I was in a state of anxiety, during the whole day preceding that inevitable meeting, and was ready to start much earlier than was necessary. Impatient, I went into Raymonde’s room to see if she were waiting for me. She looked very beautiful that night, in a white tulle gown embroidered in gold flowers, and I complimented her on it. The decolletage, bordered with swan’s down, gave her added length and grace: her neck was so small a child could have clasped his two hands round it—so fragile she seemed.
“Are you ready?” I asked. “It’s time to go.”
My impatience, indeed my very presence, seemed to disconcert her.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said.
“Very well,” I replied, “do hurry: you’ll find me in the library.”
In her hand she held a lip stick. On the dressing table before her was a box of powder and rouge.
She had never used artificial means of beautifying herself. She was hesitating. No doubt I had disturbed her.
When she joined me a few minutes later, I mechanically looked at her face for traces of the make-up. She was so pale, so particularly pale, that I understood the shame she had felt, but neither her lips nor her cheeks showed the slightest sign of artificial colour. She had tried to imitate the other women, to make herself unreal with colour and false emotion, but at the last moment she had found it impossible. She could bear no artificiality.
As soon as we entered the salon, I looked about quickly, only to find that Mme. de H— had not arrived.
Why did I torture myself about this meeting, when I knew that my wife went out too seldom to hear any reports that were being circulated? She had indeed shown me an anonymous letter which had been sent to her, and I felt confident that she was above opening my correspondence. How then could she have gotten information? And as for the incident in the Bois—she had never alluded to it again, and surely it was too insignificant to lead to anything. At the worst she might have thought it indicated a mild flirtation or a passing fancy. One does not court public attention with a mistress. In this way I tried to reassure myself. As a defence against hypocrisy and infidelity, Raymonde had as a weapon only that imponderable frankness and sincerity which she radiated always. When I looked elsewhere I believed she was calm, but not so if I glanced at her face.