“It appears to be contagious in the theatre,” said Bonnivet. “Molan should have been here, but he excused himself at the last moment. He has a slight attack himself.”
As he said this he looked at his wife, who did not even deign to listen to him. She was talking to Miraut, who was near her. Neither her metallic voice nor her hard, clear eyes betrayed the least sign of trouble, but the cruel curves she sometimes had at the corners of her mouth made it more cruel, and a little throbbing of the nostrils, imperceptible but to one of my profession or a jealous man, revealed that the absence of Jacques was the cause of her nervousness. At the same time I felt that Bonnivet was scrutinizing my face with the same look which he gave to his wife, and three things became evident to me: one, and the most terrible was that the husband was suspicious of the relations between Queen Anne and my comrade; the second was that my companion had seized the opportunity of the change of bill to provoke in the coquette an access of spiteful jealousy by passing, or pretending to pass, the evening with Camille Favier; the third was that this simple ruse wounded the vanity of the pretty actress’ rival to the quick. These three instinctive conclusions, two of which at least were fraught with the most serious consequences, were sufficient to render the commonplace dinner passionately interesting to me.
I could not help concentrating my whole attention on Pierre de Bonnivet and his wife. On the other hand, I feared that directly we left the dinner-table they would try to make me talk, and I did not wish to betray Molan either to her, or particularly to him. The easily distended veins of his full-blooded forehead, his greenish eyes so quick to display anger, and the coarse red hair, which grew right down his arms to his fingers, were all signs of brutality which gave me the impression that he was a redoubtable person. Tragic action would be as natural to him as grievous timidity to me or fatuous insolence to Jacques. The evening ought not to end without furnishing me with the proof that my diverse intuitions had not deceived me. We had just left the dinner-table for the smoking-room when Machault said to me as he took my arm—
“You see a good deal of Jacques Molan, don’t you, La Croix?”
“We were at college together, and I see him sometimes still,” I replied evasively.
“Ah, well! If you see him in a day or two, warn him that Senneterre met him to-night when on his way here. Consequently they know his cold and headache are only an excuse. It is of no other importance, but with Anne it is always better to be well informed.”
I had no time to question the brave swordsman, who had smiled an unaccountable smile as he uttered this enigmatic phrase, for just then Pierre de Bonnivet came towards us with a box of cigars in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. I took a Russian cigarette, while the robust gladiator put into his mouth a veritable tree trunk, wrinkled and black. Then before the coffee, espying upon the table a bottle of fine champagne, he filled a little glass, which he proceeded to enjoy, saying as he did so—-
“This is an excellent appetizer with which to start the evening.”
“Will you have, M. la Croix, a cup of coffee? No. A drop of Kummel or Chartreuse?” Bonnivet asked. “Not even a thimbleful of cherry brandy?”
“No liqueur or coffee this evening,” I said, and I added with a smile: “I have not the stomach or the nerves of a Hercules.”