The Kill - Emile Zola [96]
At around one o’clock Saccard disappeared. He had savored his wife’s success as a man who has successfully pulled the wool over people’s eyes. He had once again shored up his credit. A business matter called him to Laure d’Aurigny’s. In leaving he asked Maxime to escort Renée home after the ball.
Maxime had spent the evening quietly at Louise de Mareuil’s side, both of them very much occupied with making disparaging comments about every woman who passed. Whenever they noticed some particularly egregious bit of fatuousness, they stifled their laughter with their handkerchiefs. Renée had to come over and ask the young man for his arm so that she could leave the salons. In the carriage she exhibited a nervous gaiety. She was still aflutter with the intoxicating mix of light, perfume, and noise she had just sampled. In any case she seemed to have forgotten their “foolishness” on the boulevard, as Maxime called it. Yet she queried him in a strange tone of voice: “So that little hunchback Louise is quite amusing, is she?”
“Oh, very amusing!” the young man responded, laughing some more. “You saw Duchess von Sternich with a yellow bird in her hair, didn’t you? . . . Well, would you believe that Louise says it’s a mechanical bird that flaps its wings and cries, ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo!’ at the poor duke every hour?”
Renée found this emancipated schoolgirl’s joke quite amusing. When they arrived home, as Maxime was about to say good night, she said, “Won’t you come up? Céleste has probably made me something to eat.”
He went up with his usual carefree manner. But no snack was waiting upstairs, and Céleste had gone to bed. Renée had to light the three candles in a small candlestick. Her hand was shaking a little.
“That idiot,” she said, referring to her chambermaid. “She must have misunderstood my orders. . . . I’ll never be able to undress all by myself.”
She went into her dressing room. Maxime followed her, intending to repeat another of Louise’s jokes, which had just come to him. Feeling as much at home as he would have felt in a friend’s apartment, he was already looking for his cigar case so that he could light a Havana. But Renée put down the candlestick, turned, and fell, speechless and provocative, into the young man’s arms, pressing her mouth to his.
Renée’s private apartment was a nest of silk and lace, a marvel of stylish luxury. A small boudoir preceded the bedroom. The two rooms were really just one, or at any rate the boudoir was little more than the antechamber of the bedroom, a large alcove furnished with chaises longues and a pair of curtains in lieu of a door. The walls of both rooms were hung with a heavy gray silk brocade featuring enormous bouquets of roses, white lilacs, and buttercups. The window and door curtains were of Venetian lace lined with alternating strips of gray and pink silk.