“You know the proverb?” she replied. “ ‘Every feast day should have a morrow.’ ”
At the game of repartee literary giants are not always equal to ladies of title. Raoul took refuge in a pretended stupidity, the last resource of clever men.
“The proverb is true for me,” he said, casting an admiring look on the Marchioness.
“Your pretty speech, sir, comes too late for me to accept it,” she replied, laughing. “Come, come, don’t be a prude; in the small hours of yesterday morning, you thought Mme. de Vandenesse entrancing in marabouts; she was perfectly aware of it, and puts them on again to please you. She is in love with you, and you adore her; no time has been lost, certainly; still I see nothing in it but what is most natural. If it were not as I say, you would not be tearing your glove to pieces in your rage at having to sit here beside me, instead of in the box of your idol—which has just been shut in your face by supercilious authority—whispering low what you would fain hear said aloud.”
Raoul was in fact twisting one of his gloves, and the hand which he showed was surprisingly white.
“She has won from you,” she went on, fixing his hand with an impertinent stare, “sacrifices which you refused to society. She ought to be enchanted at her success, and, I daresay, she is a little vain of it; but in her place I think I should be more so. So far she has only been a woman of good parts, now she will pass for a woman of genius. We shall find her portrait in one of those delightful books of yours. But, my dear friend, do me the kindness not to forget Vandenesse. That man is really too fatuous. I could not stand such self-complacency in Jupiter Olympus himself, who is said to have been the only god in mythology exempt from domestic misfortune.”
“Madame,” cried Raoul, “you credit me with a very base soul if you suppose that I would make profit out of my feelings, out of my love. Sooner than be guilty of such literary dishonor, I would follow the English custom, and drag a woman to market with a rope round her neck.”
“But I know Marie; she will ask you to do it.”
“No, she is incapable of it,” protested Raoul.
“You know her intimately then?”
Nathan could not help laughing that he, a playwright, should be caught in this little comedy dialogue.
“The play is no longer there,” he said, pointing to the footlights; “it rests with you.”
To hide his confusion, he took the opera-glass and began to examine the house.
“Are you vexed with me?” said the Marchioness, with a sidelong glance at him. “Wouldn’t your secret have been mine in any case? It won’t be hard to make peace. Come to my house, I am at home every Wednesday; the dear Countess won’t miss an evening when she finds you come, and I shall be the gainer. Sometimes she comes to me between four and five o’clock; I will be very good-natured, and add you to the select few admitted at that hour.”
“Only see,” said Raoul, “how unjust people are! I was told you were spiteful.”
“Oh! so I am,” she said, “when I want to be. One has to fight for one’s own hand. But as for your Countess, I adore her. You have no idea how charming she is! You will be the first to have your name inscribed on her heart with that infantine joy which causes all lovers, even drill-sergeants, to cut their initials on the bark of a tree. A woman’s first love is a luscious fruit. Later, you see, there is always some calculation in our attentions and caresses. I’m an old woman, and can say what I like; nothing frightens me, not even a journalist. Well, then, in the autumn of life, we know how to make you happy; but when love is a new thing, we are happy ourselves, and that gives endless satisfaction to your pride. We are full of delicious surprises then, because the heart is fresh. You, who are a poet, must prefer flowers to fruit. Six months hence you shall tell me about it.”
Raoul began with denying everything, as all men do when they are brought to the bar, but found that this only supplied weapons to so practised a champion. Entangled in the noose of a dialogue, manipulated with all the dangerous adroitness of a woman and a Parisian, he dreaded to let fall admissions which would serve as fuel for the lady’s wit, and he beat a prudent retreat when he saw Lady Dudley enter.
“Well,” said the Englishwoman, “how far have they gone?”
“They are desperately in love. Nathan has just told me so.”
“I wish he had been uglier,” said Lady Dudley, with a venomous scowl at Félix. “Otherwise, he is exactly what I would have wished; he is the son of a Jewish broker, who died bankrupt shortly after his marriage; unfortunately, his mother was a Catholic, and has made a Christian of him.”
Nathan’s origin, which he kept a most profound secret, was a new discovery to Lady Dudley, who gloated in advance over the delight of drawing thence some pointed shaft to aim at Vandenesse.
“And I’ve just asked him to my house!” exclaimed the Marchioness.
“Wasn’t he at my ball yesterday?” replied Lady Dudley. “There are pleasures, my dear, for which one pays heavily.”
The news of a mutual passion between Raoul and Mme. de Vandenesse went the round of society that evening, not without calling forth protests and doubts; but the Countess was defended by her friends, Lady Dudley, Mmes. d’Espard, and de Manerville, with a clumsy eagerness which gained some credence for the rumor. Yielding to necessity, Raoul went on Wednesday evening to Mme. d’Espard’s, and found there the usual distinguished company. As Félix did not accompany his wife, Raoul was able to exchange a few words with Marie, the tone
