Complete Works of Emile Zola (215 page)

Renée drank up automatically the few drops of Tokay that remained at the bottom of her glass. Her face tingled; the little yellow hairs on her neck and temples escaped rebelliously as though moistened by a humid breath. Her lips and nose were nervously contracted, she had the silent expression of a child that has drunk neat wine. The good middle-class thoughts that had come to her as she sat looking at the shadows of the Parc Monceau were now drowned in the stimulation of food and wine and light, and of the disturbing surroundings, impregnated with hot breath and merriment. She no longer exchanged quiet smiles with her sister Christine and her aunt Elisabeth, both of them modest and retiring, barely uttering a word. With a stony glance she had compelled the poor M. de Mussy to lower his eyes. Though her thoughts were apparently wandering, and she carefully refrained from turning round, and remained leaning back in her chair, against which the satin of her bodice rustled gently, she allowed an imperceptible shudder of the shoulders to escape her at each renewed burst of laughter that came to her from the corner where Maxime and Louise were still making merry, as loudly as ever, amid the dying hum of conversation.

And behind her, on the edge of the shadow, his tall figure beetling over the disordered table and the torpid guests, stood Baptiste, pale and solemn, in the scornful attitude of a flunky that has gorged his masters. He alone, in the air laden with drunkenness, beneath the vivid light that was turning to yellow, continued correct, with his silver chain round his neck, his cold eyes, in which the sight of the women’s shoulders kindled no spark, his air of a eunuch waiting on Parisians of the decadence and retaining his dignity.

At last Renée rose, with a nervous movement. All followed her example. They adjourned to the drawing-room, where coffee was served.

The large drawing-room was an immense, long room, with a sort of gallery that ran from one pavilion to the other, taking up the whole of the façade on the garden side. A large French window opened on to the steps. This gallery glittered with gold. The ceiling, gently arched, had fanciful scrolls winding round great gilt medallions, that shone like bucklers. Bosses and dazzling garlands encircled the arch; fillets of gold, resembling threads of molten metal, ran round the walls, framing the panels, which were hung with red silk; festoons of roses, topped with tufts of full-blown blossoms, hung down along the sides of the mirrors. An Aubusson carpet spread its purple flowers over the polished flooring. The furniture of red silk damask, the door-hangings and window-curtains of the same material, the huge ormolu clock on the mantel-piece, the porcelain vases standing on the consoles, the legs of the two long tables inlaid in Florentine mosaic, the very flower-stands placed in the recesses of the windows, oozed and sweated with gold. At the four corners of the room were four great lamps placed on pedestals of red marble, to which they were fastened by chains of bronze gilt, that fell with symmetrical grace. And from the ceiling hung three lustres with crystal pendants, streaming with drops of blue and pink light, whose hot glare drew a responding gleam from all the gold in the room.

The men soon withdrew to the smoking-room. M. de Mussy went up to Maxime and took him familiarly by the arm; he had known him at school, though he was six years his senior. He led him on to the terrace, and after they had lighted their cigars he complained bitterly of Renée.

“But tell me, what is the matter with her? I saw her yesterday, and she was charming. And to-day you see, she behaves to me as if all were over between us. What can I have done? It would be kind of you indeed, my dear Maxime, if you would question her and tell her how I am suffering for her.”

“Ah! as for that — no!” replied Maxime, laughing. “Renée’s nerves are out of order, and I am not disposed to face a storm. You can settle your differences between yourselves.”

And he added, after slowly puffing out the smoke of his havanna:

“You want me to do a nice thing, don’t you?”

But M. de Mussy spoke of the sincerity of his friendship, and declared that he was only waiting for an opportunity to give Maxime a proof of his devotion. He was very unhappy, he was so deeply in love with Renée!

“Very well then, I will,” said Maxime at last, “I will speak to her, but I can promise nothing, you know: she is sure to send me to blazes.”

They returned to the smoking-room and stretched themselves at full length in two great lounging-chairs. And there, during a good half-hour, M. de Mussy related his sorrows to Maxime; he told him for the tenth time how he had fallen in love with his stepmother, how she had condescended to notice him; and Maxime, while finishing his cigar, advised him, explained Renée’s nature to him, pointed out to him how he should act in order to subjugate her.

Saccard came and sat down within a few paces of the young men, and M. de Mussy kept silence, while Maxime concluded by saying:

“If I were in your place, I would treat her very cavalierly. She likes that.”

The smoking-room was at one end of the large salon: it was one of the round rooms formed by the turrets. It was fitted up very richly and very soberly. Hung with imitation Cordova leather, it had Algerian curtains and door-hangings, and a velvet-pile carpet of Persian design. The furniture, upholstered in maroon-coloured shagreen leather, consisted of ottomans, easy-chairs, and a circular divan that ran round a part of the room. The miniature chandelier, the ornaments on the table and the fire-irons were of pale-green Florentine bronze.

There remained behind with the ladies only a few of the younger men and some old men with pale, flabby faces, who loathed tobacco. In the smoking-room reigned laughter and much free jesting. M. Hupel de la Noue diverted his fellow-guests by repeating the story he had told at dinner, embellished with exceedingly bawdy details. This was his specialty: he had two versions of every anecdote, one for the ladies and the other for men. Then, when Aristide Saccard entered, he was surrounded and complimented; and as he pretended not to understand, M. de Saffré told him, in a heartily-applauded speech, that he had deserved well of his country for preventing the fair Laure d’Aurigny from falling into the hands of the English.

“No, really, messieurs, you are mistaken,” stammered Saccard, with false modesty.

“Go on, why try to excuse yourself?” cried Maxime humorously. “It was a very fine thing to do, at your time of life.”

The young man, who had thrown away his cigar, went back to the drawing-room. A great many people had arrived. The gallery was full of men in evening clothes, standing up and talking in low tones, and of petticoats spread out wide along the settees. Flunkeys had begun to move about with silver salvers loaded with ices and glasses of punch.

Maxime, who wished to speak to Renée, passed through the full length of the drawing-room, knowing from experience the ladies’ favourite sanctum. There was, at the opposite end to the smoking-room, to which it formed a pendant, another circular room which had been made into an adorable little drawing-room. This boudoir, with its hangings, curtains and portieres of buttercup satin, had a voluptuous charm of an original and exquisite flavour. The lights of the chandelier, a piece of very delicate workmanship, sang a symphony in pale-yellow, amid all these sun-coloured silks. The effect resembled a flood of softened rays, as of the sun setting over a field of ripe wheat. The light expired upon the floor on an Aubusson carpet strewn with dead leaves. An ebony piano inlaid with ivory, two cabinets whose glass doors displayed a host of knickknacks, a Louis XVI table, a flower-bracket heaped high with blossoms furnished the room. The settees, the easy-chairs, the ottomans, were covered in quilted buttercup satin, divided at intervals by wide black satin bands embroidered with gaudy tulips. And then there were low seats, and occasional chairs, and every variety of stool, elegant and bizarre. The woodwork of these articles of furniture could not be perceived; the satin and the quilting covered all. The backs were curved with the soft fulness of bolsters. They were like so many discreet couches in whose down one could sleep and love amid the sensual symphony in pale-yellow.

Renée loved this little room, one of whose glass doors opened into the magnificent hot-house built onto the side of the house. In the daytime it was here that she spent her hours of idleness. The yellow hangings, so far from extinguishing her pale hair, gave it a strange golden radiancy; her head stood out pink and white amid a glamour of dawn like that of a fair Diana awakening in the morning light; and this was doubtless the reason why she loved this room that threw her beauty into relief.

At present she was there with her intimate friends. Her sister and aunt had just taken their leave. None but the harebrained remained in the sanctum. Half thrown back on a settee, Renée was listening to the confidences of her friend Adeline, who was whispering in her ear with kittenish airs and sudden bursts of laughter. Suzanne Haffner was in great demand; she was holding her own against a group of young men who pressed her closely, without losing her German listlessness, her provoking effrontery, cold and bare as her shoulders. In a corner Madame Sidonie in a low voice instilled her precepts into the mind of a young married woman with Madonna-like lashes. Further off stood Louise, talking to a tall, shy young man, who blushed; while the Baron Gouraud dozed in his easy chair in the full light, spreading out his flabby flesh, his wan, elephantine form in the midst of the ladies’ frail grace and silken daintiness. And a fairy-like light fell in a golden shower all over the room, on the satin skirts with folds hard and gleaming as porcelain, on the shoulders whose milky whiteness was studded with diamonds. A fluted voice, a laugh like a pigeon’s cooing, rang with crystal clearness. It was very warm. Fans beat slowly to and fro like wings disseminating at each stroke into the languid air the musked perfume of the bodices.

When Maxime appeared in the doorway, Renée, who was listening absently to the marquise’s stories, rose hastily as if to attend to her duties as hostess. She went into the large drawing-room, where the young man followed her. She took a few steps, smiling, shaking hands with people, and then, drawing Maxime aside:

“Well!” she whispered, ironically, “the burden seems a pleasant one; you no longer find it so stupid to do your own wooing.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Maxime, who had come to plead for M. de Mussy.

“Yet it seems to me that I did well not to deliver you from Louise. You are getting on rapidly, you two.”

And she added, with a sort of vexation:

“It was indecent to go on like that at dinner.”

Maxime began to laugh.

“Ah, yes, we told one another stories. I did not know the little minx. She is quite amusing. She is like a boy.”

And as Renée continued her grimace of prudish annoyance, the young man, who had never known her to shew such indignation, resumed with his urbane familiarity:

“Do you imagine, stepmamma, that I pinched her knees under the table? Hang it all, I know how to behave to my future wife!…. I have something more serious to say to you. Listen…. You are listening, are you not?”

He lowered his voice still more.

“Look here, M. de Mussy is very unhappy, he has just told me so. You know, it is not for me to reconcile you, if you have had a difference. But, you see, I knew him at school, and as he really seemed in despair, I promised to put in a word for him….”

He stopped. Renée was looking at him in an indescribable manner.

“You won’t answer?…. he continued. “No matter, I have delivered my message, and you can settle things as you please…. But, honestly, I think you are unkind. I felt sorry for the poor fellow. If I were you, I would at least send him a kind word.”

Then Renée, who had not ceased to keep her eyes, filled with a glittering light, fixed upon Maxime, said:

“Go and tell M. de Mussy that he’s a nuisance.”

And she resumed her slow walk amidst the groups of guests, smiling, bowing, shaking hands with people. Maxime stood where he was, lost in surprise; then he laughed silently to himself.

In no way eager to deliver his message to M. de Mussy, he strolled round the large drawing-room. The reception was dragging itself to its end, marvellous and commonplace, like all receptions. It was close upon midnight; the guests were dropping off one by one. Not caring to go to sleep upon an unpleasant impression, he decided to look for Louise. He was passing before the hall-door, when he saw standing in the vestibule the pretty Madame Michelin, whom her husband was wrapping up daintily in a blue-and-pink opera-cloak.

“He was charming, quite charming,” she was saying. “We talked of you all through dinner. He will speak to the minister; only it is not in his province ….”

And as a footman, close by them, was helping the Baron Gouraud on with a great fur coat:

“That’s the old boy who could carry the thing through!” she added in her husband’s ear, while he was tying the ribbon of her hood under her chin. “He can do anything he likes with the minister. To-morrow, at the Mareuil’s, I must see what ….”

M. Michelin smiled. He carried his wife off gingerly, as though he had something valuable and fragile under his arm. Maxime, after glancing round to assure himself that Louise was not in the hall, went straight to the small drawing-room. And he found her still there, almost alone, waiting for her father who had spent the evening in the smoking-room with the politicians. Most of the ladies, the marquise, Madame Haffner, had left. Only Madame Sidonie remained behind, explaining to some wives of officials how fond she was of animals.

“Ah! here is my little husband,” cried Louise. “Sit down here and tell me where my father has fallen asleep. He must have fancied that he was already in the Chamber.”

Maxime replied in a similar strain, and the two young people began laughing again as loudly as at dinner. Sitting on a very low stool at her feet, he ended by taking her hands, by playing with her as with a school-fellow. And, in fact, in her frock of white foulard with red spots, with her high-cut bodice, her flat breast, and her ugly, cunning little street-boy’s head, she might have passed for a boy dressed up as a girl. Yet at times her shrivelled arms, her distorted form, would assume a pose of abandonment, and a light would flash from the depths of her eyes, still full of callowness; but not the least blush in the world was brought to her cheeks by Maxime’s romping. And they both laughed on, thinking themselves alone, without perceiving Renée, who stood half-hidden in the middle of the conservatory, watching them from a distance.