The Kill - Emile Zola [84]
When Maxime came over to join her at the rail, where she stood lost in thought, he smiled at the sight of a half-open window in the Café Anglais. The idea that his father was having supper across the way struck him as comical, but this evening peculiar inhibitions subdued his usual banter. Renée was reluctant to leave the railing. An intoxication, a languor, rose from the more obscure depths of the boulevard. As the rumble of traffic faded and the bright lights dimmed, she felt a tender summons to sensuousness and sleep. The fleeting whispers she heard, the groups of men and women she saw loitering in dark corners, turned the sidewalk into a vast inn at the hour when travelers take to their beds for the night. The light and noise grew fainter and fainter, the city went to sleep, and soft breezes caressed the rooftops.
When the young woman turned around, light from the small chandelier made her blink. She was a little pale now, and a slight quivering was noticeable at the corners of her mouth. Charles laid out the dessert. He went out and came back in, leaving the door swinging slowly on its hinges as he went about his business in the phlegmatic manner of a proper gentleman.
“But I’m not hungry anymore,” Renée exclaimed. “Take all those dishes away and serve us coffee.”
The waiter, accustomed to the whims of the women he served, took away the dessert and poured the coffee. He filled the room with his importance.
“Please tell him to go,” Renée, feeling sick, said to Maxime.
The young man dismissed him, but no sooner had he vanished than he returned once more to hermetically seal the heavy window drapes in his discreet manner. When he finally withdrew, Maxime, also in the grip of impatience, got up and went to the door.
“Wait,” he said, “I’ll see to it that he leaves us alone.”
And he pushed the bolt shut.
“That’s that,” she replied. “Now at least we can make ourselves at home.”
They went back to sharing confidences and gossiping like old comrades. Maxime lit a cigar. Renée sipped her coffee and even allowed herself a glass of chartreuse. The room heated up and filled with bluish smoke. After a while she placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin on two half-clenched fists. Under this slight pressure her mouth grew smaller, her cheeks were lifted up a bit, and her eyes, narrowed somewhat, glowed more brightly. Distorted in this way, her small face looked lovely under the shower of golden curls that now dangled down to her eyebrows. Maxime stared at her through the smoke from his cigar. She was definitely an original. At times he was no longer quite sure of her sex. The large wrinkle across her forehead, the pouting protrusion of her lips, and the vagueness in her eyes because of her nearsightedness made her look like a nearly grown young man, particularly since her long black satin blouse went so high that a line of fleshy white neck was barely visible beneath her chin. She submitted to his stare with a smile, holding her head steady, staring vacantly, and keeping her lips sealed.
Then she woke abruptly. She went over and looked at herself in the mirror, which she had been eyeing vaguely for a short while. She raised herself on tiptoes and held on to the mantelpiece so as to read the signatures and risqué comments that had frightened her before the meal. With some difficulty she deciphered the syllables, laughed, and went on reading, like a schoolboy turning the pages of Piron’s obscene poetry3 inside his desk.
“Ernest and