A moment later she returned holding on her arm a long soft gown with pink ribbons. Mme. Chambannes slipped into it; while she fastened the ribbons she ordered dryly:
“Go now!”
Anna disappeared. Mme. Chambannes dropped into a little cretonne-covered armchair.
They were not to lunch together. It was certain, definite, irrevocable. Between her and that Mathay woman Gerald had not even hesitated. Yet he must have foreseen how it would hurt her, and what poignant disappointment he would cause her by breaking his promise at the last moment.
Wretch! She conjured up a picture of him, sitting at the dining table beside the countess, that small fair-haired woman with her turned-up nose, her childish, impudent, saucy face. He was making himself pleasant, prattling pretty nonsense, fashioning his glances to hers and using his big eyes to offer himself. The lunch was perhaps ending, they were going into the hall to drink their coffee! Who knew? Mathay might be going out, leaving them alone, like the great fool of a husband he was! Well, then, what would happen? Did they not all know that young giddy countess? She had no name for being a stronghold, the Capitol!... Oh! what infamy! what an abject situation!
Mme. Chambannes would have liked to snatch out her own heart and hurl it through the window, far, far away. Her nails caught at her gown where it was beating against the armor of her corset. Her mind dwelt on reprisals, as it did whenever she saw Geral treason as an accomplished fact.
Yes! She would have revenge! She would do as he did; she would give herself to another, to anyone of the many who made love to her. Names of men began to surge in her mind, with proper settings. There was the studio of Mazuccio, the little sculptor, the flat of Burzig or that of Pums, the husband of her friend Flora. They were all eager to welcome her; all would receive her as a queen who condescended to offer herself. She would cry out from the door: “Here I am! Take me!” And they would fall on their knees, stammering their thanks with tears of happiness.
These flattering visions quieted her. She walked to her dressing-room, trying to fix upon her choice. To whom would she appeal? They were equally repugnant to her. As she imagined herself in the arms of any of them, a shiver of repulsion caused her to shake her head. Phew! She would require too much courage for her spite to make her lower herself to that extent! Moreover, it might be that none of them was free. She would then risk a polite refusal! No ... everything was against it ... and she admitted sadly to herself that, besides, she never could go through with it!
She fell back into her armchair. Her muscles pained her as if she had been walking all day.
She took up the note from the marble. As she read it again, every word in it seemed an insult or a lie. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sorrow took the place of rage. How nasty, how cold and pitiless Gerald was sometimes! She wished for the near presence of some mothering friend who could understand and pity her, in whom she could confide and who would weep with her. Yet she had none! Alas, neither Flora Pums, nor Rose Silberschmidt, nor Germaine de Marquesse, her friends with whom she had followed the lessons of Levannier, nor her kind Aunt Panhias had a soul that was lofty and charitable enough! Zoz pride revolted at the very idea of their concealed joy or their coarse comforting words.