'Very well,' said Claude, taking a seat, 'then we can talk. There must be no misunderstanding this time, so I shall be as plain as I possibly can. If I understand rightly, this wretch of a girl has told you two things. Let us proceed in order. This is the first—that I told her you were intimate with Madame Moraines. Excuse me,' he added, as the poet made a gesture. 'Between us two, in a matter affecting our friendship, I don't care a rap for the conventionalities that forbid us to mention a woman's name. I am not conventional myself, and so I mention her. Infamy number one. Colette told you a lie. This was exactly what I had said to her—I recollect the words as though it were yesterday, and regretted them before they had left my mouth—"I think poor René is falling in love with Madame Moraines." The only thing I went by was your embarrassed manner when mentioning her to me. But Colette had seen you sitting next to her at supper and paying her great attention. We had joked about the matter—as people will joke about these things—without attaching much importance to it. At least, I didn't—but all that's nothing. You were my friend. Your feeling might have been a serious one—it was, as it happened. I was wrong, and I frankly apologise in spite of the insult which, on the word of this vile drab, you have just offered me—me, your best and oldest friend!'
'But then why,' cried René, 'did you give me away to this creature, knowing what she was? And again, had you spoken only of me, I would have forgiven you——'
'Let us pass on to this second point,' said Claude, in his calm, methodical tone, 'that is to say, to the second lie. She told you that I had informed her of Madame Moraines' relations with Desforges. That is false. She had heard of them long ago from all the Salvaneys with whom she dined, supped, and flirted. No, René—if there is anything with which I reproach myself, it is not for having spoken to her about Madame Moraines—I could not have told her anything she didn't know. It is for not having spoken to you openly when you came to see me. I was fully acquainted with the depravity of this second but more fashionable Colette, and I did not warn you of it while there was yet time. Yes, I ought to have spoken—I ought to have opened your eyes and said: "Woo this woman, win her and wear her, but do not love her." And I held my peace. My only excuse is that I did not think her sufficiently disinterested to enter into your life as she has done. I said to myself: "He has no money, so there is no danger."'
'Then,' cried René, who had scarcely been able to contain himself whilst Claude was speaking of Suzanne in such terms, 'do you believe this vile thing that Colette has told me of Madame Moraines and Baron Desforges?'
'Whether I believe it?' replied Larcher, gazing at his friend in astonishment. 'Am I the man to invent such a story about a woman?'
'When you have paid a woman attentions,' said the poet, uttering his words very slowly, and in a tone of deepest contempt, 'attentions which she has repulsed, the least you can do is to respect her.'
'I!' cried Claude, 'I! I have paid Madame Moraines attentions? I understand—this is what she has told you.' He broke into a nervous laugh. 'When we put such things into our plays these harlots accuse us of libelling them. Of libelling them! As if such a thing were possible! They are all the same. And you believed her! You believed me, Claude Larcher, to be such a villain as to dishonour an honest woman in order to avenge my wounded pride? Look me well in the face, René. Do I look like a hypocrite? Have you ever known me to act as one? Have I proved my affection for you? Well—I give you my word of honour that this woman has lied to you, like Colette. The hussies! And there was I dying of grief, without a word of pity, because this woman, who is worse than a prostitute, had accused me of this dirty thing. Yes—worse than a prostitute! They sell themselves for bread—and she, for what? For a little of the wretched luxury that parvenus indulge in.'
'Hold your tongue, Claude, hold your tongue!' cried René, in terrible accents. 'You are killing me.' A storm of feelings, irresistible in its fury, had suddenly burst forth within him. He could not doubt his friend's sincerity, and this, added to the assurance with which Claude had spoken of Desforges, forced upon the wretched lover a conviction of Suzanne's duplicity too painful to endure. He could restrain himself no longer, and, rushing upon his tormentor, seized him by the lapels of his coat and shook him so violently that the material gave way.
'When you tell a man such things about the woman he loves you must give him proofs—you understand—proofs!'
'You are mad!' replied Claude, disengaging himself from his grasp; 'proofs!—why, all Paris will give you them, my poor boy! Not one person, but ten, twenty, thirty, will tell you that seven years ago the Moraines were ruined. Who got the husband into the Insurance Company? Desforges. He is a director of that company, as he is also a director in the Compagnie du Nord, and a deputy and an ex-Councillor of State, and Heaven knows what besides! He is a big man, this Desforges, although he doesn't look it, and one who can indulge in all kinds of luxuries. Whom do you always find in the Rue Murillo? Desforges. Whom do you meet with Madame Moraines at the theatre? Desforges. And do you think the fellow is a man to play at Platonic love with this pretty woman married to her ninny of a husband? Such nonsense is all very well for you and me, but not for a Desforges! Wherever are your eyes and ears when you go to see her?'