“But how shall I call you?”
“Call me Odette; that is my nom de guerre.”
And her only garment now being the cambric under-gown, she threw herself back on the lounging chair where Violette was reclining, buttoning up her dressing gown to protect herself from the attacks of the Countess.
“Well, what does this mean, you little rebel?” cried the Countess. “Have you by chance taken it into your head to resist?”
“Resist whom?”
“Me, of course.”
“Why should I resist you? You do not wish to hurt me, I suppose?”
“No, just the reverse,” said the Countess, divesting her of her dressing gown. “No; I wish to give you pleasure, but then you must allow me to do all I please.”
“But then… madame la comtesse?”
“Odette, you mean. Call me Odette, I tell you!”
“But when you are…”
“Thou! not you!”
“Well; when thou art… Oh! I shall never dare to do so.”
“Thou!… Thou! I say,” she repeated. “Are we not good friends?”
“Well, yes. That is to say, I am a poor working girl and you are a great lady.”
“Well! What should that great lady do to be forgiven for being a Countess, you proud little thing? Behold, I am at your knees. Are you satisfied?”
Indeed, the countess went down on her knees before Violette, who sat in a chair, and gently lifted her chemise in order to gaze upon certain secret charms of which she had caught a glimpse when trying on the drawers. Her eager eyes peered into the arch which her two hands formed in the cambric.
“Oh! what lovely treasures!” she murmured. “How well made! What round thighs! What a soft skin! What marble was it that you were carved out of, dear Hebe? In Paros or Carrara? And this little black dot! Come, let me kiss it!”
She imprinted her lips on it.
“What a nice perfume! Why you little coquette, it is Eau de Portugal!”
“That is Christian's favourite scent.”
“Christian? Who's that, I should like to know?”
“Why, he is my lover,” said Violette.
“Your lover!… You have a lover?”
“Yes.”
“And that lover has had you?”
“Well! yes.”
“You are no longer a virgin?”
“No.”
“Since when?”
“Since two days ago.”
“Oh!!…”
The Countess uttered a cry of rage.
“Oh! the little fool!” she went on, “to think she gave her virginity to a man.”
“To whom else could I give it?”
“To me! To me! I would have given you your weight in gold for it. Ah!” said she, in a despairing tone. “I will never forgive you for this.”
And she caught up her stays and dress as if about to dress herself again.
“What did your lover do to you? He hurt you cruelly; dare you say he did not; dare you say he gave you pleasure!”
“Oh yes, he did!” cried Violette.
“That is false!”
“Such pleasure as I never could have imagined.”
“That is false!”
“I thought I should have become mad with happiness.”
“Hold your tongue!”
“What does it matter to you?”
“What! What does it matter to me? Why, it is so much happiness he has robbed me of. I who thought you un-defiled as yet; who wished to initiate you little by little into love's mysteries; I who would have invented for you a new pleasure every day. He polluted you with his coarse caresses! That rough skin, covered with hairs; do you mean to tell me it was pleasant to touch?”
“Ah! Dear Christian has a skin like a woman's!”
“Well, I see I have no chance against him! Good-bye.” And mad with rage she put on her corset.
“Are you going away?” asked Violette.
“What can I do here now? Nothing. You have a lover! Oh, I suspected as much directly I saw the warmth with which you took his part against me.”
She dressed herself rapidly.
“One more fond illusion flown away!” said she. “Ah! how unhappy to wish to uphold the dignity and pride of our sex. I expected so much pleasure with you, you wicked child! I must weep or my heart will break.”
She fell sobbing on a chair. Her tears were so genuine, her grief so intense, that Violette got up without thinking of putting on her dressing gown, and, half naked, went in her turn to kneel before her.
“Come, Madame la Comtesse; do not cry so,” said she.
“What? Madame la Comtesse, again!”
“Come, Odette, you are unjust.”
“What, 'YOU' again?”
“Thou art unjust.”
“How?”
“Could I see that you loved me?”
“You did not see it then, when you called at my house?”
“I suspected nothing. I was so innocent.”
“And you are not innocent now?”
“Not quite as much as I was,” said Violette, laughing.
The Countess wrung her hands in despair.
“She laughs at my grief!” cried she.
“No, I swear I do not. I swear it!” The Countess shook her head.
“Ah! All is over now! I could forgive, but I shall never forget! But I must not be weak. Adieu! You will never see me more! Adieu.”
And the Countess beside herself with grief, like a lover who has just discovered the unfaithfulness of his mistress, opened the door and rushed downstairs.
Violette waited for a moment and listened, thinking she would return; but the angry woman had indeed left for good. Violette closed the door, and turning round, perceived me at the entrance to the dressing room. She uttered a cry of surprise. I burst out laughing, and she threw herself into my arms.
“Ah! how happy I feel now that I was not naughty!” said she.
“Did you find it difficult?”
“Not too much. I must confess, however, that when she kissed my bosom a kind of burning sensation went through my whole frame.”
“So that, now, I should not have to use violence.”
“Oh, no.”
I took her in my arms and seated her in the lounging chair in the same position in which the Countess had placed her.
