The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
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this intelligence. “Of what description is your solemnity?”
She laughed gleefully. “I have prevailed upon Massival, by means of the grossest sycophancy, to give a performance of his ‘Dido,’ which no one has heard yet. It is the poetry of antique love. Mme de Bratiane, who considered herself Massival’s sole proprietor, is furious. She will be there, for she is to sing. Am I not a sly one?”
“Will there be many there?”
“Oh, no, only a few intimate friends. You know them nearly all.”
“Won’t you let me off? I am so happy in my solitude.”
“Oh! no, my friend. You know that I count on you more than all the rest.”
His heart gave a great thump. “Thank you,” he said; “I will come.”
French
VI
GOOD day, M. Mariolle.”
Mariolle noticed that it was no longer the “dear friend” of Auteuil, and the clasp of the hand was a hurried one, the hasty pressure of a busy woman wholly engrossed in her social functions. As he entered the salon Mme de Burne was advancing to speak to the beautiful Mme le Prieur, whose sculpturesque form, and the audacious way that she had of dressing to display it, had caused her to be nicknamed, somewhat ironically, “The Goddess.” She was the wife of a member of the Institute, of the section of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
“Ah, Mariolle!” exclaimed Lamarthe, “where do you come from? We thought that you were dead.”
“I have been making a trip through Finistère.”
He was going on to relate his impressions when the novelist interrupted him: “Are you acquainted with the Baronne de Frémines?”
“Only by sight; but I have heard a good deal of her. They say that she is queer.”
“The very queen of crazy women, but with an exquisite perfume of modernness. Come and let me present you to her.” Taking him by the arm he led him toward a young woman who was always compared to a doll, a pale and charming little blond doll, invented and created by the devil himself for the damnation of those larger children who wear beards on their faces. She had long, narrow eyes, slightly turned up toward the temples, apparently like the eyes of the Chinese; their soft blue glances stole out between lids that were seldom opened to their full extent, heavy, slowly-moving lids, designed to veil and hide this creature’s mysterious nature.
Her hair, very light in color, shone with silky, silvery reflections, and her delicate mouth, with its thin lips, seemed to have been cut by the light hand of a sculptor from the design of a miniature-painter. The voice that issued from it had bell-like intonations, and the audacity of her ideas, of a biting quality that was peculiar to herself, smacking of wickedness and drollery, their destructive charm, their cold, corrupting seductiveness, all the complicated nature of this full-grown, mentally diseased child acted upon those who were brought in contact with her in such a way as to produce in them violent passions and disturbances.
She was known all over Paris as being the most extravagant of the mondaines of the real monde, and also the wittiest, but no one could say exactly what she was, what were her ideas, what she did. She exercised an irresistible sway over mankind in general. Her husband, also, was quite as much of an enigma as she. Courteous and affable and a great nobleman, he seemed quite unconscious of what was going on. Was he indifferent, or complaisant, or was he simply blind? Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it more than those little eccentricities which doubtless amused him as much as they did her. All sorts of opinions, however, were prevalent in regard to him, and some very ugly reports were circulated. Rumor even went so far as to insinuate that his wife’s secret vices were not unprofitable to him.
Between her and Mme de Burne there were natural attractions and fierce jealousies, spells of friendship succeeded by crises of furious enmity. They liked and feared each other and mutually sought each other’s society, like professional duelists, who appreciate at the same time that they would be glad to kill each other.
It was the Baronne de Frémines who was having the upper hand at this moment. She had just scored a victory, an important victory: she had conquered Lamarthe, had taken him from her rival and borne him away ostentatiously to domesticate him in her flock of acknowledged followers. The novelist seemed to be all at once smitten, puzzled, charmed, and stupefied by the discoveries he had made in this creature sui generis, and he could not help talking about her to everybody that he met, a fact which had already given rise to much gossip.
Just as he was presenting Mariolle he encountered Mme de Burne’s look from the other end of the room; he smiled and whispered in his friend’s ear: “See, the mistress of the house is angry.”
André raised his eyes, but Madame had turned to meet Massival, who just then made his appearance beneath the raised portière. He was followed almost immediately by the Marquise de Bratiane, which elicited from Lamarthe: “Ah! we shall only have a second rendition of ‘Dido’; the first has just been given in the Marquise’s coupé.”
Mme de Frémines added: “Really, our friend De Burne’s collection is losing some of its finest jewels.”
Mariolle felt a sudden impulse of anger rising in his heart, a kind of hatred against this woman, and a brusque sensation of irritation against these people, their way of life, their ideas, their tastes, their aimless inclinations, their childish amusements. Then, as Lamarthe bent over the young woman to whisper something in her ear, he profited by the opportunity to slip away.
Handsome Mme le Prieur was sitting by herself only a few steps away; he went up to her to make his bow. According to Lamarthe she stood for the old guard among all this irruption of modernism. Young, tall, handsome, with very regular features and chestnut hair through which ran threads of gold, extremely affable, captivating by reason of her tranquil, kindly charm of manner, by reason also of a calm, well-studied coquetry and a great desire to please that lay concealed beneath an outward appearance of simple and sincere affection, she had many firm partisans, whom she took good care should never be exposed to dangerous rivalries. Her house had the reputation of being a little gathering of intimate friends, where all the habitués, moreover, concurred in extolling the merits of the husband.
She and Mariolle now entered into conversation. She held in high esteem this intelligent and reserved man, who gave people so little cause to talk about him and who was perhaps of more account than all the rest.
The remaining guests came dropping in: big Fresnel, puffing and giving a last wipe with his handkerchief to his shining and perspiring forehead, the philosophic George de Maltry, finally the Baron de Gravil accompanied by the Comte de Marantin. M. de Pradon assisted his daughter in doing the honors of the house; he was extremely attractive to Mariolle.
But Mariolle, with a heavy heart, saw her going and coming and bestowing her attentions on everyone there more than on him.
Twice, it is true, she had thrown him a swift look from a distance which seemed to say, “I am not forgetting you,” but they were so fleeting that perhaps he had failed to catch their meaning. And then he could not be unconscious to the fact that Lamarthe’s aggressive assiduities to Mme de Frémines were displeasing to Mme de Burne. “That is only her coquettish feeling of spite,” he said to himself, “a woman’s irritation from whose salon some valuable trinket has been spirited away.” Still it made him suffer, and his suffering was the greater since he saw that she was constantly watching them in a furtive, concealed kind of way, while she did not seem to trouble herself a bit at seeing him sitting beside Mme le Prieur.
The reason was that she had him in her power, she was sure of him, while the other was escaping her. What, then, could be to her that love of theirs, that love which was born but yesterday, and which in him had banished and killed