"But that's just it: we don't, either of us. Do you think I did what I used to do out of rapacity? I did it first of all from necessity, then for my country, and lastly because, being on the earth, I have a feeling that I belong to a human association, to an austere company formed for production and economy."
"What a pity it is that one cannot take everything you say down in writing!"
"Don't scoff. I cannot bear to take without giving, to be a luxury article like other women, expensive yesterday, a nuisance to-day."
Lewis looked at her with satirical bewilderment. He was a true Parisian, whose egoism and adaptability would survive any trial. Living forcefully and carelessly in a post-war world where everything is barter and speculation, he had never put questions of this sort to himself. He thought it sufficient, in order not to be a parasite, to pay one's taxes and to have been a soldier. He wondered at Irene. He felt she was a victim of that perfect honesty, that "demon of honesty" of which the ancients talk, which dominates the construction of all Greek buildings and enables them to endure: her life, like antiquity, was imbued with the idea of "the law" which she never lost sight of Lewis was ingenuously surprised that anyone could have simple, old-fashioned ideas without being vulgar. He imagined that elegance was the exclusive privilege of corrupt natures. A prey to similar prejudices, we have seen that he had obstinately thrown himself into a kind of Jansenism of immorality. The presence of Irene ought to have pulled him out. Unfortunately, long years of uncontrolled power, both over himself and over others, prevented him from believing or obeying, just as they prevented him from reforming; he made no changes in his mode of life. He did not attempt to make Irene respect him, well knowing that one is loved chiefly for one's faults. So it was that he went on wasting his substance. But the material perfection and the method of life which he had brought to such a high pitch before his marriage, began to fail him. Childish longings and hereditary nerves began to reassert themselves. He was leading an unhealthy life.
One evening, after dinner, Lewis yawned.
"The 'Côtes de Gaillon' races are to-morrow," he said. "Are you coming?"
"Our life is perfectly absurd," was all Irene replied.
[VII]
IN the weeks that followed, Irene seemed to grow much more cheerful. She went out every morning early and only came back in time for lunch. Her mail became more imposing daily. She no longer complained of feeling ill or of putting on weight. There were frequent telephone calls for her: a foreign voice would say: "Can Madame come to the téléfon?" and a long conversation would follow. Lewis, jealous of his own liberty, tried to appear to respect that of Irene; he avoided questioning her. Was it family business, or merely trifles, or love affairs? He hated to think about it. He never stopped being "worried" about it (the word takes on such a tragic meaning in the mouths of habitually indifferent people).
One morning Lewis noticed her car waiting in the Rue Cambon. He looked for the name of some masseuse or dressmaker, thinking to find Irene there; but no. A gloomy house, a sort of perpendicular steppe, with church windows round a lift shaft wrapped in a winding staircase. What could she be doing in there? And for so long, too? At half-past twelve some electricians came in from their dinner hour. Lewis examined the courtyard. The mezzanine floor seemed improper. There were pink curtains on the fifth floor. He was ashamed of spying. He who scoffed at presentiments found them everywhere.