“But my dear,” I said, “it is not so dreadful. What crime has that tactless Ducal committed?”
I thought the word “tactless” strong enough to designate his insult. She did not answer.
“He—he dared—to tell me—”
“What?” I asked impatiently. “Oh, yes, I can imagine—but what did he say to you?”
“I do not know. He was talking generalities. I did not see where he wished to arrive. He said that one is so rarely happy, and that one can not be so if one is not loved.”
The miserable wretch had artfully tried to explain her own state of mind to her before offering his sympathy. I have no doubt the knowledge that he perceived her secret suffering was as painful to her as the unmerited insult. Later, at least, I could understand that. My only aim then was to minimise the effect of an incident which I thought so little compromising.
“Oh, come,” I said, in an easy manner, “it’s not worth being annoyed about. Pierre Ducal only acted like a man of the world, and very badly, since he put you in such a state. Would it not have sufficed to let him know that you realised his stupidity? He is a man of intelligence, and he would not have begun again. He is good company; one is never bored with him. Paris is not the Sleeping Woods. You seem to forget that. Life here is highly organised and civilised. You try to live in the city as you do in the solitude of the country. One can’t do that. You must learn to adapt yourself. Besides, a young woman has a thousand ways of protecting herself without struggling or screaming. All women know the art of listening graciously. One has not the air of listening. One jokes, one smiles, or one laughs frankly. One checks the indiscreet man with a word, a blow of the fan on the fingers. Men hardly ever insist. They do not carry on a hopeless siege, above all to-day, when one is so practical and so hurried. Deuce take it! One does not throw men out of the door, who, after all, do not wish you any harm. Whom would one receive, if one adopted such a system? I assure you, it is time you began to mature.”
I was very proud of this improvised argument. It might have availed with women who do not fear to play with fire, or enjoy a flirtation if they know they are temptation-proof. It might not have jarred the finer sensibilities of that type of woman who enjoys a joke about such things with her intimates, as one is amused by a toy pistol that only looks real but is not really dangerous. To Raymonde it was absolutely unintelligible. Every word was a fresh wound, every thought disloyal and wicked.
While I was speaking she looked and looked at me. Her great eyes, wide opened, burned with such an ardour that I felt them on me. I wished she would close them or look away, for her gaze embarrassed me. Little by little the colour faded from her cheeks, and when I finished speaking she was deathly pale. As she kept silence, I went on a little annoyed:
“You seem to have nothing to say. I assure you Ducal will explain our strained relations to suit his own need. Why do you not answer?”