“Angry?” repeated she, “why should I be angry? Ah! they may quarrel and eat each other up if they like, it doesn’t matter to me!”
She was speaking of her relations. And she at once gave vent to her old rancor against Berthe, making at first simply allusions so as to sound the young man; then, when she felt he was secretly weary of his mistress, being still exasperated with the night’s proceedings, she no longer restrained herself, but poured out her heart. To think that that woman had accused her of selling herself—she, who never accepted a sou, not even a present! Yes, though, a few flowers at times, some bunches of violets. And now everybody knew which of the two was the one to sell herself. She had prophesied that one day it would be known how much she could be bought for.
“It cost you more than a bunch of violets, did it not?” asked she.
“Yes, yes,” murmured he basely.
In his turn he let out some disagreeable things about Berthe, saying that she was spiteful, and even making her out to be too fat, as though seeking to avenge himself for the worry she was causing him. He had been waiting all day for her husband’s seconds, and he was then returning home to see if any one had called. It was a most stupid adventure; she might very well have prevented this duel taking place. He ended by relating all that had occurred at their ridiculous meeting—their quarrel, then Auguste’s arrival on the scene, before they had even exchanged a caress.
“On all I hold most sacred,” said he, “I had not even touched her.”
Valérie laughed, and was getting quite excited. She gradually yielded to the tender intimacy of this exchange of confidences, drawing nearer to Octave as though to some female friend who knew all. At times, a devotee coming from the church disturbed them; then the door generally closed to again, and they once more found themselves alone in the drum, hung with green baize, as though in the innermost recesses of some discreet and religious asylum.
“I scarcely know why I live with such people,” resumed she, returning to the subject of her relations. “Oh! no doubt, I am not free from reproach on my side. But, frankly, I cannot feel any remorse, they affect me so little. And yet if I were to tell you how much love bores me!”
“Come now, not so much as all that!” said Octave gayly. “People are not always as silly as we were yesterday. There are blissful moments.”
Then she confessed herself. It was not entirely the hatred she felt for her husband, the continual fever which shook his frame, his impotence, nor yet his perpetual blubbering like a little boy, which had caused her to misbehave herself six months after her marriage; no, she often did it involuntarily, solely because her head got filled with things of which she was unable to explain the why and the wherefore. Everything gave way; she became quite ill, and could almost kill herself. Then, as there was nothing to restrain her, she might as well take that leap as another.