We shall be very happy to see M. Jacob at our house this evening. There will be a few friends and a little music.
Benigna Wtorkowska.
Jacob was not in the humour to accept, but he reflected that it would be impolite to refuse, and that perhaps he might meet Mathilde there, so he accepted the invitation.
The little villa occupied by the Wtorkowskas was a masterpiece of that modern art which transforms real misery into lying luxury. Nothing had been paid for, from the servants' livery to the satin robe worn by the hostess, and the lace-covered velvet dress of the charming daughter.
The refreshments, the bonbons, the flowers, were all obtained on credit. Twice a week Hermann and Grossmann demanded the money for the Pleyel grand piano, but in vain. The shabbiness of the furniture was concealed by new covers, the broken places in the frames of the pictures and mirrors were twined with ivy.
With all these frauds and ruses the little house, seen by the light of innumerable wax candles, took on an air of freshness and elegance. The studied disorder of objects thrown carelessly on the table was the result of long thought. Here, a French romance was displayed, to show acquaintance with current literature; there, pieces of classical music, to show the degree of perfection arrived at by the fair performer. On one side lay a photograph album containing portraits of celebrated men, implying a personal acquaintance with them.
Jacob arrived a little late. The company was too numerous for the salon, and the room was crowded. The guests occupied the couches and chairs, and some remained standing against the wall. There was heat and noise, and to move about demanded much skill.
Madame Wtorkowska received Jacob with studied politeness. Muse advanced toward him with a smile which she had practised before the glass. She led him to a little group where Mathilde was seated. Madame Segel wore a white robe, and on her breast was a large bunch of camellias of the same colour. She was pale; on the approach of Jacob she lifted her head, and greeted him with a slight blush and a melancholy smile.
After that the poor woman relapsed into a glacial torpor. Henri stood behind the chair of Mademoiselle Muse, whose toilet was so décolleté that all admirers of certain feminine charms could feast their eyes to their hearts' content. Her thick and glossy braids were twined around her head in classic style, and served admirably to bring out the splendour of her eyes and complexion. She had the lively and brilliant expression of a lioness seeking whom she might devour. Her crimson velvet dress, covered with costly lace, bought on credit, became her admirably, and gave her a queenly air. On her lovely arm sparkled a large bracelet set with rubies.
Mathilde resembled an aerial spirit descended in a cloud of moonlit rays; Muse, a bacchante, full of sensuous vitality.