The Kill - Emile Zola [87]
The cab stopped, and Maxime got out first to help Renée down. But he did not dare kiss her there at the side gate of the park. They touched hands as usual. She was already past the fence when, feeling a need to say something, she revealed a worry that had been vaguely on her mind since leaving the restaurant: “By the way, what was that comb the waiter mentioned?”
“Comb?” the embarrassed Maxime repeated. “Why, I have no idea.”
It was suddenly clear to Renée. A comb was undoubtedly part of the room’s regular equipment, along with the curtains, the lock on the door, and the divan. Without waiting for an explanation that was not forthcoming, she plunged into the darkness of the park, walking rapidly as she imagined herself pursued by tortoiseshell teeth in which Laure d’Aurigny and Sylvia had probably left strands of blond and black hair. She felt quite feverish. Céleste had to put her to bed and watch over her until morning. Maxime, standing on the sidewalk on the boulevard Malesherbes, briefly pondered whether he ought to go join the revelers at the Café Anglais. But then, with the idea that he was punishing himself, he decided that he should go to bed instead.
The next day, Renée woke late from a deep and dreamless sleep. She had a big fire laid in the fireplace and announced that she would spend the day in her room. That was her refuge in times of distress. Around noon, her husband, on learning that she would not be coming down for lunch, asked permission to speak to her for a moment. She was on the point of refusing, with a twinge of anxiety, when she thought better of it. The evening before she had given Saccard a bill from Worms in the amount of 136,000 francs, a rather large sum, and no doubt he hoped to please her by handing her the receipt in person.
She thought of yesterday’s little curls. Mechanically, she looked at the mirror and saw her hair, which Céleste had done up in big braids. Then she curled up by the corner of the fire, wrapping herself in a lace dressing-gown. Saccard, whose apartment was also on the second floor, symmetrical with his wife’s, came into her room as a husband would, wearing slippers. He set foot there little more than once a month, always in connection with some delicate financial matter. This morning he had the red eyes and pallid complexion of a man who has not slept. He gallantly kissed his young wife’s hand.
“You’re feeling sick, my dear?” he said as he sat down next to the other corner of the fireplace. “A little migraine, I suppose? . . . Forgive me for adding to your headaches with a lot of financial gibberish, but the situation is rather serious.”
From the pocket of his dressing gown he withdrew Worms’s bill, which Renée recognized by the glossy paper.
“I found this bill on my desk yesterday,” he continued, “and I’m sorry, but I absolutely cannot pay it at the present time.”
Out of the corner of his eye he studied the effect that these words had on his wife. She seemed completely stunned. Smiling, he resumed his speech: “You know, my dear, I’m not in the habit of going over your expenses, but I must say I was rather taken aback by certain items in this bill. For instance, here on page two, I see: ‘Ball gown: fabric, 70 fr.; tailoring, 600 fr.; money lent, 5,000 fr.; eau du Dr. Pierre, 6 fr.’ That’s quite a lot for a seventy-franc dress. . . . But you know I understand all these foibles. Your bill comes to 136,000 francs, and you’ve restrained yourself, almost, relatively speaking, I mean. . . . But I repeat, I cannot pay, I’m strapped at the moment.”
She reached out in a gesture of restrained spite.
“So be it,” she said curtly. “Give me back the bill. I’ll take care of it.”
“I see that you don’t believe me,” Saccard muttered, savoring as a triumph his wife’s incredulousness in regard to his financial difficulties. “I’m not saying that my position is in jeopardy, but business is in something