The Kill - Emile Zola [125]
He was quite unaware of the incredible number of strings he attached to the most ordinary transactions. He took great pleasure in the contrived story he had told Renée, and what delighted him was the impudence of the lie, the accumulation of impossibilities, the astonishing complexity of the intrigue. He would have taken possession of the property long ago if he hadn’t imagined this whole drama in advance, but it would have given him less pleasure if it had come to him more easily. For him it was the most natural thing in the world to turn the Charonne speculation into an elaborate financial melodrama.
He got up, took Larsonneau by the arm, and headed for the drawing room. “You understand what I said, don’t you? Just follow my instructions, and you’ll applaud when it’s over. You know, you really shouldn’t wear yellow gloves, my friend, they ruin your touch.”
The expropriation agent merely smiled. “Thanks for the instruction, but gloves have their uses: you can touch all sorts of things without getting your hands dirty.”
When they reentered the salon, Saccard was surprised and somewhat anxious to find Maxime on the other side of the curtain. The young man was sitting on a love seat next to a blonde, who was telling him a long story in a monotonous voice—her own story, no doubt. He had in fact overheard the conversation between his father and Larsonneau. The two accomplices were clearly sly dogs. Still angry about Renée’s betrayal, he took a coward’s pleasure in the news that she was soon to be robbed. There would be a modicum of vengeance for him in that. His father, looking suspicious, came over to shake his hand, but Maxime motioned toward the blonde and whispered in his ear, “She’s not bad, is she? I intend to have her tonight.”
Saccard then began to dance about and preen a bit. Laure d’Aurigny came and joined them for a moment. She complained that Maxime scarcely called on her more than once a month, but he claimed to have been very busy, which made everyone laugh. He added that from now on they’d be seeing him everywhere.
“I’ve written a tragedy,” he said, “and only yesterday did I come up with the fifth act. . . . I intend to rest from my labors in the company of all the beautiful women of Paris.”
He laughed and savored his allusions, which only he could understand. Meanwhile, the drawing room had emptied of all the other guests save Rozan and Larsonneau, on either side of the fireplace. The two Saccards rose to go, along with the blonde, who lived in the house. Laure then went over and whispered something to the duke. He seemed surprised and upset. Seeing that he made no move to get up from his chair, she said in a stage whisper, “No, really, not tonight. I have a headache. . . . Tomorrow, I promise you.”
Rozan had no choice but to obey. Laure waited until he was on the landing to whisper a quick word in Larsonneau’s ear: “So, Big Lar, you see I’m a woman of my word. . . . Stick him in his carriage.”
When the blonde took leave of the men and headed up to her apartment on the floor above, Saccard was surprised to see that Maxime did not follow her.
“Well,” he asked, “what are you waiting for?”
“I think not,” the young man replied. “I’ve thought better of it.”
Then he had an idea that struck him as very funny.
“I leave her to you if you like. Hurry, she hasn’t closed her door yet.”
But the father gave a quick shrug and said, “Thank you, my boy, but for the time being I’ve got something better.”
The four men went downstairs. When they reached the street, the duke absolutely insisted on giving Larsonneau a lift in his carriage. His mother lived in the Marais and he would drop the expropriation agent at his door on the rue de Rivoli. But Larsonneau refused, closed the door of the carriage himself, and ordered the coachman to drive off. He remained on the sidewalk of the boulevard Haussmann talking with the other two men and making no move to leave.
“Ah, poor Rozan!” exclaimed Saccard, who suddenly realized what was going on.
Larsonneau swore that it wasn’t true,