The Kill - Emile Zola [119]
He examined her with growing astonishment.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?”
Instinctively, he looked up and saw through the glass of the conservatory the window of the dressing room in which he had previously glimpsed a light.
“But there’s a man in your apartment,” he said suddenly.
“No, no, there isn’t,” she stammered in a pleading voice, ceding to panic.
“Now see here, my dear, I can see his shadow.”
They stood there for an instant face-to-face, not knowing what to say. Renée’s teeth were chattering in terror, and she felt as though buckets of ice water were being poured over her bare feet. Maxime felt more irritated than he would have expected, yet he remained detached enough to reflect on the situation, to tell himself that the moment was ripe to break off the relationship.
“You’re not going to make me believe that it’s Céleste wearing a topcoat,” he went on. “If the conservatory windows weren’t so thick, I might even recognize the gentleman.”
She pushed him farther into the darkness of the foliage, clasping her hands and pleading with growing terror, “I beg you, Maxime . . .”
But all the young man’s instincts for needling were aroused, ferocious instincts in search of vengeance. He was too fragile to find relief in anger. Spite pinched his lips, and rather than hit her, which had been his initial impulse, he took a sharper tone and went on. “You should have told me, I wouldn’t have disturbed you. . . . These things happen all the time. People stop loving each other. I had almost had my fill myself. . . . Don’t be impatient now. I’ll let you go back up, but not until you’ve told me the gentleman’s name.”
“Never! Never!” the young woman whispered, choking back tears.
“I have no intention of challenging him to a duel. I just want to know. . . . The name, quick, tell me the name, and I’ll go.”
He had seized her by the wrists and was staring at her, laughing wickedly. She struggled desperately, unwilling to open her mouth lest the name she was being asked to reveal somehow escape her lips.
“If we go on this way, we’re going to make noise, which won’t help matters. What are you afraid of? Aren’t we good friends? . . . I want to know who’s taking my place. I’m entitled to that. . . . Wait, I’ll help you. It’s M. de Mussy, whose suffering touched you.”
She did not answer but bowed her head at being questioned in such a manner.
“It’s not M. de Mussy? . . . The duc de Rozan, perhaps? No, not him either? . . . Perhaps the comte de Chibray? Wrong again?”
He stopped and searched his mind.
“Damned if I can think of anyone else. . . . It’s not my father, after what you told me.”
Renée jumped as if seared with a hot poker and in a muffled voice said, “No, you know quite well that he doesn’t come anymore. I wouldn’t allow it. It would be vile.”
“Who then?”
And he squeezed her wrists even tighter. The poor woman struggled a while longer.
“Oh, Maxime, if only you knew! . . . But I can’t tell you.”
Then, vanquished, overwhelmed, staring in terror at the illuminated window, in a voice barely above a whisper, she stammered, “It’s M. de Saffré.”
Maxime, until then amused by his cruel game, turned quite livid at this confession, which he had insisted on having. He was vexed that the man’s name should have caused him such unexpected pain. Violently he pushed Renée away, then moved close to her, right in her face, and through clenched teeth said, “You know what you are? You’re a—”
He pronounced the word. He turned to leave but she ran after him, sobbing, taking him in her arms, whispering tender words, begging forgiveness, swearing that she still adored him and would explain everything the next day. But he pulled away and slammed the door of the conservatory, saying, “No, it’s over. I’ve had it,” on his way out.
Crushed, she watched him cross the garden. The trees in the conservatory seemed to whirl around. Then,