What was the use of it all, indeed? She was a slave. Not only could she not see René as she wished in her own house, but that very afternoon, in spite of the new sentiments that were springing up within her, she had to keep an appointment with Desforges.
'What is the use of it?' she repeated, as she got herself ready to go out, putting on a pair of tiny shoes instead of boots, a plain dress that fastened in front, a black bonnet, and in her pocket a thick veil. She had ordered her carriage for two o'clock—a brougham and pair that she hired by the month for the afternoon and evening. On getting into it she was so crushed by the weight of her slavery that she could have cried. What, then, were her feelings when, on turning the corner of the street, she saw René standing there, evidently waiting to see her pass?
Their eyes met. He took his hat off with a blush, and she too could not help blushing in the corner of her carriage, so great was the pleasurable revulsion of feeling caused by this unexpected meeting, and especially by the idea that he must be in love with her. She, the creature of calculation and deceit, fell into one of those profound reveries in which women, when in love, anticipate all the delights to which the sentiment they experience and inspire can give birth. At such a moment they will give themselves up in thoughts to the man they did not know a week ago. If they dared, they would give themselves up too, there and then, though this would not hinder them from persuading the man who conquered them at the first glance that their subjugation was a work of time and degrees. In this they are right, for man's stupid vanity is gratified by the difficulties of the conquest, and few have sense enough to understand the divine quality of love that is spontaneous, natural, and irresistible.
Whilst the poet walked off, saying to himself, 'I am undone—she will never forgive me for such folly,' Suzanne was in one of those transports of delight before which prudence itself gives way, and, forgetting her fears of the morning, she now saw her way to carrying out one of those simple plans such as only the eminently realistic mind of a woman can concoct. She had set herself the task of deceiving a very sharp man, and one who was well acquainted with her disposition. The best thing to do, therefore, was to act in a manner exactly contrary to what that man would expect and foresee. Matters must be precipitated; René must be brought to her feet after two or three visits, and she must surrender before he had had time to woo her; Desforges would never suspect her of such an escapade—he who knew her to be so circumspect, so cautious, and so clever. But what if the poet despised her for her too easy surrender? She shook her pretty head incredulously as this objection occurred to her. That was a matter of tact and of woman's wit, and there she was sure of her ground!
Her joy at having roughly worked out this problem and the joy of deceiving the subtle Baron became so strangely mixed that she now looked forward to her appointment not only without regret, but with malicious delight. On reaching the colonnades in the Rue de Rivoli she got out as usual and sent the carriage home. The house in which the Baron had taken rooms for his meetings with Suzanne possessed two entrances, an advantage so uncommon in Paris that buildings favoured in that way are not only well-known, but much sought after by transgressors of the Seventh Commandment. Frédéric was too intimately acquainted with this phase of Parisian life to have fallen into the error of going to a place whose reputation was already made. The house he had somewhat accidentally hit upon must have escaped discovery by reason of its sedate and dismal-looking frontage in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, where he had taken the first floor, consisting of an ante-room and three other apartments. The rooms were kept in order by his valet, a man on whom he could thoroughly rely, thanks to the liberal wages he gave him. Considerable regard had been paid to what must be called the comfort of pleasure in furnishing this small suite, where the hangings and curtains deadened the noises from without, where soft skins were thrown down here and there for naked feet, where the countless mirrors reminded one of similar but less decorous places, and where the low arm-chairs and couches invited those long, familiar talks in which lovers delight. In a word, the minute care bestowed upon this interior would alone have betrayed the extent of the Baron's sensualism.
Suzanne had so often come to this house during the past few years, she had so often tied on her thick veil in the doorway in the Rue de Rivoli, so often hastened past the porter's lodge that she had come to perform almost mechanically these rites of adultery which procure novices such exquisite emotions. To-day, as she mounted the stairs, she could not help thinking how differently she would feel if she were going to meet René Vincy instead of the Baron in this quiet retreat She knew so well exactly what would happen. Desforges would be there and have everything prepared for her reception, from the flowers in the vases to the bread and butter for tea; then, at a given moment, she would go into the dressing-room and come out in a loose lace gown, her hair hanging about her shoulders and her little feet encased in slippers similar to those she wore in the morning. She took not the least pleasure in all this, but the Baron had such a charming way of showing his gratitude for the favours she granted him and displayed so much wit and affection during their long talks together that it was frequently he who had to remind his mistress that it was time to go.
To-day the state of her mind and feelings prompted Suzanne herself to say, as soon as she had entered the room, 'I am very sorry, Frédéric dear, but I shall have to leave you rather early.'
'Has it put you out to come?' asked the Baron as he helped her off with her cloak. 'Why didn't you send me a line to countermand our appointment?'
'He is really too kind,' thought Suzanne, feeling some slight remorse for her unnecessary fib. Taking her hat off before the glass the flash of her diamond earrings caught her eye, and suddenly reminded her of all that she owed this man, who asked for so little in return.
False situations sometimes give rise to conscientious paradoxes, and it was a feeling of honesty that impelled this woman to come and seat herself on the arm of the Baron's easy chair and to sigh, 'I should have been terribly disappointed myself. Will you never believe that I am really glad to come here?—I owe him that at least,' she thought, and in further obedience to her strange qualms of conscience she contrived to be more than usually fascinating and docile during the whole of their tête-à-tête.