Hélène sat still in her corner. Madame Berthier, engrossed in her part, had not even turned round. Madame de Guiraud had merely honored her with a slight nod. She realized that she was in the way, and that she ought to have declined to stay. If she still remained, it was no longer through the sense of a duty to be fulfilled, but rather by reason of a strange feeling stirring vaguely in her heart’s depth’s—a feeling which had previously thrilled her in this selfsame spot. The unkindly greeting which Juliette had bestowed on her pained her. However, the young woman’s friendships were usually capricious; she worshipped people for three months, threw herself on their necks, and seemed to live for them alone; then one morning, without affording any explanation, she appeared to lose all consciousness of being acquainted with them. Without doubt, in this, as in everything else, she was simply yielding to a fashionable craze, an inclination to love the people who were loved by her own circle. These sudden veerings of affection, however, deeply wounded Hélène, for her generous and undemonstrative heart had its ideal in eternity. She often left the Deberles plunged in sadness, full of despair when she thought how fragile and unstable was the basis of human love. And on this occasion, in this crisis in her life, the thought brought her still keener pain.
“We’ll skip the scene with Chavigny,” said Juliette. “He won’t be here this morning. Let us see Madame de Lery’s entrance. Now, Madame de Guiraud, here’s your cue.” Then she read from her book: “‘Just imagine my showing him this purse.’”
“‘Oh! it’s exceedingly pretty. Let me look at it,’” began Madame de Guiraud in a falsetto voice, as she rose with a silly expression on her face.
When the servant had opened the door to her, Hélène had pictured a scene entirely different from this. She had imagined that she would find Juliette displaying excessive nervousness, with pallid cheeks, hesitating and yet allured, shivering at the very thought of assignation. She had pictured herself imploring her to reflect, till the young woman, choked with sobs, threw herself into her arms. Then they would have mingled their tears together, and Hélène would have quitted her with the thought that Henri was henceforward lost to her, but that she had secured his happiness. However, there had been nothing of all this; she had merely fallen on this rehearsal, which was wholly unintelligible to her; and she saw Juliette before her with unruffled features, like one who has had a good night’s rest, and with her mind sufficiently at ease to discuss Madame Berthier’s by-play, without troubling herself in the least degree about what she would do in the afternoon. This indifference and frivolity chilled Hélène, who had come to the house with passion consuming her.
A longing to speak fell on her. At a venture she inquired: “Who will play the part of Chavigny?”
“Why, Malignon, of course,” answered Juliette, turning round with an air of astonishment. “He played Chavigny all last winter. It’s a nuisance he can’t come to the rehearsals. Listen, ladies; I’m going to read Chavigny’s part. Unless that’s done, we shall never get on.”
Thereupon she herself began acting the man’s part, her voice deepening unconsciously, whilst she assumed a cavalier air in harmony with the situation. Madame Berthier renewed her warbling tones, and Madame de Guiraud took infinite pains to be lively and witty. When Pierre came in to put some more wood on the fire he slyly glanced at the ladies, who amused him immensely.
Hélène, still fixed in her resolve, despite some heart-shrinking, attempted however to take Juliette aside.
“Only a minute. I’ve something to say to you.”
“Oh, impossible, my dear! You see how much I am engaged. To-morrow, if you have the time.”