“Certainly.”
“Ah! Mon Dieu! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man. “Suppose you take Baudoin with you?”
“Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time. Later on, we shall see.”
The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home to dress before dinner.
That evening the Walkyrie was being given at the opera. When Marcel reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public.
But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage, kept a watch on them.
Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, décolleté, and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box. As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had found grace. No. This could not be the one.
As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else, but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively, without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise!
Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face? What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she was painted and disguised, or at the opera?
Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept watch.