The Kill - Emile Zola [22]
And behind her, at the edge of the darkness, his tall silhouette looming large over the chaotic table and drowsy guests, stood Baptiste, his flesh pallid and his face grave, with the disdainful attitude of a lackey who has just fed his masters their fill. In the drunken atmosphere suffused with garish light from the chandelier, which cast a yellow pall over everything, he alone maintained his aplomb, with his silver chain around his neck, his cold eyes in which the bare shoulders of the women kindled no flame, and his air of a eunuch serving Parisians of the decadent era without forfeiting his dignity.
At last Renée rose uneasily to her feet. Everyone else followed suit. The guests adjourned to the drawing room, where coffee was served.
The main salon was a long vast room, a sort of gallery extending from one pavilion to the other and occupying the entire façade on the garden side. A wide French door opened onto the terrace. The gallery was resplendent with gold. The ceiling, slightly arched, was decorated with whimsical scrolls wound around huge gilt medallions that gleamed like shields. Splendid rosettes and garlands lined the edge of the arch. Sprays of gold, like jets of molten metal, ran along the walls, framing the panels, which were covered with red silk. Plaited stems topped by bouquets of rose blossoms hung beside mirrors. An Aubusson carpet covering the parquet showed off its purple flowers. The damasked red silk upholstery, door curtains, and drapes; the enormous rockwork clock on the fireplace; the Chinese vases on their consoles; the feet of the two long tables embellished with Florentine mosaics; and even the jardinières in the embrasures next to the windows—all of these things sweated and dripped with gold. In the four corners of the room, four large lamps stood on pedestals of red marble from which chains of gilded bronze were draped with symmetrical grace. And from the ceiling hung three crystal chandeliers, shedding droplets of blue and pink light whose ardent glow set all the gold in the salon ablaze.
The men soon withdrew to the smoking room. M. de Mussy came over and in a familiar way took Maxime by the arm. He had known the boy at school, even though he was six years older. Mussy led his younger schoolmate out onto the terrace and after both had lit cigars began to complain bitterly about Renée.
“So tell me, what’s got into her? I saw her yesterday, and she was delightful. But today she’s treating me as though it were all over between us. What crime could I have committed? It would be awfully nice of you, my dear Maxime, if you’d ask her what’s the matter and tell her how much she’s making me suffer.”
“Oh, no, not that! Never!” Maxime replied with a laugh. “Renée has a case of nerves, and I’m not keen to bear the brunt of her wrath. Figure it out for yourself, and take care of your own business.”
After slowly exhaling the smoke from his Havana cigar, he finished his thought. “That’s a fine role you’d have me play!”
Mussy professed his warm friendship for Maxime, however, and told the younger man that he was only waiting for an opportunity to prove his devotion to him. He loved Renée so much, he said, that it was making him miserable.
“All right, then,” Maxime finally gave in. “Have it your way. I’ll speak to her. But I promise you nothing. She’s certain to turn me away.”
They returned to the smoking room and stretched out in big lounging chairs. For the next half hour, Mussy poured out his woes to Maxime. For the tenth time he told the young man how he had fallen in love with his stepmother and how she had been kind enough to single him out.