how Saffré proposed to extricate himself creditably from this dilemma. For a moment, in fact, he seemed perplexed, seeking by what refinement of grace he could win the laughers to his side. Then he gave a smile, he took Madame d’Espanet and Madame Haffner, each by one hand, whispered a question in their ears, received their reply, and next addressing himself to Mr. Simpson:
“Do you pick verbena or periwinkle?”
Mr. Simpson, looking rather foolish, said that he picked verbena. Whereupon M. de Saffré handed him the marquise, saying:
“Here’s your verbena.”
There was discreet applause. They thought this very neat. M. de Saffré was a cotillon-leader “who was never at a loss,” so the ladies said. In the meanwhile the band had with its full strength resumed the waltz air, and Mr. Simpson, after waltzing round the room with Madame d’Espanet, led her back to her seat.
Renée was able to pass. She had bitten her lips till the blood came, at the sight of all “this nonsense.” She thought these men and women stupid to throw scarves about and call themselves by the names of plants. Her ears rang, a furious impatience gave her an abrupt desire to throw herself headlong forward and effect a passage. She crossed the drawingroom with a rapid step, jostling the belated couples returning to their seats. She went straight to the conservatory. She had seen neither Louise nor Maxime among the dancers, she said to herself that they must be there, in some nook of foliage, brought together by that instinct for fun and improprieties that made them seek out little corners as soon as they found themselves anywhere together. But she explored the dimness of the conservatory in vain. She only perceived, in the back of an arbour, a tall young man devoutly kissing little Madame Daste’s hands, murmuring:
“Madame de Lauwerens was right: you’re an angel!”
This declaration made in her house, in her conservatory, shocked her. Really Madame de Lauwerens ought to have taken her trade elsewhere! And Renée would have felt relieved could she have turned out of her rooms all these people who shouted so loudly. Standing before the tank, she looked at the water, she asked herself where Louise and Maxime could have hidden themselves. The orchestra still played the same waltz, whose slow undulation made her feel sick. It was unendurable, not to be able to reflect in one’s own house. She became confused. She forgot that the young people were not married yet, and she said to herself it was perfectly clear they had gone to bed. Then she thought of the dining-room, she quickly ran up the conservatory steps. But, at the door of the ballroom, she was for the second time stopped by a figure of the cotillon.
“This is the ‘Dark Spots,’ mesdames,” said M. de Saffré, gallantly. “It is my own invention, and you shall be the first to have the benefit of it.”
There was much laughter. The men explained the allusion to the ladies. The Emperor had just made a speech in which he had referred to the presence of “certain dark spots” on the horizon. These dark spots, for no appreciable reason, had had a great success. The Parisian wits had appropriated the expression so much so that for the past week the dark spots had been applied to everything. M. de Saffré placed the gentlemen at one end of the room, making them turn their backs on the ladies, who were left at the other end. Then he ordered them to pull up their coats so as to hide the backs of their heads. This performance was gone through amid the maddest merriment. Hunchbacked, their shoulders screwed up, their coat tails falling no lower than their waists, the cavaliers looked really hideous.
“Don’t laugh, mesdames,” cried M. de Saffré with most humorous seriousness, “or I shall make you put your skirts over your heads.”
The gaiety redoubled. And he energetically availed himself of his sovereignty in respect of some of the gentlemen who refused to conceal the back of their necks.
“You are ‘dark spots,’“ he said, “hide your heads, show nothing but your backs, the ladies must see nothing but black…. Now walk about, mix yourselves, so that you may not be recognized.”
Gaiety was at its highest. The “dark spots” went to and fro, on their thin legs, with the swaying of headless crows. One gentleman’s shirt showed, with a bit of brace. Then the ladies begged for mercy, they were dying with laughter, and M. de Saffré graciously ordered them to go and fetch the “dark spots.” They flew off, like a covey of partridges, with a loud rustle of skirts. Then at the end of her run each seized hold of the cavalier nearest at hand. It was an indescribable hurly-burly. And one after the other the improvised couples disengaged themselves, waltzed round the room to the louder strains of the band.
Renée leant against the wall. She looked on, pale, with pursed lips. An old gentleman came gallantly to ask her why she did not dance. She had to smile, to answer something. She made her escape, she entered the supper-room. The room was empty. Amid the pillaged sideboards, the bottles and plates left lying about, Maxime and Louise sat quietly supping at one end of the table, side by side, on a napkin they had spread out between them. They looked quite at home, they laughed amid this disorder, amid the dirty plates, the greasy dishes, the still tepid remnants of the gluttony of the white-gloved supper-eaters. They had contented themselves with brushing away the crumbs around them. Baptiste stalked solemnly round the table, without a glance for the room, which looked as though it had been traversed by a pack of wolves; he waited for the servants to come and restore a semblance of order to the sideboards.
Maxime had succeeded in getting a very comfortable supper together. Louise adored nougat aux pistaches, a plateful of which had remained intact on the top of a sideboard. They had three partially-emptied bottles of champagne before them. “Perhaps papa has gone,” said the girl.
“So much the better!” replied Maxime. “I will see you home.”
And as she laughed:
“You know, they have made up their minds that I am to marry you. It’s no longer a joke, it’s serious…. What are we going to do when we get married?”
“We’ll do what the others do, of course!”
This joke escaped her rather quickly; she hastily added, as though to withdraw it:
“We will go to Italy. That will be good for my chest, I am very ill…. Ah, my poor Maxime, what a funny wife you’ll have! I’m no fatter than two sous’ worth of butter.”
She smiled, with a touch of melancholy, in her page’s dress. A dry cough sent a hectic flush to her cheeks.
“It’s the nougat,” she said. “I’m not allowed to eat it at home…. Pass me the plate, I will put the rest in my pocket.”
And she was emptying out the plate, when Renée entered. She went straight to Maxime, making an unconscionable effort to keep herself from cursing, from striking that hunchback whom she found there sitting at table with her lover.
“I want to speak to you,” she stammered, in a husky voice.
He wavered, alarmed, fearing to be alone with her.
“Alone, and at once,” repeated Renée.
“Why don’t you go, Maxime?” said Louise, with her unfathomable look. “You might at the same time see if you can discover what’s become of my father. I lose him at every party we go to.”
He rose, he endeavoured to stop Renée in the middle of the supper-room, asking her what she could have of so urgent a nature to communicate to him. But she rejoined between her teeth:
“Follow me, or I’ll speak out before everybody!”
He
