She was the wife of a rich farmer of revenue on the river. But at St Louis she was referred to by her Christian name, like a coloured woman. Cora they called her, in contempt.
She had just returned from Paris, as the other women could see from her gowns. Jean, however, was not yet sufficiently experienced to be able to define the difference. But he was well aware that her trailing gowns, even when they were simple, had something distinctive about them, a gracefulness, in which the other women’s gowns were lacking.
The point that he principally noticed was that she was very beautiful, and as she always flung her glances around him, he felt a sort of tremor when he met her.
“She’s in love with you, Peyral,” handsome Muller had declared, with the knowing air of a man who has had his successes in the pursuit of love affairs.
VIII
It was true that she was in love with him in her mulatto way, and one day she summoned him to her house to tell him so.
For poor Jean the two months that followed fled past in the midst of enchanting dreams. This unwonted luxury, this dainty, perfumed woman, all these things worked terrible confusion in his hot head and chaste body. Love, of which hitherto only a cynical travesty had been revealed to him, now intoxicated him.
And all this had been bestowed upon him precipitately, without reservation, like a splendid fortune in a fairy tale. Yet one reflection troubled him. This woman’s avowal, this want of modesty, disgusted him a little when he thought about it.
But he seldom pondered, and when he was at her side he was intoxicated with love.