And thereupon, she, seized by a kind of mad audacity, came forward and said: “What will you charge me for the figure?”
The shopkeeper, in surprise, replied: “Fifteen hundred francs, Madame.”
“I will take it.”
The writer, who had not even noticed her till that moment, turned round suddenly. He looked at her from head to foot, with half-closed eyes, observantly, and then he took in the details, as a connoisseur. She was charming, suddenly animated by the flame which had hitherto been dormant in her. And then, a woman who gives fifteen hundred francs for a knickknack is not to be met with every day.
But she was overcome by a feeling of delightful delicacy, and turning to him, she said in a trembling voice:
“Excuse me, Monsieur; no doubt I have been rather hasty, as perhaps you had not finally made up your mind.”
He, however, only bowed, and said: “Indeed I had, Madame.”
And she, filled with emotion, continued: “Well, Monsieur, if either today, or at any other time, you change your mind, you can have this Japanese figure. I only bought it because you seemed to like it.”
He was visibly flattered, and smiled. “I should much like to find out how you know who I am?” he said.
Then she told him how she admired him, and became quite eloquent as she quoted his works, and while they were talking, he rested his arms on a table and fixed his bright eyes upon her, trying to make out who and what she really was. But the shopkeeper, who was pleased to have that living puff of his goods, called out, from the other end of the shop: “Just look at this, Monsieur Varin; is it not beautiful?”
And then everyone looked round, and she almost trembled with pleasure at being seen talking so intimately with such a well-known man.
At last, however, intoxicated, as it were, by her feelings, she grew bold, like a general who is about to order an assault.
“Monsieur,” she said, “will you do me a great, a very great pleasure? Allow me to offer you this funny Japanese figure, as a souvenir from a woman who admires you passionately, and whom you have seen for ten minutes.”
He refused. She persisted, but still he resisted her offer, very much amused, and laughing heartily. But that only made her more obstinate, and she said: “Very well, then, I shall take it to your house immediately; where do you live?”
He refused to give her his address, but she got it from the shopkeeper, and when she had paid for her purchase, she ran out to take a cab. The writer went after her, as he did not wish to accept a present from a person whom he did not know. He reached her just as she was jumping into a vehicle, and getting in after her, he almost fell on top of her, as the cab gave a jolt. Then he sat down by her side, feeling very much annoyed.
It was no good for him to argue and to beg her; she showed herself intractable, and when they got to the door, she stated her conditions: “I will undertake not to leave this with you,” she said, “if you will promise to do all I want today.” And the whole affair seemed so funny to him that he agreed.
“What do you generally do at this time?” she asked him; and after hesitating for a few moments, he replied: “I generally go for a walk.”
“Very well, then, we will go to the Bois de Boulogne!” she said, in a resolute voice, and they started.
He was obliged to tell her the names of all the well-known women, pure or impure, with every detail about them—their mode of life, their habits, their homes, and their vices; and when it was getting dusk, she said to him: “What do you do every day at this time?”
“I have some absinthe,” he replied, with a laugh.
“Very well, then, Monsieur,” she went on seriously; “let us go and have some absinthe.”
They went into a large café on the boulevard which he frequented, and where he met some of his colleagues, whom he introduced to her. She was half beside herself with pleasure, and kept saying to herself: “At last! At last!”
But time went on, and she asked: “Is it your dinner time?” To which he replied: “Yes.”
“Then, let us go and have dinner.”
When they left Bignon’s after dinner, she wanted to know what he did in the evening, and looking at her fixedly, he replied: “That depends; sometimes I go to the theatre.”
“Very well, then, let us go to the theatre.”
They went to the Vaudeville with a pass, thanks to him, and, to her great pride, the whole house saw her sitting by his side in the balcony stalls.
When the play was over, he gallantly kissed her hand, and said: “It only remains for me to thank you for this delightful day.”
But she interrupted him: “What do you do at this time, every night?”
“Why—why—I go home.”
She began to laugh, a little tremulous laugh: “Very well, Monsieur, let us go to your rooms.”
They did not say anything more. She shivered occasionally, from head to foot, feeling inclined to stay, and inclined to run away, but with a fixed determination, after all, to see it out to the end. She was so excited that she had to hold on to the bannister as she went upstairs, and he went on ahead of her, with a wax match in his hand.
As soon as they were in the room, she undressed herself quickly, and retired without saying a word, and then she waited for him, cowering against the wall. But she was as simple as it was possible for a provincial lawyer’s wife to be, and he was more exacting than a pasha with three tails, and so they did not at all understand each other.
At last, however, he went
