shook hands with the Forestiers, and Duroy found himself alone with Madame de Marelle in a cab. He felt her close to him, so close, in this dark box, suddenly lit up for a moment by the lamps on the sidewalk. He felt through his sleeve the warmth of her shoulder, and he could find nothing to say to her, absolutely nothing, his mind being paralyzed by the imperative desire to seize her in his arms.
“If I dared to, what would she do?” he thought. The recollection of all the things uttered during dinner emboldened him, but the fear of scandal restrained him at the same time.
Nor did she say anything either, but remained motionless in her corner. He would have thought that she was asleep if he had not seen her eyes glitter every time that a ray of light entered the carriage.
“What was she thinking?” He felt that he must not speak, that a word, a single word, breaking this silence would destroy his chance; yet courage failed him, the courage needed for abrupt and brutal action. All at once he felt her foot move. She had made a movement, a quick, nervous movement of impatience, perhaps of appeal. This almost imperceptible gesture caused a thrill to run through him from head to foot, and he threw himself upon her, seeking her mouth with his lips, her form with his hands.
But the cab having shortly stopped before the house in which she resided, Duroy, surprised, had no time to seek passionate phrases to thank her, and express his grateful love. However, stunned by what had taken place, she did not rise, she did not stir. Then he was afraid that the driver might suspect something, and got out first to help her to alight.
At length she got out of the cab, staggering and without saying a word. He rang the bell, and as the door opened, said, tremblingly: “When shall I see you again?”
She murmured so softly that he scarcely heard it: “Come and lunch with me tomorrow.” And she disappeared in the entry, pushed to the heavy door, which closed with a noise like that of a cannon. He gave the driver five francs, and began to walk along with rapid and triumphant steps, and heart overflowing with joy.
He had won at last — a married woman, a lady. How easy and unexpected it had all been. He had fancied up till then that to assail and conquer one of these so greatly longed-for beings, infinite pains, interminable expectations, a skillful siege carried on by means of gallant attentions, words of love, sighs, and gifts were needed. And, lo! suddenly, at the faintest attack, the first whom he had encountered had yielded to him so quickly that he was stupefied at it.
“She was tipsy,” he thought; “tomorrow it will be another story. She will meet me with tears.” This notion disturbed him, but he added: “Well, so much the worse. Now I have her, I mean to keep her.”
He was somewhat agitated the next day as he ascended Madame de Marelle’s staircase. How would she receive him? And suppose she would not receive him at all? Suppose she had forbidden them to admit him? Suppose she had said — but, no, she could not have said anything without letting the whole truth be guessed. So he was master of the situation.
The little servant opened the door. She wore her usual expression. He felt reassured, as if he had anticipated her displaying a troubled countenance, and asked: “Is your mistress quite well?”
She replied: “Oh! yes, sir, the same as usual,” and showed him into the drawingroom.
He went straight to the chimney-glass to ascertain the state of his hair and his toilet, and was arranging his necktie before it, when he saw in it the young woman watching him as she stood at the door leading from her room. He pretended not to have noticed her, and the pair looked at one another for a few moments in the glass, observing and watching before finding themselves face to face. He turned round. She had not moved, and seemed to be waiting. He darted forward, stammering: “My darling! my darling!”
She opened her arms and fell upon his breast; then having lifted her head towards him, their lips met in a long kiss.
He thought: “It is easier than I should have imagined. It is all going on very well.”
And their lips separating, he smiled without saying a word, while striving to throw a world of love into his looks. She, too, smiled, with that smile by which women show their desire, their consent, their wish to yield themselves, and murmured: “We are alone. I have sent Laurine to lunch with one of her young friends.”
He sighed as he kissed her. “Thanks, I will worship you.”
Then she took his arm, as if he had been her husband, to go to the sofa, on which they sat down side by side. He wanted to start a clever and attractive chat, but not being able to do so to his liking, stammered: “Then you are not too angry with me?”
She put her hand on his mouth, saying “Be quiet.”
They sat in silence, looking into one another’s eyes, with burning fingers interlaced.
“How I did long for you!” said he.
She repeated: “Be quiet.”
They heard the servant arranging the table in the adjoining diningroom, and he rose, saying: “I must not remain so close to you. I shall lose my head.”
The door opened, and the servant announced that lunch was ready. Duroy gravely offered his arm.
They lunched face to face, looking at one another and constantly smiling, solely taken up by themselves, and enveloped in the sweet enchantment of a growing love. They ate, without knowing what. He felt a foot, a little foot, straying under the table. He took it between his own and kept it there, squeezing it with all his might. The servant came and went, bringing and taking away the dishes with a careless air, without seeming to notice anything.
When they had finished they returned to the drawingroom, and resumed their place on the sofa, side by side. Little by little he pressed up against her, striving to take her in his arms. But she calmly repulsed him, saying: “Take care; someone may come in.”
He murmured: “When can I see you quite alone, to tell you how I love you?”
She leant over towards him and whispered: “I will come and pay you a visit one of these days.”
He felt himself redden. “You know — you know — my place is very small.”
She smiled: “That does not matter. It is you I shall call to see, and not your rooms.”
Then he pressed her to know when she would come. She named a day in the latter half of the week. He begged of her to advance the date in broken sentences, playing with and squeezing her hands, with glittering eyes, and flushed face, heated and torn by desire, that imperious desire which follows tête-à-tête repasts. She was amazed to see him implore her with such ardor, and yielded a day from time to time. But he kept repeating: “Tomorrow, only say tomorrow.”
She consented at length. “Yes, tomorrow; at five o’clock.”
He gave a long sigh of joy, and they then chatted almost quietly with an air of intimacy, as though they had known one another twenty years. The sound of the door bell made them start, and with a bound they separated to a distance. She murmured: “It must be Laurine.”
The child made her appearance, stopped short in amazement, and then ran to Duroy, clapping her hands with pleasure at seeing him, and exclaiming: “Ah! pretty boy.”
Madame de Marelle began to laugh. “What! Pretty
