The Kill - Emile Zola [133]
“Yes,” Mareuil said quietly, “that’s the answer to all the critics.”
As a matter of fact the Crédit Viticole had just survived some serious difficulties, which had been carefully concealed. A minister with a pronounced weakness for that particular financial institution, which held the City of Paris by the throat, had contrived to drive up the price of its shares, and M. Toutin-Laroche had done a marvelous job of capitalizing on the opportunity. Nothing tickled him more than praise for the prosperity of the Crédit Viticole. As a rule he instigated such praise himself. He thanked M. de Mareuil with a glance and, leaning familiarly on Baron Gouraud’s chair, he bent down and asked, “Are you all right? You’re not too warm?”
The baron gave a slight grunt.
“He’s sinking, he’s sinking day by day,” M. Toutin-Laroche added in an undertone when he had turned back to face the others.
M. Michelin smiled and from time to time gently lowered his eyelids to steal a glance at his red ribbon. Mignon and Charrier, planted firmly on their oversized feet, seemed much more at ease in their dress clothes now that they had taken to wearing sparklers. But it was now almost midnight, and the company was growing impatient. No one went so far as to mutter, but fans had begun to flutter more nervously and conversations were growing louder.
At last M. Hupel de la Noue reappeared. He had one shoulder through the narrow opening when he finally saw Mme d’Espanet mounting the platform. The other ladies, already in place for the first tableau, had only been awaiting her arrival. The prefect turned his back to the audience, which could see him conversing with the marquise, hidden behind the curtains. Blowing kisses from his fingertips, he said in a hushed voice, “My compliments, marquise. Your costume is delightful.”
“I have a much prettier one underneath,” came the young woman’s cavalier reply, and she burst out laughing right in the prefect’s face, because the sight of him stuck in the curtains like that struck her as hilarious.
The gallant M. Hupel de la Noue was momentarily taken aback by the boldness of this reply, but he recovered, and savoring the sally all the more as he pondered all its dimensions, he pronounced it “Charming! Charming!” with an air of delight.
He let the corner of the curtain fall and rejoined the group of serious men, in whose company he planned to enjoy his work. No longer was he the nervous master of ceremonies searching high and low for Echo’s leafy girdle. He was beaming now, breathing hard as he wiped his brow. The sleeve of his coat still bore the small white handprint, and now, in addition, there was a red spot on the tip of the thumb of his right glove, which he had no doubt dipped into a jar of face paint. He smiled, he fanned himself, and then he stammered, “She’s lovely, ravishing, stupendous.”
“Who are you talking about?” Saccard wanted to know.
“The marquise. You’ll never believe what she just said to me.”
And he repeated her repartee. Everyone agreed that it was just right. The men repeated it to one another. M. Haffner had joined the group, and, dignified though he was, even he could not refrain from applauding. Meanwhile, someone seated at a piano that hardly anyone had noticed began to play a waltz. A hush came over the crowd. The waltz wound on through an endless series of variations, all involving a sweet ascending phrase ending in a trill and preceding a return to a slower melody in the bass. It was quite sensual. The ladies, tilting their heads slightly, smiled. In contrast, the piano had abruptly put an end to M. Hupel de la Noue’s gaiety. He gazed anxiously at the red velvet curtain and told himself that he ought to have posed Mme d’Espanet personally, as he had posed the others.
As the curtains slowly parted, the piano, soft-pedaled now, resumed the sensual waltz. A murmur raced through the salon, the ladies leaned forward, and the men craned their necks, while here and there admiration was expressed in the form of a remark uttered in too loud a voice, an