“If you will have it, mamma, rather than forbid me to continue my friendship with a talented lyrical artist, you would be better employed in preventing my elder sister, Madame de Margy, from appearing, night after night, in society and at the theatres with a contemptible and disgusting individual that everybody knows is her lover. You should also keep an eye on my little sister Jeanne, who writes objectionable letters to herself in a disguised hand, and then, pretending she has found them in her prayerbook, shows them to you with assumed innocence, to worry and alarm you. It would be just as well, too, if you prevented my little brother Léon, a child of seven, from being quite so much with Mademoiselle Caporal, and you might tell your maid. …”
“Get out, sir, I will not have you in the house!” cried Monsieur René d’Esparvieu, white with anger, pointing a trembling finger at the door.
XXIX
Wherein we see how the angel, having become a man, behaves like a man, coveting another’s wife and betraying his friend—in this chapter the correctness of young d’Esparvieu’s conduct will be made manifest.
The angel was pleased with his lodging. He worked of a morning, went out in the afternoon, heedless of detectives, and came home to sleep. As in days gone by, Maurice received Madame des Aubels twice or thrice a week in the room in which they had seen the apparition.
All went very well until one morning Gilberte, having, the night before, left her little velvet bag on the table in the blue room, came to find it, and discovered Arcade stretched on the couch in his pyjamas, smoking a cigarette, and dreaming of the conquest of Heaven. She gave a loud scream.
“You, Monsieur! Had I thought to find you here, you may be quite sure I should not … I came to fetch my little bag, which is in the next room. Allow me. …” And she slipped past the angel, cautiously and quickly, as if he were a brazier.
Madame des Aubels that morning, in her pale green tailor-made costume, was deliciously attractive. Her tight skirt displayed her movements, and her every step was one of those miracles of Nature which fill men’s hearts with amazement.
She reappeared, bag in hand.
“Once more—I ask your pardon. … I never dreamt that. …”
Arcade begged her to sit down and to stay a moment.
“I never expected, Monsieur,” said she, “that you would be doing the honours of this flat. I knew how dearly Monsieur d’Esparvieu loved you. … Nevertheless, I had no idea that. …”
The sky had suddenly grown overcast. A brownish glare began to steal into the room. Madame des Aubels told him she had walked for her health’s sake, but a storm was brewing, and she asked if a carriage could be called for her.
Arcade flung himself at Gilberte’s feet, took her in his arms as one takes a precious piece of china, and murmured words which, being meaningless in themselves, expressed desire.
She put her hands over his eyes and on his lips, and exclaimed, “I hate you!”
And shaking with sobs, she asked for a drink of water. She was choking. The angel went to her assistance. In this moment of extreme peril she defended herself courageously. She kept saying: “No! … No! … I will not love you. I should love you too well. …” Nevertheless she succumbed.
In the sweet familiarity which followed their mutual astonishment she said to him:
“I have often asked after you. I knew that you were an assiduous frequenter of the playhouses at Montmartre—that you were often seen with Mademoiselle Bouchotte, who, nevertheless, is not at all pretty. I knew that you had become very smart, and that you were making a good deal of money. I was not surprised. You were born to succeed. The day of your”—and she pointed at the spot between the window and the wardrobe with the mirror—“apparition, I was vexed with Maurice for having given you a suicide’s rags to wear. You pleased me. … Oh, it was not your good looks! Don’t think that women are as sensitive as people say to outward attractions. We consider other things in love. There is a sort of—Well, anyhow I loved you as soon as I saw you.”
The shadows grew deeper.
She asked:
“You are not an angel, are you? Maurice believes you are; but he believes so many things, Maurice.” She questioned Arcade with her eyes and smiled maliciously. “Confess that you have been fooling him, and that you are no angel?”
Arcade replied:
“I only aspire to please you; I will always be what you want me to be.”
Gilberte decided that he was no angel; first, because one never is an angel; secondly, for more detailed reasons which drew her thoughts to the question of love. He did not argue the matter with her, and once again words were found inadequate to express their feelings.
Outside, the rain was falling thick and fast, the windows were streaming, lightning lit up the muslin curtains, and thunder shook the panes. Gilberte made the sign of the cross and remained with her head hidden in her lover’s bosom.
At this moment Maurice entered the room. He came in wet and smiling, confident, tranquil, happy, to announce to Arcade the good news that with his half-share in the previous day’s race at Longchamps the angel had won twelve times his stake. Surprising the lady and the angel in their embrace, he became furious; anger gripped the muscles of his throat, his face grew red with blood, and the veins stood out on his forehead. He sprang with clenched fists towards Gilberte, and then suddenly stopped.
Interrupted motion was transformed into heat. Maurice fumed. His anger did not arm him,
