CHAPTER XX
THE PARLOUR
I have now reached an event in my life that was very blissful and yet cruel. The thought of it still causes me many a sigh of pleasure and of pain.
I found myself one day, for no reason whatever, in a singular state of hatred and distrust. I felt greatly provoked with Madame de Pënâfiel, because I began to perceive that the thought of her influenced me more than I meant it should. This irritated me, for I feared that I had as yet formed no real opinion as to her true nature, and it made me uneasy and apprehensive.
That day, when I went to the Hôtel Pënâfiel, contrary to the usual custom of the house, which was marvellously strict, when the footman had opened the door from the vestibule, I saw no valet de chambre in the waiting-room who could announce me. Before reaching the parlour, one had to pass through three or four other rooms, which had no doors, but only portières. Not expecting me, she could scarcely hear me coming, as the carpets were so thick as to entirely prevent the sound of my footsteps.
I had reached the portière which shut off the parlour, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel before she perceived me, unless the reflection from a mirror had betrayed my presence. I shall never forget my astonishment at the sight of her pale and woebegone countenance. She looked weary, sorry, hopeless, if a face is capable of expressing all three of these feelings at the same moment.
I can see her still. She usually sat on a little low armchair. It was of gilt wood, covered with brown satin embroidered in little roses. In front of it was a long ermine rug, on which she placed her feet, and beside it against the wall was a little cabinet of buhl, whose upper half opened with doors like a bookcase; these doors were half open, and within them I saw, to my great astonishment, an ivory crucifix.
She had probably slid from off her chair, for she was half kneeling, half seated on the ermine rug, her hands were clasped on her knees, and her face was turned towards the crucifix, while a ray of light that shone on her forehead showed how intense was her sadness.
Nothing could be more beautiful or touching than the sight of this young woman, surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and elegance, and yet crushed under the burden of an untold sorrow.
After my first sensation of astonishment I was lost in sad contemplation, and with much distress I attempted to imagine what could be the cause of her grief.
But alas! almost immediately, by some mysterious fatality my habitual distrust, added to Madame de Pënâfiel's reputation for duplicity, suggested that this scene was only a tableau arranged for my benefit. That hearing me approaching, she had assumed this melancholy attitude, from what motive I will explain later.