The Kill - Emile Zola [154]
He clapped his hands. The brass rang out, and couples once again waltzed around the salon. The figure was not much of a success. Two of the ladies remained sitting on the carpet, tangled up in their petticoats. Mme Daste said that what amused her in the “Mexican War” was making a “cheese” out of her dress as the girls used to do at boarding school.
When Renée reached the vestibule, she found Louise and her father with Saccard and Maxime. Baron Gouraud had left. Mme Sidonie was on her way out with Mignon and Charrier, and M. Hupel de la Noue escorted Mme Michelin, while her husband followed at a discreet distance. The prefect had spent most of the evening courting the pretty brunette. He had just persuaded her to spend a month of the summer season in the capital of his district, “where there are some truly unusual ancient artifacts to be seen.”
Louise, who was surreptitiously nibbling on the nougat she had hidden in her pocket, succumbed to a fit of coughing just as she was about to leave.
“Button up tight,” her father said.
And Maxime hastened to tighten the string on the hood of her evening wrap. She lifted her chin and allowed herself to be swaddled. But when Mme Saccard appeared, M. de Mareuil returned to say his good-byes. Everyone stood chatting for a while. To explain her pallor and shivering, she said that she had felt cold and had gone upstairs to fetch the fur now draped over her shoulders. Meanwhile, she was waiting for an opportunity to whisper something to Louise, who was staring at her with curious tranquillity. Since the men were still shaking hands, Renée leaned over to her and whispered: “You won’t marry him, will you? It’s out of the question. You know full well—”
But the child interrupted, rising up on her toes to whisper in Renée’s ear. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take him away. . . . It won’t matter, since we’ll be going off to Italy.”
And she smiled the inscrutable smile of a wicked sphinx. All Renée could do was stammer. Understanding eluded her; she thought the hunchback was making a joke at her expense. Then, after the Mareuils had left, having repeated “Until Sunday!” several times before doing so, she looked with terrified eyes first at her husband, then at Maxime, and seeing them there, looking cool and smug, she hid her face in her hands and fled, taking refuge at the far end of the conservatory.
The paths were deserted. The great masses of foliage slept, while two budding water lilies slowly unfolded on the stagnant surface of the pool. Renée felt like crying, but the humid heat and strong odor that she knew so well took her by the throat and strangled her despair. She looked at her feet on the edge of the pool, on the patch of yellow sand where she had laid out the bearskin the previous winter. And when she looked up, she could still see a figure of the cotillion unfolding in the distance through the double doors, which had been left open.
There was a deafening noise, a chaotic free-for-all in which all she could make out at first were flying skirts and black legs stamping and whirling. M. de Saffré’s voice cried out: “Change your ladies! Change your ladies!” And couples passed by in a cloud of fine yellow dust. Each gentleman danced three or four turns of the waltz and then flung his lady into the arms of his neighbor, who did the same. Baroness von Meinhold, wearing her Emerald costume, passed from the hands of the comte de Chibray to those of Mr. Simpson. He caught her