“HIS brother ... M. Rainda brother!” Mme. Chambannes murmured dreamily, leaning on the edge of her bed. Her lace-edged pillow made a soft frame for her scattered curls. Distractedly she gathered together the rest of her mail. There was an advertisement of a perfume house, a modist bill which she thrust aside with a disgusted pout, two newspapers and, under them, a closed letter-card. It was a strange card; the address was written in awkward capitals falling over each other—the suspicious appearance of an anonymous letter! Zozé tore it open slowly. Sensations of weakness vibrated along her arms. She read the following lines, traced on the gray paper in characters similar to those on the outside:
Should you have nothing better to do some morning, pass, towards 11 lock, the rue Godot-De Mauroi, in the neighborhood of number 12 bis; you will once more ascertain that the friends of our lady-friends are our friends.
She fell back, one hand over her heart as if to shield a wound; she had not a doubt, felt no hope. She remained motionless at first, her eyes closed; then she began to stammer indistinctly.
“Oh!... oh!... oh! mon Dieu!... The wicked people! What an atrocious wickedness!”
A burning sensation was in her heart, and every query she invented, every possibility seemed a new burn that made her wound deeper.
They were denouncing Gerald, of course; but the woman, the mean wretch, the unknown betrayer—who could she be?
Zozé called to her mind in turn the names of all her friends but she could not lay the guilt on any special one. All seemed equally suspicious to her. Gerald had indulged in equivocal flirtations and familiar gestures with them all in turn; in each of them she now successively thought, according to her memories, that she held the accomplice. Then came the names of others who seemed more guilty, Flora Pums after Germaine de Marquesse, Rose Silberschmidt after Flora Pums. In the end she was altogether confused, the accumulation of equivalent proofs and contradictory presumptions. She made an attempt at finding a clue by seeking to guess at the name of the writer. Names surged to her mind, names of men who desired her and who might have been capable of wishing to destroy her happiness: Pums, Burzig, Mazuccio. It would surprise her were this infamous action to come from either of these. She realized how easily she suspected them all, men and women, and a sudden bitter grimace caused her lips to contract. Phew! In what company of cads and harlots was she living then, since none of them could be free from her mistrust, since she had not once been afraid of wrongly accusing any of them? This sudden clearsight passed, however, like lightning and was clouded at once by her foaming anger. The little Mouzarkhi had no time for philosophy! She exaggerated the tone of her insults, like one in the delirium caused by disillusion; she had no love left, no tenderness, no illusion for anyone but Gerald, her beloved Gerald whom she was perhaps going to lose forever! Tears veiled her eyes. With anguish she visualized through their mist the inconceivable parting scene! She thought of herself, in the rue guesseau, on the threshold of the apartment, after the final explanation. She was turning back for a last glance at him. She came back once more to kiss him!... Oh, no, no! She did not want to see him any more; and a rushing terror caused her to draw the light linen sheet over her face. Convulsive sobs shook her sinuous form, which was plainly discernible under this burial-sheet. Suddenly she heard the clock on her mantelpiece striking ten and, with a more violent start, she threw back the coverings, jumped out of bed and rang nervously.
“Quick! hot water in the dressing-room.... My tailored costume of brown cloth.... My black coat!...” she said to the maid who came in at her call.
“What corset?”
“I do know! Any one!... Hurry up, that is all, hurry up, hurry up!”