The left was taken up by my large bed-sofa, with its gaudy tick cover. Above it, on the side wall, hung a vividly-coloured map of the world. On the right-hand side stood my chest of drawers with its swing glass, both in the Empire style and decorated with brass ornaments; a wardrobe with a bust of plaster of Paris and a wash-stand, for the moment banished behind the window curtains, completed the furniture. The walls, with their decorations of framed sketches, made a gay and varied show.
A china chandelier, of the shape which is occasionally met with in churches and which I had discovered at an antiquary's, was suspended from the ceiling. The cracks were skilfully concealed by a wreath of artificial ivy which I had found some little time ago at my sister's. Beneath the three-armed chandelier stood the dining-table. A basket filled with Bengal roses, which glowed red among the dark foliage, was placed on the white damask tablecloth, and the roses, reaching up to and mingling with the drooping ivy shoots, gave the whole the effect of a flower show. Round the basket which held the roses stood an array of wine glasses, red, green and opal, which I had bought cheaply, at a sale, for each of them had a flaw. The same thing applied to the dinner service: plates, salt-cellars and sugar-bowl of Chinese, Japanese and Swedish porcelain.
I had but a dozen cold dishes to offer to my friends, most of them chosen more with an eye to their decorative value than because they were good to eat, for the meal was to consist principally of oysters. My landlady had good-naturedly lent me the indispensable articles for the banquet, an unprecedented event in my attic.... At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting: these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist. The fondness for dainty food, the love of flowers, suggested the love of women. If the table had not been laid for three, one might have guessed at an intimate feast for two, the first delights of a love-adventure, instead of a feast of reconciliation which it actually was. My room had not seen a female visitor since that horrible woman whose boots had left ineradicable traces on the woodwork of my sofa. The looking-glass on the chest of drawers had reflected no female figure since then. And now a woman of blameless life, a mother, a lady of education and refinement, was coming to consecrate this place which had seen so much work, misery and pain. And, I thought in a transport of poetic inspiration, it is indeed a sacred festival, since I am prepared to sacrifice my heart, my peace, perhaps my life, to ensure the happiness of my friends.
Everything was ready when I heard footsteps on the fourth floor landing. I hastily lit the candles, for the last time straightened the basket containing the roses, and a moment later my guests, exhausted with having climbed four flights of stairs, stood panting before my door.
I opened. The Baroness, dazzled by the lights, clapped her hands as if she were admiring a successful stage setting.
"Bravo!" she exclaimed, "you are a first-class stage manager."
"Yes," I replied, "I occasionally amuse myself with play-acting, for the sake of discipline and patience."
I took off her cloak, bade her be welcome, and made her sit down on the sofa. But she could not keep still. With the curiosity of a woman who has never been in a bachelor's chambers, but has gone straight from her father's house to that of her husband, she began to examine the room. She seized my penholder, handled my blotter, searched about as if she were determined to discover a secret. Strolling to my book-shelves, she glanced curiously at the back of the volumes. In passing the looking-glass she stopped for a few seconds to arrange her hair and push the end of a piece of lace into the opening of her blouse. She examined the furniture, piece by piece, and smelt the flowers, all the time uttering little cries of delight.
When she had finished her voyage of discovery round my room, she asked me, naively, without any arrière-pensée, seeking with her eyes a piece of furniture which appeared to be missing—
"But where do you sleep?"