examined the tips of his boots without replying, with an air of uneasiness. She persisted:
“So long as he used not to come to this room, I did not care. But afterwards…. When I saw him here, so affectionate, bringing me money that he must have scraped together in every corner of Paris, ruining himself for me without a murmur, I became ill to think of it…. If you knew how carefully he has watched over my interests!”
The young man returned quietly to the mantelpiece, and leant against it. He stood there embarrassed, with bowed head, and a smile that slowly rose to his lips.
“Yes,” he muttered, “that’s my father’s strong point, to look after people’s interests.”
Renée was astonished at the tone of his voice. She looked at him, and he, as if to defend himself, added:
“Oh, I don’t know anything…. I only say my father is a clever man.”
“You would do wrong to talk ill of him,” she replied. “You evidently judge him a little superficially…. If I were to tell you all his troubles, if I repeated to you what he told me this very evening, you would see how mistaken people are when they think he cares for money….”
Maxime could not help shrugging his shoulders. He interrupted his stepmother with an ironical laugh.
“Believe me, I know him, I know him well…. He must have told you some fine tales. Let me hear what he said.”
This bantering tone offended her. Whereupon she increased her praises, she considered her husband quite great, she talked of the Charonne affair, of that swindle, of which she had understood nothing, as though it had been a catastrophe in which Saccard’s intelligence and kindheartedness had been revealed to her. She added that she should sign the deed of transfer the next day, and that if it was really a disaster, she accepted the disaster as a punishment for her sins. Maxime let her go on, chuckling, looking at her from under his eyelids; then he said in an undertone:
“That’s it; that’s quite right….”
And louder, laying his hand on Renée’s shoulder:
“Thanks, dear, but I knew the story…. What soft stuff you must be made of!”
He moved away again as if to go. He felt a furious itching to tell everything. She had exasperated him with her eulogy of her husband, and he forgot that he had resolved not to speak, so as to avoid all unpleasantness.
“Why? what do you mean?” she asked.
“Well then, that my father has been having you as nicely as could be…. I am sorry for you, on my word; you are such a simpleton!”
And he told her what he had heard at Laure’s, told her basely, craftily, taking a secret delight in dwelling upon these infamies. It seemed to him that he was taking his revenge for a vague insult that he had received. His harlot’s temperament lingered rapturously over this denunciation, over this cruel gossip of what he had heard behind a door. He spared Renée no detail, neither the money her husband had lent her at usury, nor that which he meant to steal from her with the assistance of ridiculous fairytales fit to send children to sleep with. Renée listened, very pale, her lips compressed. Standing before the chimney-piece, she lowered her head a little, she looked into the fire. Her nightdress, the chemise which Maxime had warmed for her, opened out, revealing a motionless whiteness as of a statue.
“I am telling you all this,” the young man concluded, “so that you may not look a fool…. But you must not take it amiss of my father. He means well. He has his faults like all of us…. Till tomorrow, then.”
He retreated towards the door. Renée stopped him with a quick gesture.
“Stay!” she cried, imperiously.
And seizing him, drawing him to her, almost seating him on her knees before the fire, she kissed him on the lips, and said:
“Ah well, it would be too silly to put ourselves out after that…. I haven’t told you that since yesterday, when you wanted to break with me, I have been off my head. I feel half mad. At the ball tonight I had a mist before my eyes. The fact is that I can’t live without you now. When you leave me, I shall be done for…. Don’t laugh, I mean what I say.”
She gave him a look of infinite tenderness, as though she had not seen him for a long time.
“You were right, I was a simpleton, your father could have made me see stars in broad daylight to-day. What did I know about it? All the time he was telling his story, I heard nothing but a great buzzing, and I was so crushed that he could have made me go down on my knees, if he had wanted to, to sign his old papers. And I fancied I felt remorse!… Yes, I was silly enough to think that!”
She burst into laughter, a mad light shone in her eyes. Pressing her lover still more tightly, she continued:
“Do we sin, you and I? We are in love, and we amuse ourselves as we like. That’s what all of us have come to, have we not?… Look at your father, he does not put himself out. He is fond of money and he takes it when he can get it. He’s quite right, and it sets me at my ease…. To begin with, I sha’n’t sign a single thing, and then you must come back every evening. I was afraid you would refuse, you know, because of what I told you…. But you say you don’t mind…. Besides, I shall keep him out now, you understand.”
She rose and lit the night-light. Maxime hesitated in despair. He saw what a piece of folly he had perpetrated, and he reproached himself harshly for having talked too much. How could he now tell her of his marriage? It was his own fault, the rupture had been accomplished, there was no need for him to go up into that room again, nor above all to go and prove to Renée that her husband was swindling her. And his anger against himself increased when he found that he was not able to remember what had prompted him to act as he did. He thought for a moment of being brutal a second time, but the sight of Renée taking off her slippers filled him with insurmountable cowardice. He was frightened. He stayed.
The next day, when Saccard came to his wife to make her sign the deed of transfer, she replied quietly that she did not mean to do so, that she had thought better of it. On the other hand, she gave him no hint whatever; she had sworn to be discreet, not wishing to create worries for herself, eager only to enjoy the renewal of her amour in peace. The Charonne affair could arrange itself as it pleased; her refusal to sign was merely an act of vengeance; she did not care a scrap for the rest. Saccard was on the verge of flying into a passion. His whole dream crumbled away. His other affairs were going from bad to worse. He had come to the end of his resources, and only kept his balance by miracles of equilibrium: that very morning he had been unable to pay his baker’s bill. This did not prevent him from preparing a splendid entertainment for the Thursday in midLent. In the presence of Renée’s refusal he experienced the white rage of a vigorous man that is hindered in his work by a child’s caprice. With the deed of transfer in his pocket he had relied on being able to raise cash while waiting for the indemnity. Then, when he had calmed down a little, and looked at things clearly, he was amazed at his wife’s sudden change of mind; some one must, undoubtedly, have advised her. He suspected a lover. He had so clear a presentiment, that he ran round to his sister to question her, to ask her if she knew anything of Renée’s private life. Sidonie displayed great acrimony. She had not forgotten the affront her sister-in-law had given her in refusing to see M. de Saffré. So when she understood from her brother’s questions that he accused his wife of having a lover, she cried out that she felt certain of it. And she offered of her own accord to spy on “the turtle-doves.” She would show the minx what sort of stuff she was made
