Tuesday morning, 10A. M.My dear little Zozé: I am sure I do know what I could have been thinking of at the dance last night when I told you we would lunch together in our little nest. I pledged myself to the Mathays a week ago. Thank Heaven, I remembered it in time. We shall make up for this. Forgive my carelessness; till to-day at 4. In haste, all the kisses of your oldG.
Tuesday morning, 10A. M.
My dear little Zozé: I am sure I do know what I could have been thinking of at the dance last night when I told you we would lunch together in our little nest. I pledged myself to the Mathays a week ago. Thank Heaven, I remembered it in time. We shall make up for this. Forgive my carelessness; till to-day at 4. In haste, all the kisses of your old
G.
Quietly she folded the note and laid it on the wash-stand. Then she selected two small pearl-headed pinsand carefully pinned them on her broad-winged cravat. She found it growing too hard for her to repress her feelings, however, and there was a catch in her voice as she murmured:
“Leave these things, Anna! Bring me my pink negligé....”
“Madame, then, is not going out?” the maid protested, in feigned surprise.
Mme. Chambannes threw her corsage on a chair and feverishly began to unfasten her skirt.
“No! I am not going out.”
“Will Madame lunch here? Shall I call the cook?” “Yes.... No....” Zozé stammered out. “Tell her to prepare lunch for me ... whatever she has....”
“Very well, Madame.”
A moment later she returned holding on her arm a long soft gown with pink ribbons. Mme. Chambannes slipped into it; while she fastened the ribbons she ordered dryly:
“Go now!”
Anna disappeared. Mme. Chambannes dropped into a little cretonne-covered armchair.
They were not to lunch together. It was certain, definite, irrevocable. Between her and that Mathay woman Gerald had not even hesitated. Yet he must have foreseen how it would hurt her, and what poignant disappointment he would cause her by breaking his promise at the last moment.
Wretch! She conjured up a picture of him, sitting at the dining table beside the countess, that small fair-haired woman with her turned-up nose, her childish, impudent, saucy face. He was making himself pleasant, prattling pretty nonsense, fashioning his glances to hers and using his big eyes to offer himself. The lunch was perhaps ending, they were going into the hall to drink their coffee! Who knew? Mathay might be going out, leaving them alone, like the great fool of a husband he was! Well, then, what would happen? Did they not all know that young giddy countess? She had no name for being a stronghold, the Capitol!... Oh! what infamy! what an abject situation!
Mme. Chambannes would have liked to snatch out her own heart and hurl it through the window, far, far away. Her nails caught at her gown where it was beating against the armor of her corset. Her mind dwelt on reprisals, as it did whenever she saw Geral treason as an accomplished fact.
Yes! She would have revenge! She would do as he did; she would give herself to another, to anyone of the many who made love to her. Names of men began to surge in her mind, with proper settings. There was the studio of Mazuccio, the little sculptor, the flat of Burzig or that of Pums, the husband of her friend Flora. They were all eager to welcome her; all would receive her as a queen who condescended to offer herself. She would cry out from the door: “Here I am! Take me!” And they wouldfall on their knees, stammering their thanks with tears of happiness.
These flattering visions quieted her. She walked to her dressing-room, trying to fix upon her choice. To whom would she appeal? They were equally repugnant to her. As she imagined herself in the arms of any of them, a shiver of repulsion caused her to shake her head. Phew! She would require too much courage for her spite to make her lower herself to that extent! Moreover, it might be that none of them was free. She would then risk a polite refusal! No ... everything was against it ... and she admitted sadly to herself that, besides, she never could go through with it!
She fell back into her armchair. Her muscles pained her as if she had been walking all day.
She took up the note from the marble. As she read it again, every word in it seemed an insult or a lie. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sorrow took the place of rage. How nasty, how cold and pitiless Gerald was sometimes! She wished for the near presence of some mothering friend who could understand and pity her, in whom she could confide and who would weep with her. Yet she had none! Alas, neither Flora Pums, nor Rose Silberschmidt, nor Germaine de Marquesse, her friends with whom she had followed the lessons of Levannier, nor her kind Aunt Panhias had a soul that was lofty and charitable enough! Zoz pride revolted at the very idea of their concealed joy or their coarse comforting words.
She fell to sobbing again.
An impression rose in her that she was stranded on a desert island. She would have readily welcomed death. In such dramatic moments she felt forlorn, very much the “little Mouzarkhi girl,” quite alone and alien, this unfortunate Mme. Chambannes, for all her French name and Parisian education! She was only a poor exotic flower, planted near the surface of an alien land and the short roots she had taken gave way at the slightest storm as if they were mere threads! There was no help for her in her distress! She had not even the solace of a trust in Heaven, of a refuge in God, since she had been brought up without any religion. When she wanted to pray, there came back to her nothing but a short, strange prayer, one that her kind Aunt Panhias used to make her repeat every night when she was a child, kneeling down in her nightdress by the side of her bed. Unconsciously she now repeated it.
“Be blessed, O my God!
“Help me to be good, to work well, to satisfy Father, Mother, my aunt and my uncle and not to let Father be ruined on the Stock Exchange to-morrow. Amen!”
The last words brought a smile to her lips. She remembered her father, dead these seven years, her good old father, at once so strangely kind and so dishonest.
He had been a type, that Mouzarkhi. His originhad remained obscure and inexplicable to his intimates, to his own countrymen as much as to the others.
He had, one day, landed in Paris from Aleppo, without knowing anyone, with no references, no patrons of any kind. In six months he had gained, on ‘Change, one of the most powerful situations any broker could secure there. Of course, people said that he gambled and gained more by his coups than through his commissions. But he enjoyed the benefit of the respectful indulgence which, in such circles, is readily bestowed upon lucky gamblers. Nor did he hide his speculations. He had sworn to stop, to give up all work, as soon as he reached the million mark. He was on the eve of touching it when he met with his first smash. His liabilities amounted to twice his assets. He disappeared discreetly for a few weeks. Then he came back. He was active, cordial, and ingenuous and rapidly built himself up a new credit and a new clientele. His activities had now assumed a nobler aim, that of paying his debts. During the next two years he was most regular in paying sums on account. At the end of that time, there was left only an amount of 300,000 francs for him to pay. He lost patience, however, gambled once more to liberate himself faster, and thus he met his second “smash.” Ill-luck did not break him. Once more he took up his traffic, leading a merry, easy-going life, working, paying off, speculating, being “hammered,” springing up again like a light, strong balloon. He did not, however, survive his sixth smash. That timehe had fallen from too high a flight, from a fictitious fortune of at least two millions down to nothing. He died of apoplexy, right on ‘Change, insolvent, of course, but leaving the reputation of a very sympathetic fellow and of a highly gifted financier.
He had, nevertheless, as a good father should, assured beforehand the future of his family.
First of all, when Mme. Mouzarkhi had died a few years after their arrival in Paris, he had called his brother-in-law, M. Panhias, and his wife, and entrusted them with the bringing up of little Zozé. Where had they come from? From Aleppo, Ghazir or Stambul? Were they Greeks, Jews, Turks or Maronites? Nobody had been able to find out, since the Panhias had proved as reserved concerning their origin as M. Mouzarkhi himself. Both had an undefinable accent which suggested all in one the Spanish, the Hungarian and the Moldo-Vallach languages. Panhias, modest and reserved, acted as confidential clerk in his brother-in-la business house. Mme. Panhias watched with faithful care over the education of the little girl; she took her to her lessons during the day and sat up with her in the evenings, while the father went to the theater or elsewhere. She was large, pleasant and, by fits, communicative. Through her, people learned that the Panhias had not been seriously affected by the débâcle of their relation and that they still had, despite their losses, about 15,000 a year. Upon the other points, she had preservedthe silence which was a traditional virtue of the family.
Again, M. Mouzarkhi had had the foresight to give his daughter a husband, a year before taking his final jump. The affair, which had been broached by one of his Bourse colleagues, had not been settled without difficulties. They were cautious on both sides. Inquiring agencies had been consulted and forwarded particulars that induced certain fears. They gave M. Mouzarkhi the character of a man personally popular among his colleagues but with a credit that was doubtful and often weak. As to George Chambannes, the son of a little doctor in the province of Berri, himself an ex-student of the École Centrale, they made him out to be an engineer of talent, industrious and daring, but one who had, so far, achieved nothing and who sought his way through dubious enterprises. They had, however, debated the matter on both sides, each side feeling that too much precaution would be out of place. A compromise was struck, on the ground of future expectations, of respective faith in better times to come. Finally the negotiations came to a successful issue.
Zozé, who had but one wish—marriage which would free her from the Panhias guardianship and assure her liberty, showed her willingness from her first meeting with young Chambannes. He was, moreover, good-looking and smart and had caressing, winning ways. He did not insist upon a Church wedding when M. Mouzarkhi, who was anxious to preserveneutrality—or was it his incognito?—in religious matters, declared it would be contrary to his principles, as an “Old Republican” and a positivist. In truth, Zozé would have had to exhibit a baptismal certificate; M. Mouzarkhi had neglected to provide her with one; the need to obtain one now would further delay the marriage. Thus they were married at the city hall. The whole of the Petite Bourse flocked to the place; there were even a few persons from the Haute Banque, among whose numbers M. Mouzarkhi counted, if no friends, at least some admirers. The evening came and the young couple settled down in a pretty mansion on the rue de Prony, a wedding present from the financier. To the house he had added a capital of 100,000 francs in order to help the engineer find that road to success which he was seeking.
George Chambannes found nothing at all, but he spent the whole amount in the course of the next two years and heavily mortgaged the mansion.
Nor did he cut down expenses. Quite the contrary. He kept them up and even increased them, by means of gambling, secret expedients and unsavory manipulations. Gossips said that he was in receipt of money from some generous old ladies, whose names were quoted. These rumors found few incredulous listeners, because Chambannes was handsome, a spendthrift, and with no visible profession or resources. Discredit is like glory; it has its own legends which everyone, out of spite or stupidity, wishes to credit.Zozé was not alarmed at his spending his nights in gambling houses, leaving his own bed untouched, or at his seeming peevish. She had never known what financial embarrassment meant, even during the unlucky periods of her fathe career. To pocket sums of money and, when these were squandered, to ask for, and receive more, seemed to her to be woma natural functions. Only a refusal, a reproach or a check upon her luxurious ways could have worried her. But George never was stingy.
It was only after she heard from a friend that George was running after women that she modified her existence. The change was hardly perceptible; it took place without scenes or noise. She took a lover.
The latter was a relation of hers whom she deemed her cousin. His name was Demetrius Vassipoulo. He had not been more than eighteen months in Paris, was quite young—just turned three and twenty—and sported a thin brown mustache that seemed drawn with a pencil; yet Demetrius was already racing up on the footsteps of his Uncle Mouzarkhi. His future was already being discounted “on ‘Change,” as if it had been a state loan; he would surely make a colossal fortune or suffer a far-echoing bankruptcy.
All day he ran through Paris, reclining in his carriage, which was hired by the month. His languid arm lay on the folded hood, like that of a rich capitalist stretching himself out. The brass on the harness and the hors bell signaled his arrival and sparkled in the sunshine, his ensigns of triumph.
Zozé loved him three months. He had the hot passion of an animal and the ingenuousness of a savage. He amused her and she told of his ardor to two or three intimate friends who drew comparisons with their own lovers. She initiated him into the attractions of social life, covering his candor with the web of established customs, just as his tailor dressed him according to fashion.
However, she was tired of Demetrius after three months. She kept him for another two, out of kindness, she thought, albeit it was really out of caution and, perhaps unwittingly, because she had not found a better.
The moment she fancied that she had discovered the matchless lover, she wasted no time in breaking with the youthful financier. She gave as a pretext that her husband had been warned and that she had to safeguard her honor. Demetrius wept bitterly and roared out his sorrow in words so harsh sounding that one might have thought it the cry of a stricken lion. Zozé felt remorseful during a whole week. At night she imagined herself hearing again his unintelligible cries. She dreamt of wild animals threatening her. Her new lover reproached her with being gloomy and sighing without cause.
Her grief was not really eased until she saw Demetrius one night at theNoveau Cirque. He was in evening dress, with a white bow and carnations in his buttonhole; leaning on the front seat of a privatebox, by the side of a fat blonde girl, he was blowing his smoke in the faces of the clowns.
Henceforth she felt no qualms; Lastours, her new lover, had no further cause to complain.
He dealt in paintings in a little house in the rue ffémont. He was dark and bald, with the beard of a minion, a brutal mouth and the hands of a street-porter. He held an advantageous place in the syndicate of those painter-dealers whom the Paris of theparvenusfreely provides with both a living and notoriety. He frequented assiduously the fashionable drawing-rooms of the smart set, mixed with the élite of clubs and art circles, dressed like a sportsman, was as funny as a low comedian and carried about him a vague perfume of something beyond, an aristocratic vapor which seemed to float above his square shoulders. Listening to him, Zozé felt nearer the world of fashion. He was to her the higher step on the social ladder; merely to see that step was as good as believing she was on it and she clung to it with delight. She admired, as if they stood for the finest wit, his studio gossip, his prankish school ditties and the obscenity of his conversation. He had but to say a word and she laughed outright; she rushed to satisfy his slightest whim; in three months Chambannes took three paintings off his hands. Nevertheless Lastours soon abused his privilege. She dreamed of nothing else but the satisfaction of his desires and yet he treated her like a servant, ill-treated her when he wasin bad humor; he even ordered the gentle Zozé, after their meetings, to fasten his boots for him.
Such insolence, daily renewed, exasperated the unhappy woman and acted upon her love as water upon flames.
She was fresh, loving and of a pleasant disposition; why should she be denied that happiness of the heart which fell to the lot of so many other women less beautiful than she was? In moments of passing intuition, Zozé gave herself the melancholy reply: They were often less beautiful, that was true, but they were Parisiennes; they were well read and resolute; they operated upon their native soil, while she was a little Mouzarkhi, blindly floating at the whim of her instincts, groping and stranded more than any girl lost on alien soil!... The next day, with renewed hope, she would go back to Lastours!
When she ceased to love him, she wanted to avenge the outrages he had piled upon her. Following a banal, instinctive strategy, she gave herself to one of his friends—also a painter and one of Lastours’ competitors—by the name of Montiers, who lived two doors further down the street.
This man was fat and red-headed and concealed his nature even less than the other had done. He was more ambitious and greedy for money than Lastours and entertained not the least intention of wasting his time with women. It was business before anything else with him. For the sake of a prospective sale, a meeting with a client or a patro call, he would dismiss Zozé or put off her visit without hesitation.Once he had kept her, frozen and crazy with fear, shut up for a whole hour in the dark closet used by his models to disrobe in, because some rich American had chanced to turn up at the studio during her visit.
When the American had departed, Montiers walked about the room so elated by his successful transaction that he forgot to deliver his prisoner. He only opened the door when he heard her cries; and when he opened it he smiled, seeing only the humorous side of the affair, while Zozé wept for vexation and grief.
After six weeks such treatment she was thoroughly disgusted with Montiers, and with fashionable painters, and indeed—or so she thought—with adventurousaffairesin general.
Who would have thought that these men, who were outwardly so courteous, so much made of and so much petted by the most beautiful women, could prove themselves so mean upon intimacy? Why should she keep up these casual liaisons, expose herself to such insults which lacked even the excuse of accompanying tenderness; why seek happiness in love instead of waiting for it?
What, moreover, did she lack in order to be the most envied young woman?
George was spending more nights at home: he showed himself more courteous and took her frequently to dances and plays. On her last birthday he had hired a carriage by the month for her. His affairs were at last taking a better turn. He wasgradually paying off his bills and the interest due on the mortgage. Zozé had a vague idea that he was consulting engineer to a large mining company owning mines in Bosnia.
A sort of Indian summer of affection brought her suddenly nearer to her husband. She boasted of it to her friends and declared that the age of folly had passed for her. In order to fill the vacancy left by her lovers, she threw herself with ardor into the pleasures of the mind.
Mercilessly, without choice or respite, she read every new book her bookseller offered her. Memoirs, fiction, poetry and travel books merely whetted her appetite. “I am devouring them!” she would say. And in point of fact, that was precisely what she did; she swallowed and engulfed her readings; she digested nothing, retained nothing.
She became a subscriber to lectures, delighted in old songs and waxed enthusiastic over new ones. She went to concerts on Sundays and dreamt in music of her past liaisons. The only branch of intellectual pleasure she neglected was painting; she never went to the Salon, out of spite for the painters. However, no light of understanding pierced through this chaos of contrary studies. Mme. Chambannes was surprised that, having learned so much, she had not acquired more assurance. Her opinions ran away from her call, like so many flies. She stammered whenever she had to express a personal view. And, in the end, the joys of the intellect bored her....
Her memories of the next two years were misty....
What had she been doing during those two years? She remembered that George had received the Légion onneur on the 14th of July. But the rest, her furious hunt for the perfect lover whom her heart and her senses called for in spite of herself—what was there left of it? Was it not withered, pressed tight at the back of her brain by weightier and more urgent affairs? Two anemic shadows re-appeared at her conjuring, standing in a dim, gray light: herself invariably one of them; while the other was this one or that one, names and features forgotten, or confusedly mixed up under the stamp of time. There had been flirtations at dances, some mild drives in closed carriages, unfinished kisses, mere sketches of self-giving, several vain attempts to reach the ideal and many false hopes and shattered illusions. How could she have felt any affection for those men, those German bank clerks, those exotic, dumpy fellows, more elaborately dressed than gentlemen should be and more caddish than the worst bounders could be! Had she given herself to them? Perhaps she had. To one or two of them, or to none at all? In sooth, she was not at all positive about it. Later, when she gravely swore to Gerald that she had never had but one lover, her conscious fib put that bungling little Mouzarkhi girl only two out of reckoning!
Her search was not guided solely by mere animality.
She longed secretly for an ideal lover. Her day dreams accentuated one feature after the other of his exquisite portrait. But the imagination of many women acts as their body does. It can reproduce but not create. That of Mme. Chambannes, impregnated by the reading of fashionable novels, was acting on a given formula.
She imagined the expected hero with a large blonde beard, melancholy eyes wherein passed at times the moist shadow of an old sorrow; he would also have an income of 30,000 or 40,000 francs and a name which, if not a noble one, belonged at least to the smart and wealthy bourgeoisie.
He would have bitterly suffered at the hands of women, of one especially, a treacherous actress, in love with deceit, notoriety and money. Unwittingly, Mme. Chambannes allowed her mind to dwell on this last point.... The disillusioned lover to come would lift his upper lip in a contraction that showed what bitter experiences he had undergone. From his lips would surge blasphemies against the perfidious sex, ma enemy. Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would tenderly stop the anathemas with her kisses; she would lay that sorrowful head upon her breast and bring smiles back to those defiant lips. If necessary, and he wished it, she would go away with him. They would then become exiles on a small English island, far from the wicked world, and stay for hours together sitting alone on the sands of the seashore, hand in hand, indefinitely contemplating thechanging play of the waves or the ships returning home.
Why did this hero fail to arrive? She had made everything ready to receive him, even to follow him; down to an imaginary list of dresses and things which she would hurriedly pile up in a wicker trunk held by yellow straps and covered on the outside with a shining piece of black cowhide!
He tarried on his way, but he did arrive.
He was of the stay-at-home variety, selfish, titled, a libertine, he wore no beard, he had no languorous airs and no spite against anyone. Nevertheless Mme. Chambannes adored him from the very first.
His name was Gerald de Meuze, son of the Marquis de Meuze, of the Poitou branch of the Meuzes. George had known him at college and later lost sight of him.
The introduction occurred at one of the Auteuil races. It was a quiet Thursday, almost an intimate spring meeting. It proved decisive.
George, out of pride or his passion for gambling, soon left them alone to look after his bets, and Gerald stuck close to Mme. Chambannes.
He walked her out before the reserved seats, escorted her to the paddock, lost his way with her behind the buildings on the broad green expanses which were deserted by the public whenever a new race began.
A strong odor of hay, damp and sharp as a sea air-laden breeze, entered their lungs. Mme. Chambannescould hardly speak for happiness. A new ecstasy caused her breasts to tremble under her light silk blouse. She walked with her head bent forward, her eyes aimlessly watching the tips of her shiny patent leather shoes sliding on the grass. At last the longed-for lover had come! She had got hold of him! No power could have dissuaded her! She laughed nervously at all the remarks of Gerald, thinking that, when she looked at him she was replying to him; she thought she was losing her mind; the handle of her saffron sunshade trembled against her shoulder.
The little Mouzarkhi girl would have felt even more intoxicated had she heard what was being said of her in the exclusive club members’ tribune, among the friends of the young Count.
They were asking each other, with sly winks, who that pretty little woman was Gerald was keeping so close to. Not one of them knew. A professional? No, she could not be that. Probably a little woman from some sunny, hot land, whom that rascal de Meuze made feel warmer still, in order to tease the baroness.... Why, yes ... the Baroness Mussan ... from whom he had parted ... it was over ... did you know?... Oh, not more than a fortnight.... Just the same, this one was a jolly, good-looking creature!
And the success of Zozé was no less real in the ladies’ tribune.
Of course, the good ladies did not spare her thecontemptuous tone which they used indiscriminately when passing judgment upon all women who were not of their caste: demi-mondaines, actresses or plain bourgeoises. Yet, apart from that disdain, their verdict was a favorable one. They found the strange woman nice, her dress a good fit and Gerald a man of taste. Several maliciously inquired about Zoz name of the baroness who, to save her face, joined the others in praising her.
Yet, Mme. Chambannes perceived nothing of this exciting triumph. How could she discern it? She saw no one in the whole crowd but Gerald, her true mate, her lover to be. She walked on, with evasive glances, like a happy bride advancing to the altar on her wedding day.
She was almost there when the races were over. Gerald had begged her, had pressed her as if he were already her master. He wanted to see her again, to possess her, the very next day. She remembered his ardent voice when, on leaving her, he had dared to whisper in the midst of the crowd, within Georg own hearing:
“Why wo you to-morrow? Oh! please, do refuse me!”
Nevertheless, she had refused, with a slow movement of her head, while her eyes turned up as if plunging into despair.
She had to resist, to oppose this man with as much coldness and as much caution as he was deserving of her love; she had to make him gain her instead ofabandoning herself to him. A voice within her dictated this unusual reserve to Mme. Chambannes; she heeded it like the voice of duty, being persuaded that her delays were safeguarding the future.
She gave in only after a siege of three weeks, at the moment when he had grown discouraged and was on the verge of renouncing his intentions.
During that period, she had thought deeply and found out what she wanted, with that superhuman cunning which women often show in order to arm and defend their threatened passion.
She now knew everything about Gerald. He had led an idle, discontented life since the time of the financial smash of 1882, when, in a fit of juvenile anger, he had resigned his commission in the30th cuirassiers. From the disaster his father had saved him a yearly income of about 40,000 francs. She learned also the names of the people of his set; heard of many of his liaisons, without names this time, all about the last one ... with the baroness; she was told of his antipathy for a world wherein his reduced circumstances no longer allowed him to figure as he wished.
Upon this information, she had rapidly drawn her plans. Two methods were possible in order to keep Gerald a prisoner.
Either she could rise and enter, with his help, the haughty circles of his peers, where he would find no difficulty in introducing and imposing her. She couldthus know of all his movements, easily keep an eve on him and fend off any possible danger.
Or else she could take advantage of his weariness, gently lead him away from this set of which he affected to be tired and afford him, in her own house, a home that would be brighter, easier and more novel.
In the first case, a thousand obstacles stood before her. There would be innumerable petty deeds to perpetrate in the midst of much uncertainty, delay and humiliation. A short while back, Georg candidacy had been “adjourned” in two sporting clubs. The committees of those clubs, more rigorous in their verdicts than a Council of Ministers, had successively denied the white balls of their assent to a man upon whom the Government had bestowed the guarantee of the Cross of Honor. She would therefore expose herself to a rebuff, on this hostile ground, where she would be on an inferior footing. Mme. Chambannes chose the second method.
A few months proved sufficient for her to transform her life, organize receptions and assume regular visiting days. She convened her most attractive friends, some of Geral comrades, men of letters, musicians and even artists, when she had conquered her own repugnance for them. Thus, gradually she established for his evenings, as a supplement to their afternoon meetings elsewhere, a composite but sympathetic salon, a place for simple enjoyment where both men and women could come, without putting on any airs and without afterthoughts, with the soleintention of meeting each other and the firm desire to have a pleasant time.
Mme. Chambannes was near her goal. Gerald was captivated, attracted and firmly held; he surrendered to his lady, swore fealty, faithfulness and lasting love—and made Zoz house his own. He reigned therein, an all-powerful despot, coaxed by the husband, flattered by the visitors, servilely obeyed by Mme. Chambannes who rejoiced in, and was thankful for, the love at last acquired and conquered, the love unique forever, and more than legitimate, since it was even romantic and glorious!... Then came one evening when the young Count brought in his father. The Marquis de Meuze was charmed with his “daughter-in-law,” as he nicknamed Zozé to his own soul. He came again, of his own accord, having found the place attractive, the women pretty and the cooking excellent....
Yet, what struggles, what efforts she had made before she achieved victory! Every day she still had to use her craft and stratagems in order to keep her nobleman, to keep the thieves off and take care of the competition.
Mme. Chambannes thought of these things and gave a deep sigh. She stared aimlessly at the iridescent foam that the sugar sent up to the top of her coffee cup. Suddenly the sullen voice of Anna called her back to her reflections.
“Is Madame going out? May I get Madam clothes ready?”
Mme. Chambannes was stupefied.
“What is the time?” she asked.
“Almost two lock, Madame.”
Two! Why, she had left her room, gone to lunch, eaten and drunk and sat there all that time, not knowing what she was doing, her mind wandering far away, on the obscure paths of the past!
Sleepily, she replied:
“Yes, I am going out.... Give me my blue dress.... My astrakhan coat....”
She went wearily to the window and lifted the curtains. A heavy white mist hung low between the houses. It seemed as if a smoke was rising from everything, from the trees in the park, at the end of her street, from the street pavement and from the asphalt on the sidewalks; even men and horses that passed by threw it out of their nostrils in thick, parallel clouds. Far, far above, the sun gave out a pale light, like a lamp in a room where men have smoked much.
Such a cold, funereal day was a good day for lovemaking, was it not? Mme. Chambannes dreamt. To love Gerald, all kinds of weather seemed propitious to her, as the lower classes think all days are good for drinking.
Where was herRaldonow, he of the great, wide, beloved eyes? How she detested the unworthy wretch!... What were they talking about at theMathays’, in the drawing-room darkened by the fog? Naïvely, she let the curtains down again, as if she feared to see. Once more sobs came to her throat! Well, she must forgot, get some distraction, take a walk until four! Where could she go?
She raked her mind for names; she thought of visits to pay, of dressmakers and modistes. Then all at once she skipped and beat her hands with a childish gesture.
Of course! She had decided on the previous day to invite M. Raindal to her house, to make of him a super, if not a star, at her receptions, a noted and venerable pillar of her salon; why should she waste time, why not seize the opportunity? Tuesday was Mme. Rainda day. Again, there was their daughte accident; to go there and inquire about her—why, these were all pretexts that no one could suspect. She must not lose an instant!
She ran to her room. Ten minutes later, her muff under her arm, she was fastening her gloves outside the house, waiting for the cab she had sent for.
THEcab passed slowly through the parc Monceau, and proceeded faster through the Champs Elysées towards the boulevard Saint Germain.
Mme. Chambannes sat huddled up in the left-hand corner; her feet pressed on the hot water bottle, scorching her soles on the white metal; rocked by the motions of the carriage, she all but closed her eyes.
She opened them for an instant on entering the boulevard Saint Germain, looking out to peep at the rue de Bourgogne where Gerald lived with the Marquis; then she dozed off again.
She preferred not to think, to let herself remain benumbed with sleepiness. Yet, when the cab left the rue de Rennes and turned into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, Mme. Chambannes instinctively straightened herself up, as does a traveler at a change of scenery.
The street was deserted and lined with long, austere buildings. Were they colleges, seminaries or convents? Mme. Chambannes did not know. Most of them had black iron bars that stretched their dark stems against daylight and the noise from outside. Here and there she noticed a few houses that had none and were not quite so high as the others. Beyond them, the bare heads of the trees spread their leaflessbranches. She could guess at courtyards behind, immense gardens and discreet paths where people walked and meditated.
In her own district of the plaine Monceau, there were streets that Mme. Chambannes had thought no less mournful. On some afternoons, even during the week, they gave an impression of Sunday calm and the houses seemed empty of people, as if all had gone to the center, to the gayety of the boulevards. Yet here the aspect was a different one; the quietness was less idle and seemed to vibrate with thought. She felt that there were crowds behind these strong walls, all busy with pious or cherished occupations: a silent activity, zeal, ambition and faith, and disciplined passions. At moments a hidden bell sent a deep note into the air.
Without much understanding, Mme. Chambannes felt a little shiver of surprise. She imagined a multitude of monks and nuns dwelling in these buildings. They knelt down and prayed, in long black or gray rows. The dark sanctuaries softened their silhouettes and the smoke of incense twisted its curls above their heads. She had a sudden curiosity to be among them, to learn their prayers and share their ecstasies. Especially she wished to go in and see.
Her driver had to knock at the window to warn her that they had reached the house. The concierge was an old woman with catarrh. She told her where M. Rainda apartment was: at the end of the path, on the fifth floor, and the door on the right.
She paused a little while before pulling the cord of the bell. She wanted to look about her. Opposite stood the wall of the next house on the other side of the path. But to her right, she saw gardens, uneven houses, a whole panorama of strange roofs, separated by streets or a purple mixture of trees. A perfume ofpot-au-feuescaped from the door of the Raindal family.
She rang at last and was ushered into the drawing-room by Brigitte.
Mme. Raindal, dressed in black silk, was chatting with two elderly ladies whose dresses showed no care for the fashions of the day. She hesitated on seeing Zozé, then recognized her and went to her.
“I came to inquire about the young patient,” Mme. Chambannes said, as she sat in the dark-red plush arm-chair which Mme. Raindal offered her.
“Thérèse! She is quite well again.... She is working with her father.... You shall see her very shortly.... How kind of you to....”
Mme. Chambannes thanked her with a smile.
Mme. Boudois, one of the two visitors, the wife of a professor at the Sorbonne, exclaimed:
“Poor child!... Has she been ill?”
“Not much, thank Heaven!” Mme. Raindal replied. “A mere indisposition while she was dancing at the Saulvards last night....”
The other lady, Mme. Lebercq, the wife of the famous mathematician, inquired:
“Dizziness, was it?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mme. Raindal replied.
Mme. Boudois confirmed these presumptions. There was her husband, for instance; God knew he had his sea-legs and sailed up and down the seas every summer, at Langrune, in a fisherma boat. Well, her husband never could waltz; he felt giddy at once.
On the other hand, Mme. Lebercq was no sailor but had been able to bear dancing without inconvenience when she was young.
A silence followed and Mme. Chambannes began again:
“The party was charming, was it not?”
“Delightful!” Mme. Raindal admitted.
Mme. Boudois and Mme. Lebercq asked for details, and received them. But at the turning point of a sentence, the conversation was directed toward another subject. Mme. Boudois spoke of the forthcoming festivities of Advent. She advised Mme. Raindal to attend some of the Benedictions of the Host at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, where the NoëlOwould be sung with rare brilliancy. Mme. Raindal rather preferred those of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. The discussion grew quite heated. Mme. Lebercq, who was not devout, remained silent. Mme. Chambannes, ill at ease at this talk of things that were mysteries to her, examined the pattern of the red and black carpet around which the arm-chairs were disposed.
She took advantage of a pause for breath and asked:
“Would it be indiscreet to disturb the master and your daughter?... I would be so glad to say how do you do to them!”
“Of course not! Quite the contrary.... They will be delighted.”
She knocked at a side door.
“What is it?” the voice of M. Raindal grunted.
“A visitor!”
She made way for the younger woman. Thérèse lifted her head at the sound and rose from the table at the same time as her father.
“It is Mme. Chambannes who comes to inquire after you, dear,” Mme. Raindal explained.
Thérèse, whose lips were already pursed with vexation, attempted a smile.
“Oh, you are too kind, dear Madame.... It was not worth it....”
M. Raindal joined his grateful protestations to those of his daughter. Mme. Raindal excused herself and returned to her visitors. As on the previous day, at the ball, when he had been introduced to Zozé, the master stood still, embarrassed. At length he said:
“Wo you sit down, please?”
She took a chair and said:
“How gay your study is!... How light!”
“Oh, we do lack daylight here!” M. Raindal replied. “The room has quite a good light.”
Mme. Chambannes continued:
“You were working?... I interrupted you....”
“With the most agreeable of possible surprises,” M. Raindal answered, with a wave of his hand.
The conversation dragged on. Thérèse wore a persistent frown, said little and was absorbed in drawing lines on a sheet of paper. Mme. Chambannes’ visit roused her indignation. Why had that woman come? What more did she want? What right had she to disturb them with her prattling, her childish queries and her very presence which brought back the memories of the previous evening, the shame of that accursed party?
“Your windows look out on gardens, do they not?” Mme. Chambannes asked.
“Upon gardens and our whole Paris! We have a marvelous view from here!” he replied.
She walked with him to the window. At last the sun had burst through the clouds and scattered the fog. Below them was all M. Rainda Paris, the whole of the religious, studious and simple-minded Paris, stretching out its stiff endless stone buildings in a milky light. The tops of certain edifices rose high above the level of the others. To the right was the square tower of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, then the immense dome of the Pantheon, then a thin, fine point—the spire of the Sorbonne. Further to the left rose the shining sphere of the cupola of the Missions and at the end a truncated pyramid upon which floated a tiny, discolored flag: the palace of the Louvre. Between these, the houses sketched in the air the irregular lines of their roofs. The thin-hoodedchimneys bristled in compact ranks, like reversed bayonets. At the back was a deep hollow space, indicating avenues and a park; it was the Luxemburg, but it could not be seen.
M. Raindal complacently commented upon this panorama. Mme. Chambannes gushed over it all, finding everything either charming or pretty. When he had finished, he pointed out the garden next to their house.
“It is the garden of theVisitandineSisters of Notre-Dame-du-Saint-Rosaire.... See, there are two of our neighbors out for a walk!”
Mme. Chambannes bent forward to look at them. They walked one behind the other around the enclosure of brown earth. They held chaplets in their hands that were red with cold, and let the beads slip one by one. Their bonnets were bent down and hid their faces. One of them, thin and light, seemed young; the other was stouter and appeared old. Both had the square, unshapely waist which the bands of their aprons mark on the corsetless flesh of nuns. Mme. Chambannes examined them in silence for a few seconds, but thought it wiser not to ask what it was these holy sisters were doing with their rosaries. She turned round and, perceiving a glass case set up against the wall, near the window, exclaimed.
“Oh, the pretty things! what charming little mummies!... They seem to be asleep standing up....”
She pointed out the middle shelf where peacockblue, pale green and white china statuettes stood in rows. All wore the Egyptian headdress that fell down on their shoulders like manes. Their eyes were black lines above squat noses which were in several cases worn out at the tip. There were inscriptions all down their bodies even to the feet, which were swollen like those of gouty people. Some had their arms crossed in front. Others showed only their hands as if they had bathing gowns on. The sand of the desert had stuck to many of them, leaving upon them the mark of its centuries-old atoms.
M. Raindal explained the use of those statues. They had been placed in the tombs in order to help the dead in their labors in the other life. He then gave Mme. Chambannes the names of the divinities on the shelf above: Hathor the cow-headed, jackal-headed Anubis, hawk-headed Horus, Osiris, the god of the netherworld, with his huge tiara; Thueris, a frightful idol with the head of a hippopotamus and a woma breast, who was, it was thought, consecrated to motherhood or to preserving people from ill-luck. The master spoke of them all tenderly and volubly as if he had imagined them and made them himself with his own hands. Well, had he not created them? Had he not given them life when he tore them one by one from the Nothingness of the sands or the depths of the tombs? The scarabs of colored stones were also, every one of them, his own discoveries. He had put a pin through them and laid them side by side on white grooves as one does witha collection of real insects. Near these scarabs there was a case in which had been thrown three heavy gold rings, their bezels engraved with hieroglyphics, which had doubtless been worn on the dry, yellow fingers of imperious Pharaohs.
“All these things are terribly old, are they not?” Mme. Chambannes asked.
“It depends,” M. Raindal replied. “On an average, they date back 3000, perhaps 4000 or 5000 years!”
“Really!... And if I went to Egypt, next year ... I could find some like these?...”
“It is possible ... if one digs deep enough.... The desert is chock full of them!”
“How interesting!” the young woman murmured dreamily.
Behind her, Thérèse stamped the floor with impatience. She started when she heard Mme. Chambannes proceed:
“And now, my dear master, I have a small favor to ask of you.... Are you free in a fortnight, on December 12th?”
“Well, Madame!...” M. Raindal stammered, trying hard to guess, in spite of his poor eyesight, the meaning of the grimaces Thérèse was making at him.
“Because, if you were free, you would do me great honor and give me much pleasure if you would dine with me at my house.”
M. Raindal bowed.
“Hm! Hm!... Certainly, Madame.... I canask Mme. Raindal.... At least, I do not think she is engaged for that evening....”
He turned to his daughter.
“Is it not so, dear? Your mother has not, so far as I know....”
Thérèse cut his sentence short with the brutal admission:
“No, father, we are free!”
She felt her hand tremble on the glass case where it lay. Anything, anything, just so she could get rid of that woman! So that she would go away, back to her tall coxcomb, that Gerald whose mistress she must surely be! Later they could get out of the engagement. Let her only go! Not to see her any more in the room, not to hear her voice any more, no longer to breathe in her perfume, like that of Gerald, heavy!
They returned to the drawing-room. Mme. Raindal, surprised, accepted at once. The whole family saw Zozé off at the door. Even Thérèse followed them. When Mme. Chambannes reached the stairs and looked up for a last parting word, it was the gir challenging glance that met her last one.
“A peculiar look!” Mme. Chambannes thought in the cab that took her away. It was a look that held both admiration and a little envy, such as the poor give when they watch the beautiful women going into the opera.... Well, this little Raindal girl was strange!
Her cab passed the bridge of La Concorde and entered the Champs Élysées.
Zozé could not refrain from making eyes at the first well-dressed young man she passed. At last she was back in her own element, on her own soil, in her own district.
Once before, she had had a similar impression; it was when she had returned from abroad and saw, on crossing the frontier, the first French customs inspector. As she returned now to the right bank of the river, she found everything different from the place she had just left. Clothes, faces and gait—it was all different. The cold seemed less bitter, less cruel to her cheeks. Men walked down the avenue, comfortable, peaceful, covered with soft fur coats. Women passed in rapid victorias, their faces a smile in the midst of furs; children played and ran among the trees. Everywhere the pleasures of summer were carried on in spite of the hostile winter. Rich people met rich people, all well dressed, quiteau courantof the latest thing, among connoisseurs, in their own sets. Zozé shut her eyes tight in an attempt to visualize again the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, so far away, in the provinces as it were, gray and flat as a stereopticon view....
Her mental comparisons were cut short when she heard the Élysée clock strike four. What! already! She would be late! What would Gerald say? Fortunately she was almost there. Yet it was not fast enough for Zozé who, with her feet propped upagainst the back seat of the cab, pushed the hot water can with her two feet, as if to help the horse along.
At length, the cab came to a stop in rue guesseau, before a quiet-looking house. Carelessly, she settled her fare, ran madly up one flight and entered the apartment, all out of breath. Gerald was there. He was dozing on the divan of the dressing room. His arms were folded around his head, making a dark setting for it. The obscurity of the corner where he lay further heightened his peaceful expression.
Mme. Chambannes contemplated him tenderly. Poor little Raldo! How beautiful he was in his sleep!
Emboldened, she whispered:
“Are you asleep? Are you asleep, darling?”
Without opening his eyes, Gerald replied:
“No, I am not asleep but I am affecting a deep sleep!...”
“Why?” Zozé asked smilingly.
“Because,” he replied in the same way, “you are late, Madame, and I detest that kind of joke.”
He rose to kiss her. She returned his caress with effusion and asked saucily:
“Guess where I have been!”
“I take orders from no one!” Gerald replied.
“Well, I have been to see père Raindal!”
“The Kangaroo!”
Surprised, Zozé opened her eyes wide.
“The Kangaroo!”
“Why, of course!” Gerald said. “Did you noticethe way he held his arms and his hands? A regular kangaroo! All he lacks is the pocket in front, and little ones inside.”
Zozé laughed. Then she gave him a humorous account of her visit, described the furniture, the carpet, the hangings; she told of the smelling pot-au-feu; she gave an imitation of Mme. Raindal, of Mme. Boudois and of Mme. Lebercq, all in the hope of amusing Gerald.
The young man had a certain amount of natural acrobatic talent, although he had not appeared in amateur circus performances. While he listened to Zozé he stretched his limbs by walking round the room on his hands, his legs bent back and his feet hanging over his neck. When she had finished her story, he turned a somersault, slipped his arms behind his knees and, in that uncomfortable position, took a few frog-like jumps. Then he straightened himself up smartly and asked:
“Well then, are you going to engage this mummy merchant?”
“Why not; do you mind?” Zozé ventured, somewhat frightened.
“I!” Gerald replied. “No, not at all!... All tastes exist in nature!... You already have a novelist, three artists, two musicians and anabbé.... The kangaroo will complete your collection.... I congratulate you!”
He bowed with an affected grand manner and declared, as he pointed to the next room.
“You are at home here, dear Madame.”
Zozé obeyed him, throwing him as she passed a passionate look. Gerald joined her after a few minutes. While he lit the candles on the mantelpiece, Mme. Chambannes lay silent, looking up to the ceiling, with a sudden serious expression.
She had a fleeting vision of the two nuns who were walking in the cold, in the grassless garden, with their chaplets in their hands.
That brought her a sensation of shame. Confusedly, an idea came to her mind, showing her another life, as good and even probably better than her own, a life devoted to other aims than to go to bed every afternoon, with candles lit.
But Gerald approached and asked imperiously.
“What are we thinking about?”
Suddenly, like a child caught doing a forbidden thing, Zozé assumed again her happy, lover-like expression.
“We are thinking.... We are thinking that we adore you, wicked Raldo, who made me feel so miserable this morning.”
She stretched out her arms in a gesture of surrender and appeal.
Gerald slipped into her embrace, coaxing her in naughty whispers.
THÉRÈSEhad never worked so hard as she did during the following days. It was her own way to cure herself, her one infallible medicine whenever her “crises of remembrances” as she termed them, returned to haunt her. She punished her brain with a surfeit of study, as devout people tame their rebellious flesh by means of pious exercises.
For weeks at a stretch, she only left her fathe study to go to one of the libraries. The moment she came back, she fell to work again. She started once more immediately after dinner and worked until she felt too sleepy to continue. And the next morning she started again.
The remedy had seldom failed to bring prompt relief. Her effervescence calmed down gradually under the icy blast of accumulated knowledge. She was so tired that her desires weakened; the immense drama of the history of humanity helped her to hold as futile her little sentimental regrets. These lofty thoughts brought forth a supreme breath of pride and dried the inner tears which her heart persisted in distilling. Caught up once more by discipline, like a refractory horse brought back to the shafts, she assumed once more her customary existence; her soul was quietedand joyless but also too weary to attempt another revolt.
An excess of scruples even caused her this time to make no attempt whatsoever to avoid the Chambannes dinner. Her relapse had been so serious, so sudden and so childish that she stood in need of punishment. She wanted to meet again, face to face, that handsome M. de Meuze, in order to prove to herself by a defiance of the danger how foolish she had been.
Her bravery, however, much resembled the confidence inspired by an underestimated adversary. She no longer stood in dread of Gerald because she thought him the lover of Mme. Chambannes and he shared in her mind the contempt she felt towards the young woman.
But was it really contempt? Thérèse was too proud to admit a feeling of jealousy towards this little brainless creature. The only feeling she avowed was one of pity.
She delighted in remembering the ill-chosen expressions and the bad grammar which characterized the conversation of dainty Mme. Chambannes. And Gerald himself, how futile his words were! His voice was that of a debauchee, an oily drawl, with accents that were imperious but carried no authority; he seemed to be in the habit of giving orders to no one but maîtres ôtel and loose women. The two of them made a pretty pair, a nicely matched couple!
The day of the dinner party seemed to her a long time coming, so much did she long at once to challengethem both, to hold them under the hostile coldness of her gray eyes....
Several times, M. Raindal had to drag her away from her work at night. She always grumbled before she allowed herself to be persuaded. He chided her gently and took her arm to lead her to her bedroom. They walked together along the dark passage. Everything was quiet in the house. Sometimes they paused, smilingly listening to Mme. Raindal, whose snores reached them through the closed doors. Then M. Raindal kissed his daughter and retired, feeling his way about in the dark.
“Poor girl!” he thought in mingled admiration and tenderness.
Had he but known! Had he but guessed at the struggles and the anguish of her masculine soul! Had he but heard the “Poor Father!” with which his daughter expressed to herself pity for his lack of understanding!...
The weeks passed rapidly and the day came at last when they were going to dine with the Chambannes.
Shortly after seven, Thérèse was putting on the heavy dark coat she wore when she went out in evening dress, when she heard a sudden outburst of discussion in the hall and someone knocked at her door.
“Come in!” she said.
Her father entered in his shirt sleeves. His white tie hung unfastened over his waistcoat.
“Do you know what is happening?” he exclaimed. “Your mother now thinks we have been too ready toaccept this invitation of Mme. Chambannes; she says that we should have tried to find out more about her.... Find out!... Find out what, I ask you, and where?... All this because of a dinner that has no importance!... She wants us to put it off now, five minutes before we are due to leave the house. What can one do? I ask you! especially I fancy that you yourself did not take greatly to the lady?...”
“Phew!” Thérèse said doubtfully.
“You can guess where she gets such ideas,” M. Raindal went on, as he paced the room. “She gets them from those fellows! From the vestry!... Oh, she did deny it long.... And I have warned her that the next time they have the audacity to....”
He did not finish his sentence. Mme. Raindal entered the room, her corsage unfastened:
“Hush!” she whispered. “Someone has rung the bell. Thérèse, go and open the door, dear! Brigitte has run down to get a cab.”
“Very well, mother.”
Thérèse went to open the door and was surprised to find her Uncle Cyprien, who was wiping his shoes on the yellow mat in the dark hall.
“Good evening, nephew!” he exclaimed merrily. Then he noticed that Thérèse had her cloak on and wore white gloves.
“Oh! you are going out! And I came to share your dinner.... What bad luck!”
He walked in. Thérèse replied with constraint.They had said nothing to him about the Chambannes dinner party, for fear of his criticism.
“Yes, uncle, we are dining out.”
Hearing his brothe voice, the master came out of the room. He exchanged the customary greetings and said, to fend off any query:
“You are unlucky.... We are not dining here.... Can you come to-morrow?”
“Of course!” replied Uncle Cyprien. After a pause he added:
“Hm! Is it indiscreet to ask where you are dining?”
Thérèse dared no longer to deny.
“We are going to the rue de Prony, to Mme. Chambannes’, a lady whom we met at the dance at the Saulvar.”
“Chambannes! How do you spell it?” Cyprien asked, with a suspicious grimace.
Thérèse spelled it out for him. The younger M. Raindal frowned.
“Chambannes, Chambannes!” he repeated, as if he were testing the sound of a name with which his ear was not familiar.
Finally he gave it up.
“Well, au revoir!” he said, “till to-morrow!”
He shook hands with them and walked down the stairs, still muttering to himself, “Chambannes, Chambannes!”
In spite of its general aspect, the name sounded vaguely Jewish to him. Then, he reflected, everybodyknew how cunning Jews were in disguising their original names and changing them into French names. They called themselves Duval, Durand or Dubourg and hid under those Gallic, Roman or Frankish syllables, names bestowed on the mount of Sinai, and Uncle Cyprien boasted of an exceptionally good scent when it came to unearthing such deceptions. He had not even admitted the purity of his own family name until after a thorough search in the libraries. The moment he reached the street, therefore, he hurried towards the Brasserie Klapproth where Schleifmann could, he felt sure, throw some light on his suspicions.
“How late you are!” the Galician exclaimed, as he started to enjoy a plateful of roast veal and jelly.
Uncle Cyprien sat beside him and studied the bill of fare.
“Yes!” he said. “I am late; I wanted to dine with my brother ... but they are dining out, at Mme. Chambannes’.”
“Rue de Prony?” Schleifmann asked.
“Then you know the lady?” Cyprien inquired.
“Oh! very little.... She is charming.... I meet her sometimes at the house of one of my pupils’ parents, young Pums, the son of M. Pums, assistant manager of the Bank of Galicia.”
“Well, I never ...” Cyprien exclaimed.
“I even knew that your brother was to dine there.... Mme. Chambannes invited Mme. Pums and gave her the names of the other guests.... She seems to think a great deal of your brother.”
“You knew it and you said nothing of it to me?” said Raindal, with a reproachful glance.
Schleifmann repressed a smile.
“Well, no!Yousaid nothing about it.... I assumed that your brother had not told you ... out of discretion, you understand?”
Cyprien became thoughtful.
“Listen, Schleifmann.... Tell me the truth!... What kind of people are these Chambannes?... Are they all right?”
Schleifmann pretended to have some trouble in swallowing the last mouthful, in order to gain time for thinking. Of course, he could not tell a falsehood to his friend. But why, on the other hand, should he further excite this savage ill-will, ever ready to spring up; why should he help to stir up family troubles? He chose to answer with harmless fibs and did it with studied indifference.
“Well!... I could say.... The husband seemed to me a somewhat colorless person.... He is an engineer and specializes in mining affairs, I believe.... The woman is pretty, smart and pleasant.... Besides, as I told you, I hardly know them.”
Cyprien was not eating. He bit his mustache; then suddenly he burst out, as if a spring had been released:
“They are Jews, are they not?”
“I am not sure!” Schleifmann replied. “The husbandcomes from the Berri, where Jews have not, as a rule, colonized very much.... His wife appears rather of the Semitic type ... but so refined, so very mixed, that I dare not affirm....”
“Yet, their name!” Cyprien insisted.
“Their name!” the Galician replied, feeling his philologis pride provoked. “Actually, there is nothing to prevent it from being a Frenchified Jewish name.... Chambannes might well be derived from Rhâm-Bâhal, or from the corrupted Rhâm-Bâhan, which means, if my recollections are correct, something likehigh-idol, alofty idol....”
“Rhâm-Bâhan!” Uncle Cyprien repeated complacently.... “Rhâm-Bâhan!... Of course ... tha what it is.... I thought to myself....”
The admissions made by Schleifmann had whetted his appetite and, his mouth full of food, he insinuated:
“It seems to me you spoke a little while ago of a list of guests who would be there....”
“Yes, yes,” Schleifmann said evasively.
“Well, who are they?” Cyprien insisted.
The Galician shifted uneasily.
“I have not a very clear recollection of them.... I assure you.... I have forgotten.”
“I do believe it, Schleifmann! Try to remember; there is no hurry.”
The temptation proved too strong for his friend. He could not miss such an occasion to air his rancor; he could not refrain from flaying the whole dubiousclique of men who had in the past refused him a hearing. He began to feel that he lacked the strength to resist his inclination. He began, mildly at first, a few points at a time, throwing his venom upon those he hated least.
“Very well,” he said. “Le see!... To-night there will be M. Givonne, an artist who paints fans and dancing tambourines for society balls and sells anything he likes to the Americans.... Hm!... M. Mazuccio, a little Italian sculptor who spends his time telling how the women whose busts he has made are fashioned below the waist....”
“A pretty lot!” Cyprien encouraged him.
“M. Herschstein,” Schleifmann went on, more vigorously, “that excellent Herschstein.... Ho, ho! here is one I recommend to your notice.... A patriarc gray beard, fat cheeks, the head of a pleasant grandfather, as good as gold.... This does not prevent him from being one of the heads of the black band.... You know, the clan of German financiers who daily speculate against the French bonds.... Ah! many legends, many lies are told concerning the Jews.... But, alas, this is not an invention; the foul black band does exist! And it is on the cards that your comrade Schleifmann will be one of those, when the people take a fancy, on the first day of the riots, to go and find out, under their very noses, what they are brewing in that corner!”
“Good man!” M. Raindal said with emotion.
“M. Herschstein, then ... and Madame ... a tall, lanky woman with a narrow mind, who thinks she can wipe out these crimes by throwing money to all the poor people and contributing to charitable works....”
Schleifmann hit the table with his fist.
“Charity! The damned fool. I charity shl get on the day when her rascally husband has had us all expelled from here!”
“Hush, hush! Calm yourself, Schleifmann!” Uncle Cyprien whispered. He knew now he could rely on the Galician, as one could trust a roaring, flaming fire. “Calm yourself, my friend!... Who else, did you say?”
“M. de Marquesse!...” Schleifmann continued. “Another pretty fellow!... A consulting engineer.... Adviser! Ha, ha! Legal adviser, I have no doubt!... Already two societies which he “advised” have ended before a magistrate.... But he gets on just the same!... People say that his wife helps him.... Not that she is good-looking ... a head like a horse.... But men are so stupid in that set.... For the sake of an aristocratic name, my dear friend, they would entertain a mare.”
“How delightful!” Cyprien remarked, his lips twisted in a disgusted pout.
“Then there is my countryman Pums, a dark little man with a black mustache, the face of a gypsy, and his wife, a small red-headedwoman.... But she is pretty, this one! plump, with a turned-up nose ... regular painte meat!”
“Wha that?” Cyprien asked.
“Yes, it is my name for these ladies, because of their inclination towards artists.... Any painter has but to stoop down to pick them up, like a ‘rag and bones’ man in a heap of rubbish.”
“And so you think that Mme. Chambannes herself....”
Schleifmann stopped him quickly.
“No, no! not at all.... Quite the contrary!”
He added maliciously:
“Mme. Chambannes leads a regular life, absolutely regular....”
Thereupon he took up the normal thread of his ideas:
“Let us go back to our people.... The Marquis de Meuze and his son, the Comte de Meuze.”
“Ah!” said M. Raindal with irony.... “Sham nobility, are they?”
“No, true.... They are very friendly with the Chambannes.... By the way, you would like the old Marquis very much.... I have been assured that he shared your horror for the Jews, who nearly ruined him at the time of the panic....”
The flame of his anger was abating. He gave a few more names, but without commenting upon them: Jean Bunel, the novelist; M. Burzig, a young broker; M. Silberschmidt and his wife.
He became silent and Cyprien asked:
“Is that all?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Schleifmann replied, as he took off his gold-rimmed spectacles to wipe the glasses, tarnished by the perspiration caused by his excitement.
M. Raindal the younger assumed a jocular expression.
“One more question, please!”
“I am listening,” Schleifmann said.
Cyprien came closer to him and asked engagingly:
“Of course, they are all Prussians?”
“No, my dear Raindal,” the Galician replied. “They are all French, or—and it is all one—naturalized Frenchmen.... Since the war.... The little Pums is their veteran.... He has been French since 1878, this little Pums.... Well I remember how proud he was of it when he came back to Lemberg, at his next annual visit.... He ran from house to house, to his friends, to his relations, showing everywhere his naturalization papers.... Anyone might have thought he was showing the diploma of a degree....”