The image of his mistress had probably flashed across Claude's brain, and the happy frame of mind called forth by his last visit had immediately yielded to sudden rage—rage which he would have satisfied at that moment by no matter what outrageous paradox. He fell headlong into the trap laid for him by his friend, and, grasping the arm of the latter tightly, he said with a sickly laugh: 'What has she been doing to-day? . . . Are you anxious to know the depth of this keen analyst of women's hearts, this subtle psychologist as the papers call me, this unmitigated ass as I call myself? Alas! my wits have never served for aught else than to convince me of my folly! . . . Have I told you,' he added, dropping his voice, 'that I have grown to be jealous of Salvaney? . . . I forgot, you don't know Salvaney—an up-to-date gallant who goes about his love affairs cheque-book in hand! . . . With a nose like a beetroot, a bald pate, eyes starting from their sockets, and a colour like a drover! . . . But there you are—he is an anglomane, anglomane to such an extent that the Prince of Wales is a Frenchman by the side of him. . . . Last year he spent three months in Florence, and I myself heard him boast that in those three months he had never worn a shirt that had not been washed in London. You must take my word for it that in Society, which has such a fascination for you, one fact like that gives a man more prestige than if he had written the "Nabab" or "L'Assommoir." Well! this individual pleases Colette. He is to be found in her dressing-room as often as I am, and gazes at her with his whisky-drinker's eyes. It was he who introduced the custom of going to a bar filled with jockeys and bookmakers, in order to sip most abominable spirits after the Opera; I will take you there some evening, and you will see the beauty for yourself. . . . Colette lets him take her even there, and goes about everywhere with him in a brougham. . . . "Get out!" she says, "you are not going to be jealous of a man like that, are you? He smells of gin, to begin with." . . . Such women will tell you these things without any ado, and pull to pieces in the most shameless manner their lovers of yesterday. . . . To cut a long story short, I was at her house this morning. Yes, yes—I knew all about these things, but I didn't believe them. A fellow like Salvaney! If you were to see him you would understand how incredible it seems, and as for her—well, you know her with that soft look in her eyes, with her mouth à la Botticelli and her exquisite grace. What a pity it seems! Well, I was with her when the servant, a fresh importation, who didn't know her business, brought a letter in, saying, "It's from Monsieur Salvaney—his man is waiting for an answer." In one of her fits of affection Colette had just sworn to me that nothing, absolutely nothing, not even the shadow of a shade of a flirtation had ever passed between them. As she held the letter in her hand I was foolish enough to think, "She is going to show me the letter, and I shall have written proofs that she has not told me a lie—and proof positive, for Salvaney could not have known that I should see this letter." She held the letter in her hand, and, looking at me, said to the girl, "Very well, I'll answer it at once. You will excuse me, won't you?" she added, passing into the other room—with her letter! I suppose you think I took my hat and stick and left the house for good with an oath on my lips? No, I stayed, mon cher ami. She came back, rang the bell, gave the servant a note, and then, coming towards me, said, "Are you angry?" Silence on my part. "Did you want to read that letter?" I was still silent. "No, you sha'n't read it," she continued, with a pretty little frown; "I have burnt it. He only asked for the pattern of some stuff for a fancy dress; but I want you to believe me on my bare word." All this was said as coolly as possible; I have never seen her act better. Don't ask me what I said in reply. I treated her as the vilest thing on earth. I flung into her teeth all the disgust, hatred, and contempt I felt for her; and then, as she sat there sobbing, I took her in my arms, and on the very spot where she had lied to me, and I had treated her like the common thing she was, we kissed and made it up. Do you think I have fallen low enough?'
'But were your suspicions correct?' asked René.
'Were they correct?' re-echoed Claude, with that accent of cruel triumph affected by jealous lovers when their mad desire to know all has ended in proving their worst suspicions up to the hilt. 'Do you know what Salvaney's note contained? An appointment—and Colette's reply confirmed the appointment. I know this, for I had her followed. Yes, I stooped even to that. He met her coming from rehearsal, and they were together until eight o'clock.'
'And haven't you broken with her?' asked Vincy.
'It's all over,' replied Claude, 'and for good, I promise you. But I must tell her what I think of her, just for the last time. The wretch! You'll see how I'll treat her to-night.'
In telling his sad tale Claude had betrayed such intense grief that René's former feelings of joy were quite disturbed. Pity for the man to whom he was deeply attached by bonds of gratitude was mingled with disgust for Colette's shameless duplicity. For a moment he felt, too, some deep-lying remorse as he conjured up by way of contrast the pure soul that shone in Rosalie's honest eyes. But it was only a passing fancy, quickly dispelled by the sudden change in his companion. This demon of a man, who was one bundle of nerves, possessed the gift of changing his ideas and feelings with a rapidity that was perfectly inexplicable. He had just been speaking in despairing accents and in a voice broken with emotion, which his friend knew to be sincere. Snapping his fingers as if to get rid of his trouble, he muttered, 'Come, come,' and immediately brought the conversation round to literary topics, so that the two writers were discussing the last novel when the sudden stoppage of the vehicle as it fell in behind a long line of others told them that they had arrived.
René's heart began to beat afresh with short, convulsive throbs. The cab stopped before a doorway protected by an awning, and again the dreamlike feeling came over the young man on finding himself in the ante-room which he had already once passed through. There were several liveried footmen in the room, which was filled with flowers and heated by invisible pipes. The coats and cloaks arranged on long tables and the hum of conversation that came from the salons made it evident that most of the guests had arrived. In the ante-room there was only one lady, whom an attendant was just helping off with her fur-lined cloak, from which she emerged in an elegantly fitting low-necked dress of red material. She had a very distinguished face, a nose slightly tipped, and lips that denoted spirituality. A few diamonds sparkled amidst the tresses of her fair silken hair. René saw Claude bow to her, and he felt himself grow pale as her eyes rested indifferently upon him—eyes of light blue set off by that complexion, found in blondes, which, in spite of the hackneyed metaphor, can only be described as that of a blush rose, possessing as it does all the freshness and delicacy of the latter.
'That's Madame Moraines,' said Claude, 'the daughter of Victor Bois-Dauffin, a Minister during the Empire.'
These words, spoken as if in reply to a mute question, were to come back to René more than once. More than once was he to ask himself what strange fate had brought him face to face, almost on the threshold of this house, with the one woman who, of all those assembled in these salons, was to exercise most influence upon him. But at the moment itself he felt none of those presentiments which sometimes seize us on meeting a creature who is to bring us either good or evil. The vision of this beautiful woman of thirty, who had already disappeared whilst Claude and he were waiting for the numbers of their coats, became lost in the confused impression created by the novelty of everything around him. Though it was impossible for him to analyse his feelings, the richness of the carpets, the splendidly decorated vestibule, the lofty halls, the livery of the footmen, the reflection of the lights, all went a long way towards making this impression a strange medley of painful timidity and delightful sensuality.
On the occasion of his first visit he had already felt himself enveloped by those thousand indescribable atoms that float in the atmosphere of luxury. Persons born in opulence no more perceive these infinitely small but subtle trifles than we perceive the weight of the air that surrounds us. We cannot feel what we have always felt. Nor do parvenus ever tell us their impressions. Their instinct teaches them to swallow such feelings and to keep them hidden in their hearts. Apart from all this, René had no time to reflect upon the snobbishness of the feeling that filled him. The doors were swung back, and he entered the first salon, furnished in that sumptuous but stereotyped style peculiar to all the big modern houses in Paris. Whoever has seen one has seen them all. A novice like René, however, would discover signs of the purest aristocracy in the smallest details of this furniture, in the antique materials with which the arm-chairs were upholstered, and in the tapestry that hung over the chimney-piece and represented a Triumph of Bacchus. The first salon, of middling dimensions, communicated by folding doors with another much larger, in which all the guests were evidently assembled, judging by the hum of conversation. René's perceptive faculties being in that state of intense excitement frequently caused by extreme shyness, he was able to take in the whole scene at a glance; he saw Madame Moraines in her red dress disappear through the open folding doors, and the Comtesse Komof talking, with violent and extravagant gesticulation, to a group of people before the chimney-piece of the smaller salon. The Comtesse was a tall woman of almost tragic appearance; she had shoulders too narrow for the rest of her body, white hair, rather harsh features, and grey eyes of piercing brilliancy. The sombre hue of her dress enhanced the magnificence of the jewels with which she was covered, and her hands, as she waved them about, displayed a wealth of enormous sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. Acknowledging with a smile the bow that Claude and René made her, she continued her account of a séance of spiritualism—a favourite hobby of hers.