Bobby was elated as he went out of the room, closely followed by Ramsey; indeed, reaction prompted geniality.
“I think I’ll go round to Maxim’s for an hour; it’s quite early. Will you join me? There are sure to be people you know there.”
They were standing in the hall of the hotel.
“Thanks, it’s very good of you, but I too have letters to write,” Ramsey replied, and turning coldly on his heel he left Bobby to go out alone.
Bobby strolled down the Place de la Concorde, but before he reached Maxim’s his heart misgave him; he was reviewing the events of the evening and, though he could not justify it, his mind was full of suspicion. It was queer her wanting to see Ramsey again after the way he had behaved. What could have been her object? Was he really so irresistible? She had certainly shown quite plainly that she wanted to see him, and yet she had shown equally plainly that she didn’t want him to remain with her alone. He wondered how long Ramsey would be staying in Paris, and what effect his presence would have on his intercourse with Madame de Corantin. Would he be able to see as much of her or would she drop him in favour of Ramsey. The thought tortured him, but it wormed its way more and more into his brain. Bobby had very little confidence in his powers of pleasing; it was a common experience of his to be thrown over in favour of men much less attractive to women than Ramsey. It was true that hitherto he had not much cared, and when he had been given the “go-by” he had always reflected that there were as good fish in the sea, and so on; but that wasn’t the case now.
Thinking deeply, he had reached the entrance of Maxim’s without knowing it, but looking in, he turned away in disgust; he had no desire to face the crowd inside, he wanted to think things over. He walked on up the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and with every step his jealousy increased. The suspicion rankled; he felt certain that Ramsey would somehow or other manage to see her again before he could—why, he might even contrive to do so that very evening. He knew that Ramsey would dare anything where women were concerned. Very likely while he was walking up the Boulevard, Ramsey was sitting in her room.
Finally, he could bear it no longer. Turning, he walked swiftly back to the hotel; it was a little past eleven, too early to go to bed, too late in a darkened and subdued Paris to do anything else. He wondered where Ramsey was, and, going to the porter, asked him casually if he had seen him.
No, he had not seen Monsieur Ramsey since he had gone upstairs half an hour ago; he supposed he had gone to bed.
Had Ramsey gone to bed? The more Bobby turned it over in his mind the stronger his suspicions grew, and then came a moment of desperation—he must know, he could not bear the suspense. His own room was two floors above that on which was Madame de Corantin’s apartment. Declining the lift, he walked slowly upstairs, and as though he were doing so by mistake, directed his steps softly past the door of her salon. No one was in the corridor, and noiselessly he approached the door. Was that a man’s voice? Yes, there was not a doubt of it. He listened again, he looked up and down the passage, no one was in sight. He placed his head close to the woodwork of the door; with a sense of ignominy he realized that if there had been a keyhole he would have placed his ear to that—anything to know—anything. Yes, he recognized Ramsey’s voice distinctly; he was there. On tiptoe he retraced his steps. Arrived at the entrance hall he flung himself into a chair, a prey to utter wretchedness.