The concierge told me to go up to the first floor, the left-hand door; that led to madame’s apartment. Monsieur’s offices were on the ground floor. I walked through several rooms, and found at last a young lady’s-maid—who was not pretty, and with whom no man was likely to tarry when he was going to see her mistress. I asked for madame, gave my name, and the maid went to announce me. I waited only five minutes; that is not too long to wait to see a pretty woman, when so many wealthy fools, vulgar parvenus, and public officials have the assurance to keep visitors waiting an hour before they condescend to show their inane faces.
“You may enter, monsieur,” said the lady’s-maid, and she ushered me into her mistress’s presence. This prompt reception seemed to me of favorable augury.
I found Madame de Marsan sitting on a causeuse in a pretty little room decorated in the daintiest style, where the light, being filtered through double curtains and blinds, was very soft. I spied a piano, a harp, and music. I have a great liking for women who are fond of music, and a greater for those who play or sing; it is a sure resource in idleness; and a woman who does nothing thinks too much.
Madame de Marsan received me with an amiable smile, in which I fancied that I could detect a shade of vexation. I attributed it to the absence of zeal on my part in calling upon her; and that course of action, which, however, was not premeditated, served me better than the most assiduous love-making would have done. She was piqued; she believed that she had surely subjugated me, and she had not seen me since. In truth, that must have seemed very strange to her after the way I had ogled her at the theatre and my conduct at Vauvert’s; it surprised myself, for I now thought her a hundred times prettier than Caroline.
She did not reproach me, however; but I made haste to apologize for having failed to avail myself of her invitation, and told her what had happened to Raymond and myself. The story of our adventures at Montmorency made Madame de Marsan laugh heartily; and merriment, by banishing the etiquette and formality of a first interview, permitted our minds to understand each other and our hearts to divine each other.
In order to prolong my visit, I urged Madame de Marsan to sing to me. She consented, and acquitted herself with a grace and good taste that fascinated me. She accompanied herself perfectly on the piano; in short, she was a thorough musician. How she must have suffered at Vauvert’s party!—But I realized that I must not unduly prolong the first interview. It is judicious to make people desire one’s presence, and not to be too lavish of one’s self at first, especially with women who are accustomed to homage and love-making; in fact, to being assiduously courted. Hitherto I had never had the art of concealing what I felt; perhaps I was boasting too soon, but I had determined to be on my guard in the future! My last adventure had revived all my grievances against a sex which I could not shun, but to which I would gladly have repaid a part of the torments it had caused me.
I took leave, therefore, of Madame de Marsan.
“Will you be as long again without letting me hear from you?” she asked, as I rose to go.
“No, madame; I shall take frequent advantage of the permission you accord me to come to see you and listen to your singing. I trust that you will not consider that I abuse it.”
“Be assured, monsieur, that I shall never complain of that. You love music, and we will sing together sometimes. I go out very little; and it will be very good of you to make one of our little circle.”