The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
He was looking for Susan, who had just disappeared with the Marquis de Cazolles, and abruptly quitting Norbert de Varenne, set out in pursuit of the young girl. A dense crowd in quest of refreshments checked him. When he at length made his way through it, he found himself face to face with the de Marelles. He was still in the habit of meeting the wife, but he had not for some time past met the husband, who seized both his hands, saying: “How can I thank you, my dear fellow, for the advice you gave me through Clotilde. I have gained close on a hundred thousand francs over the Morocco loan. It is to you I owe them. You are a valuable friend.”
Several men turned round to look at the pretty and elegant brunette. Du Roy replied: “In exchange for that service, my dear fellow, I am going to take your wife, or rather to offer her my arm. Husband and wife are best apart, you know.”
Monsieur de Marelle bowed, saying: “You are quite right. If I lose you, we will meet here in an hour.”
“Exactly.”
The pair plunged into the crowd, followed by the husband. Clotilde kept saying: “How lucky these Walters are! That is what it is to have business intelligence.”
George replied: “Bah! Clever men always make a position one way or another.”
She said: “Here are two girls who will have from twenty to thirty millions apiece. Without reckoning that Susan is pretty.”
He said nothing. His own idea, coming from another’s mouth, irritated him. She had not yet seen the picture of “Jesus Walking on the Water,” and he proposed to take her to it. They amused themselves by talking scandal of the people they recognized, and making fun of those they did not. Saint-Potin passed by, bearing on the lapel of his coat a number of decorations, which greatly amused them. An ex-ambassador following him showed far fewer.
Du Roy remarked: “What a mixed salad of society.”
Boisrenard, who shook hands with him, had also adorned his buttonhole with the green and yellow ribbon worn on the day of the duel. The Viscountess de Percemur, fat and bedecked, was chatting with a duke in the little Louis XVI boudoir.
George whispered: “An amorous tête-à-tête.”
But on passing through the greenhouse, he noticed his wife seated beside Laroche-Mathieu, both almost hidden behind a clump of plants. They seemed to be asserting: “We have appointed a meeting here, a meeting in public. For we do not care a rap what people think.”
Madame de Marelle agreed that the Jesus of Karl Marcowitch was astounding, and they retraced their steps. They had lost her husband. George inquired: “And Laurine, is she still angry with me?”
“Yes, still so as much as ever. She refuses to see you, and walks away when you are spoken of.”
He did not reply. The sudden enmity of this little girl vexed and oppressed him. Susan seized on them as they passed through a doorway, exclaiming: “Ah! here you are. Well, Pretty-boy, you must remain alone. I am going to take away Clotilde to show her my room.”
The two moved rapidly away, gliding through the throng with that undulating snake-like motion women know how to adopt in a crowd. Almost immediately a voice murmured: “George.”
It was Madame Walter, who went on in a low tone: “Oh! how ferociously cruel you are. How you do make me suffer without reason. I told Susan to get your companion away in order to be able to say a word to you. Listen, I must speak to you this evening, I must, or you don’t know what I will do. Go into the conservatory. You will find a door on the left leading into the garden. Follow the path in front of it. At the end of it you will find an arbor. Wait for me there in ten minutes’ time. If you won’t, I declare to you that I will create a scene here at once.”
He replied loftily: “Very well. I will be at the spot you mention within ten minutes.”
And they separated. But Jacques Rival almost made him behindhand. He had taken him by the arm and was telling him a lot of things in a very excited manner. He had no doubt come from the refreshment buffet. At length Du Roy left him in the hands of Monsieur de Marelle, whom he had come across, and bolted. He still had to take precautions not to be seen by his wife or Laroche-Mathieu. He succeeded, for they seemed deeply interested in something, and found himself in the garden. The cold air struck him like an ice bath. He thought: “Confound it, I shall catch cold,” and tied his pocket-handkerchief round his neck. Then he slowly went along the walk, seeing his way with difficulty after coming out of the bright light of the reception-rooms. He could distinguish to the right and left leafless shrubs, the branches of which were quivering. Light filtered through their branches, coming from the windows of the mansion. He saw something white in the middle of the path in front of him, and Madame Walter, with bare arms and bosom, said in a quivering voice; “Ah here you are; you want to kill me, then?”
He answered quickly: “No melodramatics, I beg of you, or I shall bolt at once.”
She had seized him round the neck, and with her lips close to his, said: “But what have I done to you? You are behaving towards me like a wretch. What have I done to you?”
He tried to repulse her. “You wound your hair round every one of my buttons the last time I saw you, and it almost brought about a rupture between my wife and myself.”
She was surprised for a moment, and then, shaking her head, said: “Oh! your wife would not mind. It was one of your mistresses who had made a scene over it.”
“I have no mistresses.”
“Nonsense. But why do you no longer ever come to see me? Why do you refuse to come to dinner, even once a week, with me? What I suffer is fearful. I love you to that degree that I no longer have a thought that is not for you; that I see you continually before my eyes; that I can no longer say a word without being afraid of uttering your name. You cannot understand that, I know. It seems to me that I am seized in some one’s clutches, tied up in a sack, I don’t know what. Your remembrance, always with me, clutches my throat, tears my chest, breaks my legs so as to no longer leave me strength to walk. And I remain like an animal sitting all day on a chair thinking of you.”
He looked at her with astonishment. She was no longer the big frolicsome tomboy he had known, but a bewildered despairing woman, capable of anything. A vague project, however, arose in his mind. He replied: “My dear, love is not eternal. We take and we leave one another. But when it drags on, as between us two, it becomes a terrible drag. I will have no more of it. That is the truth. However, if you can be reasonable, and receive and treat me as a friend, I will come as I used to. Do you feel capable of that?”
She placed her two bare arms on George’s coat, and murmured: “I am capable of anything in order to see you.”
“Then it is agreed on,” said he; “we are friends, and nothing more.”
She stammered: “It is agreed on;” and then, holding out her lips to him: “One more kiss; the last.”
He refused gently, saying: “No, we must keep to our agreement.”
She turned aside, wiping away a couple of tears, and then, drawing from her bosom a bundle of papers tied with pink silk ribbon, offered it to Du Roy, saying: “Here; it is your share of the profit in the Morocco affair. I was so pleased to have gained it for you. Here, take it.”
He wanted to refuse, observing: “No, I will not take that money.”
Then she grew indignant. “Ah! so you won’t take it now. It is yours, yours, only. If you do not take it, I will throw it into the gutter. You won’t act like that, George?”
He received the little bundle, and slipped it into his pocket.
“We must go in,” said he, “you will catch cold.”
She murmured: “So much the better, if I could die.”
She took one of his hands, kissed it passionately, with rage and despair, and fled towards the mansion. He returned, quietly reflecting. Then he reentered the conservatory with