The Kill - Emile Zola [135]
The audience on the whole thought Maxime looked remarkably good. In making his gesture of refusal, he thrust out his left hip, which drew considerable comment. But the lion’s share of the praise was reserved for the expression on Renée’s face. As M. Hupel de la Noue put it, she represented “the suffering of unsatisfied desire.” She wore an avid smile that she tried to disguise as humble and tracked her prey as hungrily as a she-wolf, her teeth only half-hidden. The first tableau went off well, except that foolish Adeline was fidgety and had a hard time suppressing an overwhelming urge to laugh. Then the curtains closed and the piano fell silent.
The audience applauded discreetly, and conversation resumed. An amorous breeze, a current of suppressed desire, had proceeded from the simulated nudity on the stage into the drawing room, where the women lay back a bit deeper in their chairs and the men exchanged smiles and whispered in one another’s ears. It was the sound of pillow talk, the tasteful hush of refined people whose lips quivered with scarcely formulated desires, and in the mute looks exchanged amidst all this decorous delectation one sensed the shameless frankness of love offered and accepted at a glance.
The ladies’ perfections were subjected to endless appraisals. Their costumes took on an importance almost as great as their shoulders. When Mignon and Charrier turned to ask M. Hupel de la Noue a question, they were surprised that he had already disappeared backstage.
Mme Sidonie had resumed a conversation interrupted by the first tableau. “As I was telling you, my lovely pet, I had received a letter from London concerning the matter of the three billion francs, remember? . . . The person I had asked to look into the matter wrote me that he thought he had located the banker’s receipt. Which would indicate that England must have paid. . . . This news has made me ill since this morning.”
Indeed, she did look more waxen than usual in her star-studded magician’s gown. Since Mme Michelin was paying no attention to her, she lowered her voice even more and muttered to herself that it was impossible that England had paid and therefore there was no choice but for her to go to London herself.
“Narcissus’ costume was awfully pretty, wasn’t it?” Louise asked Mme Michelin.
Mme Michelin smiled. She was looking at Baron Gouraud, who seemed quite recovered in his armchair. Mme Sidonie, noticing the direction of her gaze, leaned toward her and whispered in her ear so that the child would not hear.
“Has he done what he was supposed to do?”
“Yes,” the young woman answered, affecting a wistfully seductive look, playing the part of the Egyptian dancer to perfection. “I chose the house in Louveciennes, and his business agent sent me the deed. . . . But we’ve broken it off. I don’t see him anymore.”
Louise’s ears were