He certainly had no designs upon her, and yet he felt indignant. He conceived a singular friendship for this young couple who exasperated him, they seemed to take life so stupidly. And the idea came to him of rendering them a service in spite of them; he would take them out to dinner, make them tipsy, and then amuse himself by pushing them into each other’s arms. When such fits of kindness got hold of him, he, who would not have lent ten francs, delighted in flinging his money out of the window, to bring two lovers together and give them joy.
Little Madame Pichon’s coldness, however, brought Octave back to the ardent Valérie. This one, certainly, would not require to be breathed upon twice on the back of her neck. He was advancing in her favour: one day that she was going upstairs before him, he had ventured to compliment her on her ankle, without her appearing displeased.
At length the opportunity so long watched for presented itself. It was the evening that Marie had made him promise to look in; they would be alone to talk about the novel, as her husband was not to be home till very late. But the young man had preferred to go out, seized with fright at the thought of this literary treat. However, he had decided to venture upon it, towards ten o’clock, when he met Valérie’s maid on the first-floor landing with a scared look on her face, and who said to him:
“Madame has gone into hysterics, my master is out, and every one opposite has gone to the theatre. Pray come in. I am all alone, I don’t know what to do.”
Valérie was stretched out in an easy-chair in her bedroom, her limbs rigid. The maid had unlaced her stays, and her bosom was heaving. The attack subsided almost immediately. She opened her eyes, was surprised to see Octave there, and acted moreover as she might have done in the presence of a doctor.
“I must ask you to excuse me, sir,” murmured she, her voice still choking. “I have only had this girl since yesterday, and she lost her head.”
Her perfect coolness in adjusting her stays and fastening up her dress again, embarrassed the young man. He remained standing, swearing not to depart thus, yet not daring to sit down. She had sent away the maid, the sight of whom seemed to irritate her; then she went to the window to breathe the cool outdoor air in long nervous inspirations, her mouth wide open. After a short silence, they commenced talking. She had first suffered from these attacks when fourteen years old; Doctor Juillerat was tired of prescribing for her; sometimes they seized her in the arms, sometimes in the loins. However, she was getting used to them; she might as well have them as anything else, as no one was really perfectly well. And, whilst she talked, with scarcely any life in her limbs, he excited himself with looking at her, he thought her provoking in the midst of her disorder, with her leaden complexion, her face upset by the attack as though by a whole night of love. Behind the black mass of her loose hair, which hung over her shoulders, he fancied he beheld the husband’s poor and beardless head. Then, stretching out his hands, with the unrestrained gesture with which he would have seized some harlot, he tried to take hold of her.
“Well! what now?” asked she, in a voice full of surprise.
In her turn she looked at him, whilst her eyes were so cold, her flesh so calm, that he felt frozen and let his hands fall with an awkward slowness, fully aware of the ridiculousness of his gesture. Then, in a last nervous gape which she stifled, she slowly added:
“Ah! my dear sir, if you only knew!”