious to preserve
neutrality--or was it his incognito?--in religious matters, declared it
would be contrary to his principles, as an "Old Republican" and a
positivist. In truth, Zozé would have had to exhibit a baptismal
certificate; M. Mouzarkhi had neglected to provide her with one; the
need to obtain one now would further delay the marriage. Thus they were
married at the city hall. The whole of the Petite Bourse flocked to the
place; there were even a few persons from the Haute Banque, among whose
numbers M. Mouzarkhi counted, if no friends, at least some admirers. The
evening came and the young couple settled down in a pretty mansion on
the rue de Prony, a wedding present from the financier. To the house he
had added a capital of 100,000 francs in order to help the engineer find
that road to success which he was seeking.
George Chambannes found nothing at all, but he spent the whole amount in
the course of the next two years and heavily mortgaged the mansion.
Nor did he cut down expenses. Quite the contrary. He kept them up and
even increased them, by means of gambling, secret expedients and
unsavory manipulations. Gossips said that he was in receipt of money
from some generous old ladies, whose names were quoted. These rumors
found few incredulous listeners, because Chambannes was handsome, a
spendthrift, and with no visible profession or resources. Discredit is
like glory; it has its own legends which everyone, out of spite or
stupidity, wishes to credit. Zozé was not alarmed at his spending his
nights in gambling houses, leaving his own bed untouched, or at his
seeming peevish. She had never known what financial embarrassment meant,
even during the unlucky periods of her father's career. To pocket sums
of money and, when these were squandered, to ask for, and receive more,
seemed to her to be woman's natural functions. Only a refusal, a
reproach or a check upon her luxurious ways could have worried her. But
George never was stingy.
It was only after she heard from a friend that George was running after
women that she modified her existence. The change was hardly
perceptible; it took place without scenes or noise. She took a lover.
The latter was a relation of hers whom she deemed her cousin. His name
was Demetrius Vassipoulo. He had not been more than eighteen months in
Paris, was quite young--just turned three and twenty--and sported a thin
brown mustache that seemed drawn with a pencil; yet Demetrius was
already racing up on the footsteps of his Uncle Mouzarkhi. His future
was already being discounted "on 'Change," as if it had been a state
loan; he would surely make a colossal fortune or suffer a far-echoing
bankruptcy.
All day he ran through Paris, reclining in his carriage, which was hired
by the month. His languid arm lay on the folded hood, like that of a
rich capitalist stretching himself out. The brass on the harness and the
horse's bell signaled his arrival and sparkled in the sunshine, his
ensigns of triumph.
Zozé loved him three months. He had the hot passion of an animal and the
ingenuousness of a savage. He amused her and she told of his ardor to
two or three intimate friends who drew comparisons with their own
lovers. She initiated him into the attractions of social life, covering
his candor with the web of established customs, just as his tailor
dressed him according to fashion.
However, she was tired of Demetrius after three months. She kept him for
another two, out of kindness, she thought, albeit it was really out of
caution and, perhaps unwittingly, because she had not found a better.
The moment she fancied that she had discovered the matchless lover, she
wasted no time in breaking with the youthful financier. She gave as a
pretext that her husband had been warned and that she had to safeguard
her honor. Demetrius wept bitterly and roared out his sorrow in words so
harsh sounding that one might have thought it the cry of a stricken
lion. Zozé felt remorseful during a whole week. At night she imagined
herself hearing again his unintelligible cries. She dreamt of wild
animals threatening her. Her new lover reproached her with being gloomy
and sighing without cause.
Her grief was not really eased until she saw Demetrius one night at the
_Noveau Cirque_. He was in evening dress, with a white bow and
carnations in his buttonhole; leaning on the front seat of a private
box, by the side of a fat blonde girl, he was blowing his smoke in the
faces of the clowns.
Henceforth she felt no qualms; Lastours, her new lover, had no further
cause to complain.
He dealt in paintings in a little house in the rue d'Offémont. He was
dark and bald, with the beard of a minion, a brutal mouth and the hands
of a street-porter. He held an advantageous place in the syndicate of
those painter-dealers whom the Paris of the _parvenus_ freely provides
with both a living and notoriety. He frequented assiduously the
fashionable drawing-rooms of the smart set, mixed with the élite of
clubs and art circles, dressed like a sportsman, was as funny as a low
comedian and carried about him a vague perfume of something beyond, an
aristocratic vapor which seemed to float above his square shoulders.
Listening to him, Zozé felt nearer the world of fashion. He was to her
the higher step on the social ladder; merely to see that step was as
good as believing she was on it and she clung to it with delight. She
admired, as if they stood for the finest wit, his studio gossip, his
prankish school ditties and the obscenity of his conversation. He had
but to say a word and she laughed outright; she rushed to satisfy his
slightest whim; in three months Chambannes took three paintings off his
hands. Nevertheless Lastours soon abused his privilege. She dreamed of
nothing else but the satisfaction of his desires and yet he treated her
like a servant, ill-treated her when he was in bad humor; he even
ordered the gentle Zozé, after their meetings, to fasten his boots for
him.
Such insolence, daily renewed, exasperated the unhappy woman and acted
upon her love as water upon flames.
She was fresh, loving and of a pleasant disposition; why should she be
denied that happiness of the heart which fell to the lot of so many
other women less beautiful than she was? In moments of passing
intuition, Zozé gave herself the melancholy reply: They were often less
beautiful, that was true, but they were Parisiennes; they were well read
and resolute; they operated upon their native soil, while she was a
little Mouzarkhi, blindly floating at the whim of her instincts, groping
and stranded more than any girl lost on alien soil!... The next day,
with renewed hope, she would go back to Lastours!
When she ceased to love him, she wanted to avenge the outrages he had
piled upon her. Following a banal, instinctive strategy, she gave
herself to one of his friends--also a painter and one of Lastours'
competitors--by the name of Montiers, who lived two doors further down
the street.
This man was fat and red-headed and concealed his nature even less than
the other had done. He was more ambitious and greedy for money than
Lastours and entertained not the least intention of wasting his time
with women. It was business before anything else with him. For the sake
of a prospective sale, a meeting with a client or a patron's call, he
would dismiss Zozé or put off her visit without hesitation. Once he had
kept her, frozen and crazy with fear, shut up for a whole hour in the
dark closet used by his models to disrobe in, because some rich American
had chanced to turn up at the studio during her visit.
When the American had departed, Montiers walked about the room so elated
by his successful transaction that he forgot to deliver his prisoner. He
only opened the door when he heard her cries; and when he opened it he
smiled, seeing only the humorous side of the affair, while Zozé wept for
vexation and grief.
After six weeks such treatment she was thoroughly disgusted with
Montiers, and with fashionable painters, and indeed--or so she
thought--with adventurous _affaires_ in general.
Who would have thought that these men, who were outwardly so courteous,
so much made of and so much petted by the most beautiful women, could
prove themselves so mean upon intimacy? Why should she keep up these
casual liaisons, expose herself to such insults which lacked even the
excuse of accompanying tenderness; why seek happiness in love instead of
waiting for it?
What, moreover, did she lack in order to be the most envied young woman?
George was spending more nights at home: he showed himself more
courteous and took her frequently to dances and plays. On her last
birthday he had hired a carriage by the month for her. His affairs were
at last taking a better turn. He was gradually paying off his bills and
the interest due on the mortgage. Zozé had a vague idea that he was
consulting engineer to a large mining company owning mines in Bosnia.
A sort of Indian summer of affection brought her suddenly nearer to her
husband. She boasted of it to her friends and declared that the age of
folly had passed for her. In order to fill the vacancy left by her
lovers, she threw herself with ardor into the pleasures of the mind.
Mercilessly, without choice or respite, she read every new book her
bookseller offered her. Memoirs, fiction, poetry and travel books merely
whetted her appetite. "I am devouring them!" she would say. And in point
of fact, that was precisely what she did; she swallowed and engulfed her
readings; she digested nothing, retained nothing.
She became a subscriber to lectures, delighted in old songs and waxed
enthusiastic over new ones. She went to concerts on Sundays and dreamt
in music of her past liaisons. The only branch of intellectual pleasure
she neglected was painting; she never went to the Salon, out of spite
for the painters. However, no light of understanding pierced through
this chaos of contrary studies. Mme. Chambannes was surprised that,
having learned so much, she had not acquired more assurance. Her
opinions ran away from her call, like so many flies. She stammered
whenever she had to express a personal view. And, in the end, the joys
of the intellect bored her....
Her memories of the next two years were misty....
What had she been doing during those two years? She remembered that
George had received the Légion d'Honneur on the 14th of July. But the
rest, her furious hunt for the perfect lover whom her heart and her
senses called for in spite of herself--what was there left of it? Was it
not withered, pressed tight at the back of her brain by weightier and
more urgent affairs? Two anemic shadows re-appeared at her conjuring,
standing in a dim, gray light: herself invariably one of them; while the
other was this one or that one, names and features forgotten, or
confusedly mixed up under the stamp of time. There had been flirtations
at dances, some mild drives in closed carriages, unfinished kisses, mere
sketches of self-giving, several vain attempts to reach the ideal and
many false hopes and shattered illusions. How could she have felt any
affection for those men, those German bank clerks, those exotic, dumpy
fellows, more elaborately dressed than gentlemen should be and more
caddish than the worst bounders could be! Had she given herself to them?
Perhaps she had. To one or two of them, or to none at all? In sooth, she
was not at all positive about it. Later, when she gravely swore to
Gerald that she had never had but one lover, her conscious fib put that
bungling little Mouzarkhi girl only two out of reckoning!
Her search was not guided solely by mere animality.
She longed secretly for an ideal lover. Her day dreams accentuated one
feature after the other of his exquisite portrait. But the imagination
of many women acts as their body does. It can reproduce but not create.
That of Mme. Chambannes, impregnated by the reading of fashionable
novels, was acting on a given formula.
She imagined the expected hero with a large blonde beard, melancholy
eyes wherein passed at times the moist shadow of an old sorrow; he would
also have an income of 30,000 or 40,000 francs and a name which, if not
a noble one, belonged at least to the smart and wealthy bourgeoisie.
He would have bitterly suffered at the hands of women, of one
especially, a treacherous actress, in love with deceit, notoriety and
money. Unwittingly, Mme. Chambannes allowed her mind to dwell on this
last point.... The disillusioned lover to come would lift his upper lip
in a contraction that showed what bitter experiences he had undergone.
From his lips would surge blasphemies against the perfidious sex, man's
enemy. Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would tenderly stop the anathemas with
her kisses; she would lay that sorrowful head upon her breast and bring
smiles back to those defiant lips. If necessary, and he wished it, she
would go away with him. They would then become exiles on a small English
island, far from the wicked world, and stay for hours together sitting
alone on the sands of the seashore, hand in hand, indefinitely
contemplating the changing play of the waves or the ships returning
home.
Why did this hero fail to arrive? She had made everything ready to
receive him, even to follow him; down to an imaginary list of dresses
and things which she would hurriedly pile up in a wicker trunk held by
yellow straps and covered on the outside with a shining piece of black
cowhide!
He tarried on his way, but he did arrive.
He was of the stay-at-home variety, selfish, titled, a libertine, he
wore no beard, he had no languorous airs and no spite against anyone.
Nevertheless Mme. Chambannes adored him from the very first.
His name was Gerald de Meuze, son of the Marquis de Meuze, of the Poitou
branch of the Meuzes. George had known him at college and later lost
sight of him.
The introduction occurred at one of the Auteuil races. It was a quiet
Thursday, almost an intimate spring meeting. It proved decisive.
George, out of pride or his passion for gambling, soon left them alone
to look after his bets, and Gerald stuck close to Mme. Chambannes.
He walked her out before the reserved seats, escorted her to the
paddock, lost his way with her behind the buildings on the broad green
expanses which were deserted by the public whenever a new race began.
A strong odor of hay, damp and sharp as a sea air-laden breeze, entered
their lungs. Mme. Chambannes could hardly speak for happiness. A new
ecstasy caused her breasts to tremble under her light silk blouse. She
walked with her head bent forward, her eyes aimlessly watching the tips
of her shiny patent leather shoes sliding on the grass. At last the
longed-for lover had come! She had got hold of him! No power could have
dissuaded her! She laughed nervously at all the remarks of Gerald,
thinking that, when she looked at him she was replying to him; she
thought she was losing her mind; the handle of her saffron sunshade
trembled against her shoulder.
The little Mouzarkhi girl would have felt even more intoxicated had she
heard what was being said of her in the exclusive club members' tribune,
among the friends of the young Count.
They were asking each other, with sly winks, who that pretty little
woman was Gerald was keeping so close to. Not one of them knew. A
professional? No, she could not be that. Probably a little woman from
some sunny, hot land, whom that rascal de Meuze made feel warmer still,
in order to tease the baroness.... Why, yes ... the Baroness Mussan ...
from whom he had parted ... it was over ... didn't you know?... Oh, not
more than a fortnight.... Just the same, this one was a jolly,
good-looking creature!
And the success of Zozé was no less real in the ladies' tribune.
Of course, the good ladies did not spare her the contemptuous tone
which they used indiscriminately when passing judgment upon all women
who were not of their caste: demi-mondaines, actresses or plain
bourgeoises. Yet, apart from that disdain, their verdict was a favorable
one. They found the strange woman nice, her dress a good fit and Gerald
a man of taste. Several maliciously inquired about Zozé's name of the
baroness who, to save her face, joined the others in praising her.
Yet, Mme. Chambannes perceived nothing of this exciting triumph. How
could she discern it? She saw no one in the whole crowd but Gerald, her
true mate, her lover to be. She walked on, with evasive glances, like a
happy bride advancing to the altar on her wedding day.
She was almost there when the races were over. Gerald had begged her,
had pressed her as if he were already her master. He wanted to see her
again, to possess her, the very next day. She remembered his ardent
voice when, on leaving her, he had dared to whisper in the midst of the
crowd, within George's own hearing:
"Why won't you to-morrow? Oh! please, don't refuse me!"
Nevertheless, she had refused, with a slow movement of her head, while
her eyes turned up as if plunging into despair.
She had to resist, to oppose this man with as much coldness and as much
caution as he was deserving of her love; she had to make him gain her
instead of abandoning herself to him. A voice within her dictated this
unusual reserve to Mme. Chambannes; she heeded it like the voice of
duty, being persuaded that her delays were safeguarding the future.
She gave in only after a siege of three weeks, at the moment when he had
grown discouraged and was on the verge of renouncing his intentions.
During that period, she had thought deeply and found out what she
wanted, with that superhuman cunning which women often show in order to
arm and defend their threatened passion.
She now knew everything about Gerald. He had led an idle, discontented
life since the time of the financial smash of 1882, when, in a fit of
juvenile anger, he had resigned his commission in the _30th
cuirassiers_. From the disaster his father had saved him a yearly income
of about 40,000 francs. She learned also the names of the people of his
set; heard of many of his liaisons, without names this time, all about
the last one ... with the baroness; she was told of his antipathy for a
world wherein his reduced circumstances no longer allowed him to figure
as he wished.
Upon this information, she had rapidly drawn her plans. Two methods were
possible in order to keep Gerald a prisoner.
Either she could rise and enter, with his help, the haughty circles of
his peers, where he would find no difficulty in introducing and imposing
her. She could thus know of all his movements, easily keep an eve on
him and fend off any possible danger.
Or else she could take advantage of his weariness, gently lead him away
from this set of which he affected to be tired and afford him, in her
own house, a home that would be brighter, easier and more novel.
In the first case, a thousand obstacles stood before her. There would be
innumerable petty deeds to perpetrate in the midst of much uncertainty,
delay and humiliation. A short while back, George's candidacy had been
"adjourned" in two sporting clubs. The committees of those clubs, more
rigorous in their verdicts than a Council of Ministers, had successively
denied the white balls of their assent to a man upon whom the Government
had bestowed the guarantee of the Cross of Honor. She would therefore
expose herself to a rebuff, on this hostile ground, where she would be
on an inferior footing. Mme. Chambannes chose the second method.
A few months proved sufficient for her to transform her life, organize
receptions and assume regular visiting days. She convened her most
attractive friends, some of Gerald's comrades, men of letters, musicians
and even artists, when she had conquered her own repugnance for them.
Thus, gradually she established for his evenings, as a supplement to
their afternoon meetings elsewhere, a composite but sympathetic salon, a
place for simple enjoyment where both men and women could come, without
putting on any airs and without afterthoughts, with the sole intention
of meeting each other and the firm desire to have a pleasant time.
Mme. Chambannes was near her goal. Gerald was captivated, attracted and
firmly held; he surrendered to his lady, swore fealty, faithfulness and
lasting love--and made Zozé's house his own. He reigned therein, an
all-powerful despot, coaxed by the husband, flattered by the visitors,
servilely obeyed by Mme. Chambannes who rejoiced in, and was thankful
for, the love at last acquired and conquered, the love unique forever,
and more than legitimate, since it was even romantic and glorious!...
Then came one evening when the young Count brought in his father. The
Marquis de Meuze was charmed with his "daughter-in-law," as he nicknamed
Zozé to his own soul. He came again, of his own accord, having found the
place attractive, the women pretty and the cooking excellent....
Yet, what struggles, what efforts she had made before she achieved
victory! Every day she still had to use her craft and stratagems in
order to keep her nobleman, to keep the thieves off and take care of the
competition.
* * * * *
Mme. Chambannes thought of these things and gave a deep sigh. She stared
aimlessly at the iridescent foam that the sugar sent up to the top of
her coffee cup. Suddenly the sullen voice of Anna called her back to her
reflections.
"Is Madame going out? May I get Madame's clothes ready?"
Mme. Chambannes was stupefied.
"What is the time?" she asked.
"Almost two o'clock, Madame."
Two! Why, she had left her room, gone to lunch, eaten and drunk and sat
there all that time, not knowing what she was doing, her mind wandering
far away, on the obscure paths of the past!
Sleepily, she replied:
"Yes, I am going out.... Give me my blue dress.... My astrakhan
coat...."
She went wearily to the window and lifted the curtains. A heavy white
mist hung low between the houses. It seemed as if a smoke was rising
from everything, from the trees in the park, at the end of her street,
from the street pavement and from the asphalt on the sidewalks; even men
and horses that passed by threw it out of their nostrils in thick,
parallel clouds. Far, far above, the sun gave out a pale light, like a
lamp in a room where men have smoked much.
Such a cold, funereal day was a good day for lovemaking, was it not?
Mme. Chambannes dreamt. To love Gerald, all kinds of weather seemed
propitious to her, as the lower classes think all days are good for
drinking.
Where was her _Raldo_ now, he of the great, wide, beloved eyes? How she
detested the unworthy wretch!... What were they talking about at the
Mathays', in the drawing-room darkened by the fog? Naïvely, she let the
curtains down again, as if she feared to see. Once more sobs came to her
throat! Well, she must forgot, get some distraction, take a walk until
four! Where could she go?
She raked her mind for names; she thought of visits to pay, of
dressmakers and modistes. Then all at once she skipped and beat her
hands with a childish gesture.
Of course! She had decided on the previous day to invite M. Raindal to
her house, to make of him a super, if not a star, at her receptions, a
noted and venerable pillar of her salon; why should she waste time, why
not seize the opportunity? Tuesday was Mme. Raindal's day. Again, there
was their daughter's accident; to go there and inquire about her--why,
these were all pretexts that no one could suspect. She must not lose an
instant!
She ran to her room. Ten minutes later, her muff under her arm, she was
fastening her gloves outside the house, waiting for the cab she had sent
for.