He bowed, right and left, courteously, a compliment on his lips, sweeping each low-gowned woman whom he knew with the look of an expert.
The musicians, at the end of the second parlor, were playing a waltz; and the two friends stopped at the door to look at them. A score of couples were whirling-the men with a serious expression, and the women with a fixed smile on their lips. They displayed a good deal of shoulder, like their mothers; and the bodices of some were only held in place by a slender ribbon, disclosing at times more than is generally shown.
Suddenly from the end of the room a tall girl darted forward, gliding through the crowd, brushing against the dancers, and holding her long train in her left hand. She ran with quick little steps as women do in crowds, and called out: “Ah! How is Muscade? How do you do, Muscade?”
Her features wore an expression of the bloom of life, the illumination of happiness. Her white flesh seemed to shine, the golden-white flesh which goes with red hair. The mass of her tresses, twisted on her head, fiery, flaming locks, nestled against her supple neck, which was still a little thin.
She seemed to move just as her mother was made to speak, so natural, noble, and simple were her gestures. A person felt a moral joy and physical pleasure in seeing her walk, stir about, bend her head, or lift her arm. “Ah! Muscade, how do you do, Muscade?” she repeated.
Servigny shook her hand violently, as he would a man’s, and said: “Mademoiselle Yvette, my friend, Baron Saval.”
“Good evening, Monsieur. Are you always as tall as that?”
Servigny replied in that bantering tone which he always used with her, in order to conceal his mistrust and his uncertainty:
“No, Mam’zelle. He has put on his greatest dimensions to please your mother, who loves a colossus.”
And the young girl remarked with a comic seriousness: “Very well But when you come to see me you must diminish a little if you please. I prefer the medium height. Now Muscade has just the proportions which I like.”
And she gave her hand to the newcomer. Then she asked: “Do you dance, Muscade? Come, let us waltz.” Without replying, with a quick movement, passionately, Servigny clasped her waist and they disappeared with the fury of a whirlwind.
They danced more rapidly than any of the others, whirled and whirled, and turned madly, so close together that they seemed but one, and with the form erect, the legs almost motionless, as if some invisible mechanism, concealed beneath their feet, caused them to twirl. They appeared tireless. The other dancers stopped from time to time. They still danced on, alone. They seemed not to know where they were nor what they were doing, as if, they had gone far away from the ball, in an ecstasy. The musicians continued to play, with their looks fixed upon this mad couple; all the guests gazed at them, and when finally they did stop dancing, everyone applauded them.
She was a little flushed, with strange eyes, ardent and timid, less daring than a moment before, troubled eyes, blue, yet with a pupil so black that they seemed hardly natural. Servigny appeared giddy. He leaned against a door to regain his composure.
“You have no head, my poor Muscade, I am steadier than you,” said Yvette to Servigny. He smiled nervously, and devoured her with a look. His animal feelings revealed themselves in his eyes and in the curl of his lips. She stood beside him looking down, and her bosom rose and fell in short gasps as he looked at her.
Then she said softly: “Really, there are times when you are like a tiger about to spring upon his prey. Come, give me your arm, and let us find your friend.”
Silently he offered her his arm and they went down the long drawing-room together.
Saval was not alone, for the Marquise Obardi had rejoined him. She conversed with him on ordinary and fashionable subjects with a seductiveness in her tones which intoxicated him. And, looking at her with his mental eye, it seemed to him that her lips, uttered words far different from those which they formed. When she saw Servigny her face immediately lighted up, and turning toward him she said:
“You know, my dear Duke, that I have just leased a villa at Bougival for two months, and I count upon your coming to see me there, and upon your friend also. Listen. We take possession next Monday, and shall expect both of you to dinner the following Saturday. We shall keep you over Sunday.”
Perfectly serene and tranquil Yvette smiled, saying with a decision which swept away hesitation on his part:
“Of course Muscade will come to dinner on Saturday. We have only to ask him, for he and I intend to commit a lot of follies in the country.”
He thought he divined the birth of a promise in her smile, and in her voice he heard what he thought was invitation.
Then the Marquise turned her big, black eyes upon Saval: “And you will, of course, come, Baron?”
With a smile that forbade doubt, he bent toward her, saying, “I shall be only too charmed, Madame.”
Then Yvette murmured with malice that was either naive or traitorous: “We will set all the world by the ears down there, won’t we, Muscade, and make my regiment of admirers fairly mad.” And with a look, she pointed out a group of men who were looking at them from a little distance.
Said Servigny to her: “As many follies as YOU may please, Mam’zelle.”
In speaking to Yvette, Servigny never used the word “Mademoiselle,” by reason of his close and long intimacy with her.
Then Saval asked: “Why does Mademoiselle always call my friend Servigny ‘Muscade’?”
Yvette assumed a very frank air and said:
“I will tell you: It is because he always slips through my hands. Now I think I have him, and then I find I have not.”
The Marquise, with her eyes upon Saval, arid evidently preoccupied, said in a careless tone: “You children are very funny.”
But Yvette bridled up: “I do not intend to be funny; I am simply frank. Muscade pleases me, and is always deserting me, and that is what annoys me.”
Servigny bowed profoundly, saying: “I will never leave you any more, Mam’zelle, neither day nor night.” She made a gesture of horror:
“My goodness! no—what do you mean? You are all right during the day, but at night you might embarrass me.”
With an air of impertinence he asked: “And why?”
Yvette responded calmly and audaciously, “Because you would not look well en deshabille.”
The Marquise, without appearing at all disturbed, said: “What extraordinary subjects for conversation. One would think that you were not at all ignorant of such things.”
And Servigny jokingly added: “That is also my opinion, Marquise.”
Yvette turned her eyes upon him, and in a haughty, yet wounded, tone said: “You are becoming very vulgar—just as you have been several times lately.” And turning quickly she appealed to an individual standing by:
“Chevalier, come and defend me from insult.”
A thin, brown man, with an easy carriage, came forward.
“Who is the culprit?” said he, with a constrained smile.
Yvette pointed out Servigny with a nod of her head:
“There he is, but I like him better than I do you, because he is less of a bore.”
The Chevalier Valreali bowed:
“I do what I can, Mademoiselle. I may have less ability, but not less devotion.”
A gentleman came forward, tall and stout, with gray whiskers, saying in loud tones: “Mademoiselle Yvette, I am your most devoted slave.”
Yvette cried: “Ah, Monsieur de Belvigne.” Then turning toward Saval, she introduced him.
“My last adorer—big, fat, rich, and stupid. Those are the kind I like. A veritable drum-major—but of the table d’hote. But see, you are still bigger than he. How shall I nickname you? Good! I have it. I shall call you ‘M. Colossus of Rhodes, Junior,’ from the Colossus who certainly was your father. But you two ought to have very interesting things to say to each other up there, above the heads of us all—so, by-bye.”
And she left them quickly, going to the orchestr
a to make the musicians strike up a quadrille.
Madame Obardi seemed preoccupied. In a soft voice she said to Servigny:
“You are always teasing her. You will warp her character and bring out many bad traits.”
Servigny replies: “Why, haven’t you finished her education?”
She appeared not to understand, and continued talking in a friendly way. But she noticed a solemn looking man, wearing a perfect constellation of crosses and orders, standing near her, and she ran to him:
“Ah Prince, Prince, what good fortune!”
Servigny took Saval’s arm and drew him away:
“That is the latest serious suitor, Prince Kravalow. Isn’t she superb?”
“To my mind they are both superb. The mother would suffice for me perfectly,” answered Saval.
Servigny nodded and said: “At your disposal, my dear boy.”
The dancers elbowed them aside, as they were forming for a quadrille.
“Now let us go and see the sharpers,” said Servigny. And they entered the gambling-room.
Around each table stood a group of men, looking on. There was very little conversation. At times the clink of gold coins, tossed upon the green cloth or hastily seized, added its sound to the murmur of the players, just as if the money was putting in its word among the human voices.
All the men were decorated with various orders, and odd ribbons, and they all wore the same severe expression, with different countenances. The especially distinguishing feature was the beard.
The stiff American with his horseshoe, the haughty Englishman with his fan-beard open on his breast, the Spaniard with his black fleece reaching to the eyes, the Roman with that huge mustache which Italy copied from Victor Emmanuel, the Austrian with his whiskers and shaved chin, a Russian general whose lip seemed armed with two twisted lances, and a Frenchman with a dainty mustache, displayed the fancies of all the barbers in the world.
“You won’t join the game?” asked Servigny.
“No, shall you?”
“Not now. If you are ready to go, we will come back some quieter day. There are too many people here today, and we can’t do anything.”
“Well, let us go.”
And they disappeared behind a door-curtain into the hall. As soon as they were in the street Servigny asked: “Well, what do you think of it?”
“It certainly is interesting, but I fancy the women’s side of it more than the men’s.”
“Indeed! Those women are the best of the tribe for us. Don’t you find that you breathe the odor of love among them, just as you scent the perfumes at a hairdresser’s?”
“Really such houses are the place for one to go. And what experts, my dear fellow! What artists! Have you ever eaten bakers’ cakes? They look well, but they amount to nothing. The man who bakes them only knows how to make bread. Well! the love of a woman in ordinary society always reminds me of these bake-shop trifles, while the love you find at houses like the Marquise Obardi’s, don’t you see, is the real sweetmeat. Oh! they know how to make cakes, these charming pastry-cooks. Only you pay five sous, at their shops, for what costs two sous elsewhere.”
“Who is the master of the house just now?” asked Saval.
Servigny shrugged his shoulders, signifying his ignorance.
“I don’t know, the latest one known was an English peer, but he left three months ago. At present she must live off the common herd, or the gambling, perhaps, and on the gamblers, for she has her caprices. But tell me, it is understood that we dine with her on Saturday at Bougival, is it not? People are more free in the country, and I shall succeed in finding out what ideas Yvette has in her head!”
“I should like nothing better,” replied Saval. “I have nothing to do that day.”
Passing down through the Champs-Elysees, under the steps they disturbed a couple making love on one of the benches, and Servigny muttered: “What foolishness and what a serious matter at the same time! How commonplace and amusing love is, always the same and always different! And the beggar who gives his sweetheart twenty sous gets as much return as I would for ten thousand francs from some Obardi, no younger and no less stupid perhaps than this nondescript. What nonsense!”
He said nothing for a few minutes; then he began again: “All the same, it would be good to become Yvette’s first lover. Oh! for that I would give—”
He did not add what he would give, and Saval said good night to him as they reached the corner of the Rue Royale.
CHAPTER II.
Bougival and Love
They had set the table on the veranda which overlooked the river. The Printemps villa, leased by the Marquise Obardi, was halfway up this hill, just at the corner of the Seine, which turned before the garden wall, flowing toward Marly.
Opposite the residence, the island of Croissy formed a horizon of tall trees, a mass of verdure, and they could see a long stretch of the big river as far as the floating cafe of La Grenouillere hidden beneath the foliage.
The evening fell, one of those calm evenings at the waterside, full of color yet soft, one of those peaceful evenings which produces a sensation of pleasure. No breath of air stirred the branches, no shiver of wind ruffled the smooth clear surface of the Seine. It was not too warm, it was mild—good weather to live in. The grateful coolness of the banks of the Seine rose toward a serene sky.
The sun disappeared behind the trees to shine on other lands, and one seemed to absorb the serenity of the already sleeping earth, to inhale, in the peace of space, the life of the infinite.
As they left the drawing-room to seat themselves at the table everyone was joyous. A softened gaiety filled their hearts, they felt that it would be so delightful to dine there in the country, with that great river and that twilight for a setting, breathing that pure and fragrant air.
The Marquise had taken Saval’s arm, and Yvette, Servigny’s. The four were alone by themselves. The two women seemed entirely different persons from what they were at Paris, especially Yvette. She talked but little, and seemed languid and grave.
Saval, hardly recognizing her in this frame of mind, asked her: “What is the matter, Mademoiselle? I find you changed since last week. You have become quite a serious person.”
“It is the country that does that for me,” she replied. “I am not the same, I feel queer; besides I am never two days alike. Today I have the air of a mad woman, and tomorrow shall be as grave as an elegy. I change with the weather, I don’t know why. You see, I am capable of anything, according to the moment. There are days when I would like to kill people,—not animals, I would never kill animals,—but people, yes, and other days when I weep at a mere thing. A lot of different ideas pass through my head. It depends, too, a good deal on how I get up. Every morning, on waking, I can tell just what I shall be in the evening. Perhaps it is our dreams that settle it for us, and it depends on the book I have just read.”
She was clad in a white flannel suit which delicately enveloped her in the floating softness of the material. Her bodice, with full folds, suggested, without displaying and without restraining, her free chest, which was firm and already ripe. And her superb neck emerged from a froth of soft lace, bending with gentle movements, fairer than her gown, a pilaster of flesh, bearing the heavy mass of her golden hair.
Servigny looked at her for a long time: “You are adorable this evening, Mam’zelle,” said he, “I wish I could always see you like this.”
“Don’t make a declaration, Muscade. I should take it seriously, and that might cost you dear.”
The Marquise seemed happy, very happy. All in black, richly dressed in a plain gown which showed her strong, full lines, a bit of red at the bodice, a cincture of red carnations falling from her waist like a chain, and fastened at the hips, and a red rose in her dark hair, she carried in all her person something fervid,—in that simple costume, in those flowers which seemed to bleed, in her look, in her slow speech, in her peculiar gestures.
Saval, too, appeared serious and absorbed. F
rom time to time he stroked his pointed beard, trimmed in the fashion of Henri III., and seemed to be meditating on the most profound subjects.
Nobody spoke for several minutes. Then as they were serving the trout, Servigny remarked:
“Silence is a good thing, at times. People are often nearer to each other when they are keeping still than when they are talking. Isn’t that so, Marquise?”
She turned a little toward him and answered:
“It is quite true. It is so sweet to think together about agreeable things.”
She raised her warm glance toward Saval, and they continued for some seconds looking into each other’s eyes. A slight, almost inaudible movement took place beneath the table.
Servigny resumed: “Mam’zelle Yvette, you will make me believe that you are in love if you keep on being as good as that. Now, with whom could you be in love? Let us think together, if you will; I put aside the army of vulgar sighers. I’ll only take the principal ones. Is it Prince Kravalow?”
At this name Yvette awoke: “My poor Muscade, can you think of such a thing? Why, the Prince has the air of a Russian in a wax-figure museum, who has won medals in a hairdressing competition.”
“Good! We’ll drop the Prince. But you have noticed the Viscount Pierre de Belvigne?”
This time she began to laugh, and asked: “Can you imagine me hanging to the neck of ‘Raisine’?” She nicknamed him according to the day, Raisine, Malvoisie, [Footnote: Preserved grapes and pears, malmsey,—a poor wine.] Argenteuil, for she gave everybody nicknames. And she would murmur to his face: “My dear little Pierre,” or “My divine Pedro, darling Pierrot, give your bow-wow’s head to your dear little girl, who wants to kiss it.”
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 218