“My principle vice,” she said, “is oddity. For instance, I do not mix up affections with politics; let us talk politics,—business, if you will,—the rest can come later. However, it is not really oddity nor a whim that forbids me to mingle ill-assorted colors and put together things that have no affinity, and compels me to avoid discords; it is my natural instinct as an artist. We women have politics of our own.”
Already the tones of her voice and the charm of her manners were producing their effect on the secretary and metamorphosing his roughness into sentimental courtesy; she had recalled him to his obligations as a lover. A clever pretty woman makes an atmosphere about her in which the nerves relax and the feelings soften.
“You are ignorant of what is happening,” said des Lupeaulx, harshly, for he still thought it best to make a show of harshness. “Read that.”
He gave the two newspapers to the graceful woman, having drawn a line in red ink round each of the famous articles.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “but this is dreadful! Who is this Baudoyer?”
“A donkey,” answered des Lupeaulx; “but, as you see, he uses means,—he gives monstrances; he succeeds, thanks to some clever hand that pulls the wires.”
The thought of her debts crossed Madame Rabourdin’s mind and blurred her sight, as if two lightning flashes had blinded her eyes at the same moment; her ears hummed under the pressure of the blood that began to beat in her arteries; she remained for a moment quite bewildered, gazing at a window which she did not see.
“But are you faithful to us?” she said at last, with a winning glance at des Lupeaulx, as if to attach him to her.
“That is as it may be,” he replied, answering her glance with an interrogative look which made the poor woman blush.
“If you demand caution-money you may lose all,” she said, laughing; “I thought you more magnanimous than you are. And you, you thought me less a person than I am,—a sort of school-girl.”