'There are some days,' he would say in his simple way, 'when I should see nothing of you if it were not for this thrice blessed cup of tea!' It was he who served her; he buttered her toast with infinite care and watched her dainty teeth attack the crisp morsels. He was uneasy when, as on the morning after she had seen René at the Opera, her eyes were not quite so bright as usual and a look of fatigue showed that she had not had sufficient sleep. All night had she been tormented by thoughts of the young poet, and by the stir he had made amongst the small bundle of remnants she called her feelings. Her mind being before all else clear and precise—the mind of a business man at the service of a pretty woman's whims—she had reviewed the means at her disposal for gratifying her passionate caprice. The first condition was that she should see René again, and see him often; now, that was impossible at her own house, as was proved by her husband's words that very morning. After a few tender inquiries concerning her health, he asked, Did you have many visitors yesterday?'
'None at all,' she replied; and it being her custom never to tell an unnecessary fib, she added, 'only Desforges and that young fellow who wrote the play performed at Madame Komof's the other night.'
'René Vincy,' remarked Moraines. 'I'm sorry I missed him—I like his work very much. What is he like? Is he presentable?'
'He's nothing much,' answered Suzanne; 'quite insignificant.'
'Did Desforges see him?'
'Yes—why?'
'I'll ask the Baron about him. I dare say he took his measure at the first glance. He has a rare knowledge of men.'
'That's just like him,' said Suzanne, when Moraines was gone, after having devoured her with kisses; 'he tells the Baron everything.' She foresaw that the first person to tell Desforges of René's frequent visits to the Rue Murillo, if she got the poet to come, would be Paul himself. 'He is really too silly,' she went on, getting out of patience with him for his absolute confidence in the Baron, which she had herself been most instrumental in inspiring. But now she was beginning to fret under the first feelings of restraint.
Thoughts of René ran through her head all the morning, which was spent in looking over accounts and in receiving the visit of Madame Leroux, her manicure, a person of ripe age, extremely devout, with a sanctimonious and discreet air, who waited on the most aristocratic hands and feet in Paris. As a rule Suzanne, who, with perfect justice, looked upon inferiors as the principal source of all Society scandal, had a long talk with Madame Leroux, partly to procure her good-will, partly to hear a good many details concerning those whom the artiste deigned to honour with her services. Madame Leroux was therefore never tired of singing the praises of that charming Madame Moraines, 'so unaffected and so good. She absolutely worships her husband.' But that day none of the manicure's flattery could draw a single word from her fair client. The desire that had seized hold of the latter grew stronger and stronger, whilst the obstacles that stood in the way of its gratification assumed a clearer and more uncompromising shape. To gain a man's love requires time and opportunities of meeting. René did not go into Society, and if he had done so it would have been worse still, for other women would have taken him from her. Here, in her home in the Rue Murillo, she could have wormed her way into his virgin heart so easily—and only the Baron's watchfulness prevented her.
It was the first time for some years that she felt herself fettered, and a fit of anger against the man to whom she owed all she had came over her. Filled with such thoughts as these she lunched as usual alone, and in very frugal fashion. Even with the generous assistance of her benefactor she could only make both ends meet by practising economy in things that would not be noticed, such as the table. In her solitude she felt so miserable and at the same time so utterly powerless that, as she rose, the cry almost escaped her, 'What is the use of it, after all?'