The Kill - Emile Zola [94]
“Money troubles again!” she said, as if she were speaking of troubles of the heart, in a tone full of sweetness and pity.
Renée lowered her eyelids and nodded.
“Ah! If only my brothers listened to me, we’d all be rich. But they shrug their shoulders whenever I bring up that debt of three billion francs, you know. . . . My hopes are nevertheless still high. For the past ten years I’ve longed to go to England. I have so little time for myself ! . . . I finally made up my mind to write to London, and I’m waiting for a response.”
When Renée smiled, Mme Sidonie went on: “I know, you don’t believe me either. But you’ll be happy enough if I make you a gift one of these days of a nice round million. . . . You know, the story is quite simple: a banker from Paris lent the money to the son of the king of England, and since the banker died without a legitimate heir, the government is now entitled to demand repayment of the debt with compound interest. I’ve done the calculation, and it comes to 2,943,210,000 francs. . . . Rest assured, it will come, it will come.”
“In the meantime,” Renée put in with a touch of irony in her voice, “you might get someone to lend me 100,000 francs so that I could pay my tailor, who’s been giving me a hard time.”
“A hundred thousand francs can be found,” Mme Sidonie replied evenly. “It’s simply a matter of paying the price.”
The fireplace glowed. Renée, more languid than ever, stretched out her legs and revealed the tips of her slippers at the bottom of her dressing gown. The businesswoman’s tone reverted to pity.
“Poor dear, you’re really not reasonable. . . . I know many women, but I’ve never seen one who takes as little care of her health. You know, that Michelin girl is one who knows how to manage! I can’t help thinking of you when I see her happy and doing so well. . . . Do you know that M. de Saffré is madly in love with her and has already given her gifts worth almost 10,000 francs? . . . I believe her dream is to have a house in the country.”
Growing animated, she fumbled in her pocket.
“I have here a letter from an unfortunate young woman. . . . If we had a little light, I’d let you read it. . . . You see, her husband doesn’t take care of her. She was forced to borrow from a man I know and signed some IOUs. I was the one who had to pry the notes from the sheriff ’s clutches, and it took some doing. . . . Do you think those poor children were naughty? I welcome them in my home as if they were my son and daughter.”
“You know someone who lends money?” Renée asked casually.
“I know ten people who do. . . . You’re too good. Between women, we can speak frankly, no? Just because your husband is my brother is no reason to excuse him for running after tramps and leaving a lovely woman like you moldering by the fire. . . . This Laure d’Aurigny costs him a king’s ransom. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he refused you the money. He did refuse it to you, didn’t he? . . . The wretch!”
Renée listened complacently to this soft voice, which emerged from the shadows like a still-vague echo of her own dreams. Her eyes half-closed, she was practically lying down in her armchair and had forgotten that Mme Sidonie was there. She fancied she had dreamed of evil thoughts coming to her and tempting her with gentle blandishments. The businesswoman spoke at length, like a monotonous flow of lukewarm water.
“It’s Mme de Lauwerens who ruined your life. You’ve never wanted to believe me. You wouldn’t be there crying by your fireplace if you’d been willing to trust me. . . . And I love you as I love my own eyes, my pretty. Your foot is ravishing. You’re going to laugh at me, but I have to tell you how mad I am about you: if I go three days without seeing you, I absolutely must come to pay my respects. Yes, I feel I’m missing something. I need to feast my eyes on your beautiful hair, your face so white and delicate, your slender waist. . . . Really, I’ve never seen another woman with a figure like yours.”
In the end Renée smiled. Not even her lovers displayed such warmth,