It was half-past nine; nobody was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes. His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.
Philip was unhappy, in spite of the gaiety he forced himself to assume; within him was a mortal sadness.
He swallowed his drink, sat down, and began to think over what Dora had said to him.
"Suppose," thought he, "that General Sabaroff should turn out to be Dora's old admirer. Well, what then? He must have forgotten her long ago—she never had any love for him—not even a school-girl's love. Where is the danger? She has a painful recollection of him; but she is no longer a child, she is a woman of the world. Why should she not conquer her antipathy for him and make use of a little diplomacy to render me a service? I must absolutely get General Sabaroff's approval. Everything depends on that. But, what if he should not have forgotten her, if he still loves her? He would not feel disposed to place a fortune in my hands. Stay, though, perhaps he would, on the contrary, to please Dora. Another reason why she should be amiable to him" ...
His evil genius urged him on.
"It's decided," said he; "whatever it may cost, I must have the man's approbation of my shell—and I must have that money to be rich—really rich. Yes, my dear father, I shall be wealthy, and I will prove to you that it is possible to make a fortune without being your slave."
His spirits brightened considerably, and, rubbing his hands cheerfully, he strode up and down the room exultantly, perfectly convinced that he had formed a resolution which would turn out to his advantage.
"Suppose I should succeed! Well, of course I shall succeed. I must, something tells me I shall, I will. Yes, this man Sabre-off or Sabre-on must be made much of. As to Dora,—with some wives it might be a risky experiment, but with her,—why, I should as soon think of doubting my own existence as of doubting her! 'Oh, my darling!'" said he aloud, taking up a photograph of Dora and kissing it, "'forgive me for having had such a thought, and still more for having expressed it.' Yes, she must receive this man smilingly whether he turns out to be a Sir Galahad or not. I have gone too far to draw back now. It's annoying all the same—pity there is so much sentimental nonsense in even the best of women, and Dora is one out of ten thousand."
The final chords of a pianoforte solo reached his ears, followed by loud applause.
"By Jove," said he, "I was nearly forgetting all about the party."