LITMIR.BIZ

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went up to the bath still full of stagnant water; with her foot she thrust back the things that trailed down from the white satin of the easy-chairs, Echo’s dress, petticoats, neglected towels. And from all these things voices of shame arose: Echo’s dress reminded her of the mummery she had acquiesced in for the eccentricity of offering herself to Maxime in public; the bath exhaled the scent of her body, the water in which she had soaked herself filled the room with a sick woman’s feverishness; the table with its soap-dishes and cosmetics, the furniture with its bed-life fullness spoke to her rudely of her flesh, of her amours, of all the filth that she longed to forget. She returned to the middle of the room, with crimson face, not knowing where to fly from this alcove perfume, this luxury which bared itself with a harlot’s shamelessness, this pink display. The room was naked as herself; the pink bath, the pink skin of the hangings, the pink marble of the two tables assumed an aspect of life, coiled themselves up, surrounded her with such an orgy of living lusts that she closed her eyes, lowering her forehead, crushed beneath the lace of the walls and ceiling which overwhelmed her.

      But in the darkness she again saw the flesh-coloured stain of the dressing-room, and she perceived besides the gray tenderness of the bedroom, the soft gold of the small drawingroom, the hard green of the hothouse, all this accomplice luxury. It was there that her feet had been impregnated with the poisonous sap. She would never have slept with Maxime on a pallet, in a corner of a garret. It would have been too low. Silk had cast a coquettish lustre over her crime. And she dreamt of tearing down this lace, of spitting upon the silk, of kicking her great bed to pieces, of dragging her luxury into some gutter whence it would emerge wornout and sullied as herself.

      When she reopened her eyes, she approached the mirror, looked at herself again, examined herself closely. It was all over with her. She saw herself dead. Every feature told her that the breaking-down of her brain was nearly accomplished. Maxime, that last perversion of her senses, had finished his work, had exhausted her flesh, unhinged her intellect. No joys remained for her to taste, no hope of reawakening.

      At this thought a savage rage was once more kindled within her. And in a final access of desire, she dreamt of recapturing her prey, of swooning in Maxime’s arms and carrying him away with her. Louise could never marry him; Louise well knew that he did not belong to her, since she had seen them kissing each other on the lips. Then she threw a fur cloak over her shoulders, so as not to pass quite naked through the hall. She went downstairs.

      In the small drawingroom she came face to face with Mme. Sidonie. The latter, in order to enjoy the drama, had again stationed herself on the conservatory steps. But she no longer knew what to think when Saccard reappeared with Maxime, and abruptly replied to her whispered questions that there was “nothing whatever.” Then she guessed the truth. Her yellow face turned pale, she thought this was really too much. And she went softly and glued her ear to the door of the staircase, hoping to hear Renée cry, upstairs. When the latter opened the door, it almost struck her sister-in-law in the face.

      “You are spying on me!” said Renée, angrily.

      But Mme. Sidonie replied with fine disdain:

      “Do you think I care about your filth!”

      And catching up her sorceress’s dress, retreating with a majestic look:

      “It’s not my fault, my dear, if you meet with mishaps…. But I bear no malice, do you hear? And understand that you would have found and could still find a second mother in me. I shall be glad to see you at my place, whenever you please.”

      Renée did not listen to her. She entered the large drawingroom, she passed through a very complicated figure of the cotillon, without even remarking the surprise which her fur cloak occasioned. In the middle of the room were groups of ladies and their partners mingling together, waving streamers, and M. de Saffré’s fluted voice called out:

      “Come, mesdames, the ‘Mexican War.’… The ladies who play the bushes must spread out their skirts and remain on the ground…. Now the gentlemen must dance round their bushes…. Then when I clap my hands each of them must waltz with his bush.”

      He clapped his hands. The brass sang out, the waltz once more sent the couples spinning round the room. The figure was not very successful. Two ladies had been left behind on the carpet, entangled in their dresses. Madame Daste declared that the only thing that amused her in the “Mexican War” was making a “cheese” with her dress, as at school.

      Renée, on reaching the hall, found Louise and her father, whom Saccard and Maxime were seeing off. The Baron Gouraud had left. Madame Sidonie went away with the Mignon and Charrier couple, while M. Hupel de la Noue escorted Madame Michelin, followed discreetly by her husband. The préfet had spent the latter part of the evening in making love to the pretty brunette. He had just succeeded in persuading her to spend a month of the fine season in his departmental town, “where she would see some really curious antiquities.”

      Louise, who was covertly munching the nougat which she had put in her pocket, was seized with a fit of coughing just as she was leaving the house.

      “Cover yourself up,” said her father.

      And Maxime hastened to tighten the strings of the hood of her opera-cloak. She raised her chin, she allowed herself to be muffled up. But when Madame Saccard appeared, M. de Mareuil turned back, said goodbye. They all stayed talking there for a moment. Renée, to explain her paleness, her trembling, said that she had felt cold, that she had gone up to her room to throw this fur over her shoulders. And she watched for the moment when she could whisper to Louise, who was looking at her with tranquil curiosity. When the gentlemen shook hands once more, she leant forward, murmured:

      “Tell me you’re not going to marry him? It’s not possible. You know quite well…”

      But the child interrupted her, rising on tiptoe, speaking in her ear:

      “Oh! make yourself easy. I shall take him away…. It makes no difference, since we are going to Italy.”

      And she smiled with her vague, vicious, sphinx-like smile. Renée was left stuttering. She did not understand, she fancied that the hunchback was laughing at her. Then when the Mareuils had gone, after several times repeating, “Till Sunday!” she looked at her husband, she looked at Maxime with her terrified eyes. And seeing their tranquil and self-satisfied attitudes, she hid her face in her hands, fled, sought refuge in the depths of the conservatory.

      The pathways were deserted. The great clumps of foliage were asleep, and on the heavy surface of the tank two budding water-lilies slowly unfolded. Renée would gladly have sought relief in tears; but this moist heat, this pungent odour which she recognized caught her at the throat, strangled her despair. She looked down at the spot in the yellow sand at her feet, on the margin of the tank, where last winter she used to spread out the bearskin rug. And when she raised her eyes, she saw yet one more figure of the cotillon right away in the background, through the two open doors.

      The noise was deafening, there was a confused medley in which at first she distinguished nothing but flying skirts and black legs prancing and turning. M. de Saffré’s voice cried, “Change your ladies! change your ladies!” And the couples passed by amid a fine yellow dust; each gentleman, after three or four turns in the waltz, threw his partner into the arms of his neighbour, who in his turn threw him his. The Baronne de Meinhold, in her costume as the Emerald, fell from the hands of the Comte de Chibray into the hands of Mr. Simpson; he caught her as best he could by the shoulder, while the tips of his gloves glided under her bodice. The Comtesse Vanska, flushed, jingling her coral pendants, went with a bound from the chest of M. de Saffré to the chest of the Duc de Rozan, whom she entwined in her arms and compelled to hop round for five turns, when she hung herself on the hips of Mr. Simpson, who had just flung the Emerald to the leader of the cotillon. And Madame Teissière, Madame Daste, Madame de Lauwerens shone like large, live jewels, with the blonde pallor of the Topaz, the gentle blue of the Turquoise, the ardent blue of the Sapphire, had moments of abandonment, curved under a waltzer’s outstretched wrist, then started off again, fell back or forwards into a fresh embrace, visited one after the other the arms of every man in the room. However, Madame d’Espanet, standing in front of the band, had succeeded in catching hold of

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