The Kill - Emile Zola [129]
The young man walked softly back toward the fireplace and leaned against it. He was still embarrassed, his head bowed, yet a smile had begun to curl his lips.
“Yes,” he muttered, “my father is very clever when it comes to keeping an eye on people’s interests.”
The tone of his voice surprised Renée. She looked at him, and he, as if to defend himself, said, “Oh, what do I know? . . . I’m just saying that my father is a shrewd man.”
“You would be wrong to speak ill of him,” she continued. “Your judgment is obviously rather superficial. . . . If I told you his troubles, if I repeated to you what he confided to me just this evening, you’d see that people are wrong about him when they say that money is all he cares about.”
Maxime could not suppress a shrug. He interrupted his stepmother with an ironical laugh.
“Believe me, I know him, I know him quite well. . . . He must have told you some awfully good stories. Tell me what he said.”
His mocking tone wounded her. So she praised her husband all the more, said that he was a great man, and discussed the Charonne business—all those shady maneuvers of which she had understood nothing—as if Saccard had rescued her from some catastrophe, thereby revealing his intelligence and kindness. She added that she would be signing the purchase-and-sale agreement the next day and that if it really did end in disaster, she would accept that disaster as punishment for her sins. Maxime let her talk, snickering and stealing glances at her as she spoke. Then in a half-whisper he said, “Yes, indeed, that’s exactly right.”
Then he placed his hand on Renée’s shoulder and said in a somewhat louder voice, “Thank you, my dear, but I knew that story already. . . . You really are a soft touch.”
Once again he made a move as if to leave. He was itching to tell all. She had irritated him with her praise of her husband, and he forgot that he had promised himself that he would avoid unpleasantness by biting his tongue.
“What! What do you mean?” she asked.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what I mean is that my father has been pulling the wool over your eyes as neatly as can be. . . . I feel sorry for you. You’re such a simpleton.”
Then he told her in his cowardly, cunning way what he had heard at Laure’s, taking secret pleasure at wallowing in such vileness. In his eyes he was inflicting revenge for whatever vague insult he had suffered. His crass character took rapturous delight in slander of this sort, in cruel gossip overheard from behind a curtain. He spared Renée nothing: neither the money her husband had lent her at usurious rates nor the sum he intended to steal from her with the help of ridiculous fairy tales fit only for putting children to sleep. Renée listened, looking quite livid, her lips pinched. Standing in front of the fireplace, she bowed her head slightly and gazed at the fire. Her night-dress, the chemise that Maxime had warmed at the hearth, fell open, revealing a whiteness as motionless as a statue.
“I’m telling you all this,” Maxime concluded, “so that you don’t look like a fool. . . . But you would be wrong to hold a grudge against my father. He’s not mean. He has his faults, just like everybody else. . . . Till tomorrow, eh?”
He made a move toward the door. With a brusque motion Renée stopped him.
“Stay!” she imperiously commanded.
Then she seized him, drew him toward her, and practically sat him on her lap in front of the fire, whereupon she kissed him on the lips, saying, “What would be the point of holding back now? . . . You have no idea, do you? that since yesterday when you tried to break off with me, I’ve been out of my mind. I’ve been like an imbecile. Tonight, at the ball, I was in a fog. Because I can’t live without you. When you leave, I’m done for. . . . Don’t laugh, I’m telling you how I feel.”
She looked at him with infinite longing, as if she hadn’t seen him for ages.
“You hit on the