The Kill - Emile Zola [127]
Maxime offered his hand, but his father held on to it long enough to add, in a confidential tone, “A shape like Blanche Muller’s, you know, but ten times more supple. And those hips! The curve, the elegance—”
Then, as Maxime started to walk off, he finished his thought: “You’re like me. You’ve got heart, your wife will be happy. . . . Good night, my boy!”
When Maxime was at last rid of his father, he quickly made his way around the park. What he had just heard surprised him so much that he felt an irresistible need to see Renée. He wanted to beg her pardon for his brutality, to find out why she had lied to him by naming M. de Saffré, and to learn the history of her husband’s amorous attentions. Yet all of these things he divined only vaguely, his one clear desire being to smoke a cigar in her room and renew their camaraderie. If she was in the right mood, he even intended to announce his marriage in order to make it clear to her that their affair was to remain dead and buried. As he opened the side gate, the key to which he had fortunately held on to, he convinced himself that after his father’s confidential revelations his visit was necessary and entirely proper.
In the conservatory, he whistled as he had the night before, but this time there was no waiting. Renée came and opened the glass doors of the small salon and went up ahead of him without speaking. She had just returned from a ball at the Hôtel de Ville. She was still wearing a white gown of puffed tulle covered with satin bows. The tails of the satin bodice were edged with a broad band of white lace, which the light from the candelabra tinged with blue and pink. Upstairs, when Maxime looked at her, he was touched by her pallor and by the deep emotion that choked her voice. She must not have been expecting him, for she was shivering all over at the sight of him arriving as he always did, with his calm, imploring air. Céleste returned from the closet, where she had gone in search of a nightgown, and the lovers remained silent while waiting for her to leave. They were not usually inhibited in her presence, but shame came over them because of what they sensed they were about to say. Renée wanted Céleste to undress her in the bedroom, where there was a big fire. The servant removed pins and articles of clothing one by one, without haste. Meanwhile, Maxime, feeling bored, mechanically took the nightgown that was lying on a chair next to him and warmed it by the fire, leaning forward with his arms stretched wide. In happier days this was a favor he had often done for Renée. She felt moved at the sight of him delicately holding her nightgown up to the fire. Then, as Céleste showed no sign of finishing her chores, he asked, “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?”
“Oh, no,” she replied, “it’s always the same, you know. Far too many people, a real mob.”
He turned the nightgown, which was now warm on one side.
“What did Adeline wear?”
“A mauve gown, not very well thought out. . . . She’s short, and she’s wild about flounces.”
They talked about other women. By now Maxime was burning his fingers with the nightgown.
“Be careful, you’re going to scorch it,” Renée said in a voice full of maternal tenderness.
Céleste took the nightgown from the young man’s hands. He got up, went over to look at the big gray-and-pink bed, and let his eyes linger over one of the bouquets embroidered in the hanging so as to avoid looking at Renée’s naked breasts. This was instinctive. He no longer thought of himself as her lover, so he no longer had the right to see. Then he took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Renée had always allowed him to smoke in her apartment. Céleste went out, leaving the young woman by the fire, all white in her bedtime attire.
Maxime continued his silent pacing a while longer, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Renée, who seemed to be shivering again. Then, stopping in front of the fireplace, with his cigar between his teeth, he asked