The Kill - Emile Zola [24]
Now she found herself there with her intimates. Her sister and aunt had just left. Only the inner circle remained, the fast crowd. Half-reclining on one of the love seats, Renée listened to the confidences of her friend Adeline, who whispered in her ear while making kittenish expressions punctuated by bursts of laughter. Suzanne Haffner had gathered quite a crowd. She was holding forth to a group of young men, who pressed in close without disturbing her German languor or subduing her provocative impudence, as naked and cold as her shoulders. In a corner Mme Sidonie, speaking in a low voice, was indoctrinating a young woman with the eyelashes of a Madonna. A little farther off, Louise stood chatting with a tall, shy youth, who blushed, while Baron Gouraud slumbered in his armchair in the bright light, his flabby flesh and elephantine frame making a stark contrast with the frail grace and silky delicacy of the women. In the room, meanwhile, a fantastic light rained like gold dust on satin skirts as hard-edged and polished as porcelain and on shoulders whose milky whiteness sparkled with diamonds. A fluting voice and laughter like a cooing of doves could be heard with crystal clarity. It was very hot. Fans fluttered slowly to and fro, like wings, each stroke sending a musky fragrance of bosom wafting into the languid air.
When Maxime appeared in the doorway, Renée, who had been listening to the marquise with half an ear, suddenly stood up as if to attend to her duties as hostess. She moved into the main drawing room, and the young man followed. After walking a short distance and shaking a few hands, she drew Maxime aside.
“So,” she whispered. “The chore turned out to be a rather pleasant one. Making love to her isn’t such a fool’s errand after all.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” replied the young man, who had come to plead the case of M. de Mussy.
“Why, it looks to me as though I did well not to rescue you from Louise. You two aren’t wasting any time.”
With some annoyance she added, “It was indecent, the way you were carrying on at the dinner table.”
Maxime burst out laughing.
“Yes, of course, we were telling each other stories. I had no idea what sort of girl she was. She’s funny. She looks like a boy.”
Since Renée continued to wear an expression of prudish annoyance, the young man, who had never known her to get angry about such things, continued in his joshingly familiar way. “Do you suppose, stepmother dear, that I squeezed her knee under the table? What the devil do you take me for? I know how to behave with a fiancée! . . . Listen, I have something more serious to talk to you about. . . . Are you listening?”
He lowered his voice even more.
“What I came to tell you is that Mussy is very unhappy. He told me so himself just a few minutes ago. Now, if you two have quarreled, I have no intention of patching it up. But I knew him at school, you know, and since he looked truly desperate, I promised him I’d speak to you.”
He stopped. Renée fixed him with a look that was impossible to define.
“You have nothing to say?” he continued. “It makes no difference to me. I’ve done my errand. Settle it as you like. But honestly, I think you’re cruel. It pained me to look at the poor fellow. If I were you, I’d at least send him a nice note.”
At that, Renée, who had not stopped staring at Maxime with fire in her eyes, said, “Tell M. de Mussy that he bores me.”
Then she returned to her guests, smiling, nodding, and shaking hands as she wandered among them. Maxime, looking stunned, stood where she had left him. Then he laughed to himself.
In no haste to deliver Renée’s message to M. de Mussy, Maxime took a turn about the drawing room. The evening, at once marvelous and banal like all such evenings, was drawing to a close. It was close to midnight, and people were slowly making their way out. Not wanting to turn in on an unpleasant note, he decided to look for Louise.