“To whom?”
“Claire, Madame de Joigny, your Aunt Clothilde, all of them.”
“Say nothing. Why should you serve them? Why should you side with them against me? Weren’t you mine years before you ever saw one of them? What’s become of our friendship? What’s become of your loyalty? You’ve sold yourself, you’re not what you used to be, you’d do anything now for a pleasant life. Because they’re attractive and have attractive manners and make pretty speeches you’d do anything for them. What good does it all do you? You’re ill, you’re worn to a frazzle, your husband has been dragging you down, down, into a darkness, queer, unimaginable, shameful, and you can’t get loose. You just dance about in the blackness. Your feet stick in the mud. Having a good time somehow, anything for a good time. Coughing yourself to pieces, raging fever on you, your heart sick with distrust, restless, evasive, evading issues, you go on dancing, laughing, having a good time. Why don’t you pull yourself together? Why won’t you let me help you? I love you. I love you much better than Claire does. If your husband were put in prison what would Claire do, do you think?”
But Fan had grown deadly pale. I stopped, horrified. She was leaning against the mantelpiece, spitting into her handkerchief: there was blood on it.
That evening when I had taken her back to Madeleine de Greux’s—for she refused to stay with me—and we had put her to bed, she clung to me weakly. Her eyes closed. “It’s all true, what you said, Jane,” she gasped, “but I can’t help it, I can’t stop. If I stopped amusing myself I’d die.”
“But, my darling, let me get you well first, let me take you somewhere.”
“Perhaps, later,” she whispered, “if you don’t go to America. Perhaps we might try Switzerland, but not where there are sick people.” She shuddered. “I hate sickness so, and unhappiness. It’s so ugly. Being gay is beautiful. It makes things look beautiful. Ivanoff is a devil, but you’ll admit he was beautiful. I like attractive brutes better than clumsy saints. So do you, that’s why you married Philibert, just because he was so attractive. No one could be so attractive when he tried. Admit it, he gave you wonderful hours, you know he did. Wasn’t that something? What’s the use of being good if you’re deadly dull? Good men aren’t our kind, my dear. They’d bore us to death. Philibert made you happy for a time, wonderfully, because he knew how. What more do you want? Don’t be a fool. Take it all as it comes. Make an arrangement with him—you owe him something. I’ll be all right in a day or so. Let me know what you decide. Americans are hipped on their ideals. All that’s no use. French people know what’s what. Claire would love you if you gave her a chance. They are all ready to be fond of you, and they’re delicious people. Don’t be a fool. There, leave me now. We were idiots to quarrel. You have a nasty temper, my poor Jane, and your heart’s too big for this world. You’ll come an awful cropper if you’re not careful.”