STORIES FOR NINON & NEW STORIES FOR NINON. Эмиль Золя
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scrupulously counting the tassels on the counterpane, and at last said in an undertone:
“It’s singular, that beautiful lady was neither M. Louis’ wife nor his sister.”
She resumed turning over the pages. A name soon stopped her.
“This Robert is a wicked man,” she continued. “I should never have thought that any one with such an elegant waistcoat could be so base-minded. For a full quarter of an hour he was comparing me to a thousand beautiful things — the stars, flowers, and I know not what else. I felt flattered. I experienced so much pleasure that I did not know what to answer. He spoke well, and for a long time without stopping. Then he led me back to my seat, and there he almost wept at leaving me. Afterwards I went to a window; I was hidden by the curtains which hung down behind me. I was thinking a little, I fancy, of my chatterbox of a partner, when I overheard him laughing and talking. He was speaking to a friend of a silly little thing, who blushed at the slightest word, of a novice just fresh from a convent, who cast down her eyes and made herself ugly by her over modest demeanour. No doubt he was alluding to Thérèse, my dear friend. Thérèse has small eyes and a large mouth. She is a very good girl. Perhaps they were alluding to me. So young men tell falsehoods, then! So, I am ugly. Ugly! Thérèse, however, is more so. They must certainly have been alluding to Thérèse.”
Georgette smiled, and felt a sort of inclination to run and consult her mirror.
“Then,” she added, “they made fun of the ladies at the ball. I continued listening, and at last I failed to understand.
I — fancied they were using ugly words. As I could not get away I courageously stopped my ears.”
The ball-program was convulsed with laughter. It proceeded to quote a swarm of names to prove to Georgette that Thérèse was indeed the silly little thing who made herself appear ugly by a too modest demeanour.
“Paul has blue eyes,” it said. “Paul assuredly does not tell falsehoods, and I have heard him say very sweet things to you.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated Georgette, “M. Paul has blue eyes, and M. Paul does not tell falsehoods. He has fair moustachios, which I like much better than those of Charles.”
“Don’t speak to me of Charles,” continued the program; “his moustachios do not deserve the faintest smile. What do you think of Edouard? He is timid, and only dares speak with his eyes. I don’t know if you understand that language. And Jules? He affirms that you alone know how to waltz. And Lucien, and Georges, and Albert? They all consider you charming, and for long hours beg the charity of a smile.” Georgette recommenced counting the tassels on the counterpane. The program’s chattering began to alarm her. She felt the book was burning her hands; she would have liked to close it, but had not the courage.
“For you were the queen,” continued the demon. “Your lace wouldn’t hide your arms, your forehead of sixteen summers put your tiara in the shade. Ah! my Georgette, you could not see all, otherwise you would have shown pity. The poor fellows feel very sad at the present moment!”
And there was a silence significative of commiseration. The child who was listening, smiling and on the alert, seeing the program remain silent, murmured:
“A bow had fallen from my gown. Surely that made me look ugly. The young men must have made fun as they passed. Those dressmakers are so careless!”
“Did not he dance with you?” interrupted the program. “Who do you mean?” inquired Georgette, blushing so much that her shoulders became quite pink.
And pronouncing, at last, a name she had had before her eyes for a quarter of an hour, and which her heart was spelling out to her, whilst her lips spoke of a torn gown, she said: “M. Edmond seemed sad last night. I saw him looking at me from a distance. As he was afraid to approach, I rose and went over to him. He could not do otherwise than ask me to dance.”
“I am very fond of M. Edmond,” sighed the little book. Georgette pretended not to understand. She continued:
“In dancing I felt his hand trembling on my waist. He stammered out a few words, complaining of the heat. Seeing he cast a look of envy at the roses in my bouquet, I gave him one. There was no harm in that.”
“Oh no! Then, in taking the flower, his lips by a peculiar chance came close to your fingers. He gave them a little kiss.”
“There is no harm in that,” repeated Georgette, who for a few moments had been very restless in bed.
“Oh no! But I must really scold you for having made him wait for that poor kiss so long. Edmond would make a charming little husband.”
The child, more and more troubled, did not notice that her fichu had fallen off and that one of her feet had thrown back the bedclothes.
“A charming little husband,” she repeated again.
“I am very fond of him,” continued the tempter. “If I were in your place I would willingly return him his kiss.”
Georgette was scandalised. The good apostle continued:
“Only a kiss, there, softly on his name. I won’t tell him about it.”
The young girl vowed by all she respected that she would not do it. And I know not how it was that the page came to her lips. She knew nothing about it herself. Amidst her protests, she kissed the name twice.
Then, she perceived her foot, which was smiling in a ray of the sun. All in confusion she pulled up the bedclothes, and completely lost her head on hearing the handle of the door turn.
The ball-program slipped amidst the lace and disappeared in great haste under the pillow.
It was the chambermaid.
SHE WHO LOVES ME
I
Is she who loves me a grand lady, smothered in silk, lace and jewels, dreaming of our love on the sofa of a boudoir? Marchioness or duchess, graceful and light as a dream, languidly trailing a profusion of white petticoats across the carpets, and making a little pout sweeter than a smile?
Is she who loves me a smart grisette, tripping along, catching up her skirt to jump over the gutters, searching with her eyes for a compliment on her taper leg? Is she the goodnatured girl who drinks out of every one’s glass, clothed in satin to-day, in coarse calico tomorrow, and who finds a little love for each in her wealth of heart?
Is she who loves me the blond child kneeling down to say her prayers beside her mother? The foolish virgin calling on me at night in the darkness of the narrow streets? Is she the sunburnt country-girl who looks at me as I pass, and carries a remembrance of me away with her amongst the corn and ripe vines? Is she the poverty-stricken creature who thanks me for my charity? Is she the mate of another, lover or husband, whom I followed one day, and saw no more?
Is she who loves me a daughter of Europe, as white as dawn, a daughter of Asia yellow and gold like sunset, or a daughter of the desert as dark as a stormy night?
Is she who loves me separated from me by a thin partition? Is she beyond the seas? Is she beyond the stars?
Is she who loves me still to be born? Did she die a hundred years ago?
II
Yesterday I sought her at a fair. The faubourg was holiday-making, and the people, dressed in their Sunday clothes, were noisily ascending the streets.
The illumination lamps had just been lit. The avenue, from distance to distance, was decked with yellow and blue posts, affixed to which were small coloured cups, burning smoking wicks that were blowing about in the wind. Venetian lanterns were vacillating in the trees. The footways were bordered by canvas booths with the fringe of their red curtains dragging in the gutters. The gilded crockery, the freshly painted sweets, the tinsel of the wares