“How ridiculous, yet how utterly indispensable, is this business of love! A commonplace, and an ecstasy, always the same and always different! And the clown who is paying that girl a franc is only seeking the very thing I buy for ten thousand from some Obardi who is perhaps no younger or more fascinating than that drab! What folly!” He was silent for some minutes, then said:
“All the same, it wouldn’t be a poor thing to be Yvette’s first lover. For that I’d give … I’d give …”
He did not make up his mind what he would give. And Saval bade him good night at the corner of the Rue Royale.
II
The table had been laid on the veranda that overlooked the river. Villa Printemps, the house that the Marquise Obardi had taken, stood halfway up the hillside, at the very point where just below the garden wall the Seine made a turn towards Marly. Opposite the house the island of Croissy formed a background of tall trees, a mass of leafage. A long reach of the broad river was clearly visible as far as the floating café, La Grenouillère, half hidden in the branches.
Night was coming down, calm and still, after a flaming riverside sunset; one of those tranquil evenings that bring with them a vague sense of happiness. Not a breath or air stirred the branches, no gust of wind disturbed the smooth translucent surface of the Seine. The air was warm, but not too hot; it was good to be alive. The grateful coolness of the riverbanks rose to the quiet sky.
The sun was disappearing behind the trees, wheeling towards other lands. The serene calm of the sleeping earth soothed their senses; under the vast quiet dome of the sky they felt the effortless surge of the universal life.
The scene enchanted them when they came out of the drawing room and sat down at the dinner-table. A tender gaiety filled their hearts; they all felt it very good to be dining out there in the country with that broad river and glorious sunset for scenery, and breathing that sweet pure air.
The Marquise had taken Saval’s arm, Yvette Servigny’s.
These four made up the little party.
The two women were not in the least like their Parisian selves. Yvette was the more altered of the two; she spoke very little, and seemed tired and grave.
Saval hardly recognised her, and asked:
“What’s the matter with you, Mademoiselle? I find you very changed since last week. You have become quite a reasonable being.”
“It’s the effect of the country,” she answered. “I am not the same there; I feel quite strange. And besides, I never am the same two days together. Today I behave like a lunatic, tomorrow I’ll be like a funeral oration; I change like the weather, I don’t know why. I’m capable of absolutely anything—at the right time. There are days when I could kill people; not animals—I could never kill animals—but people, certainly; and then there are days when I cry for just nothing. A hundred different ideas rush through my head. It depends, too, on my feeling when I get up in the morning. Every morning when I wake up I know just what I shall be like all day. Perhaps our dreams decide that sort of thing. Partly it depends on the book I have just been reading.”
She was dressed in white flannel; the soft delicate folds of material covered her from head to foot. The bodice was loose, with big pleats, and suggested, without too rigidly defining, the firm sweeping contour of her already well-formed bosom. Her slender neck rose from fold upon fold of frothy lace, drooping languidly, its warm gleaming flesh even whiter than her dress and weighed down with its heavy burden of golden hair.
For a long minute Servigny gazed at her, then said:
“You are adorable tonight, Mam’zelle—I wish I could always see you like that.”
“Don’t propose to me, Muscade,” she said, with a touch of her wonted archness. “On a day like this I should take you at your word, and that might cost you dear.”
The Marquise looked happy, very happy. She was dressed severely in black; the fine folds of the gown set off the superb, massive lines of her figure. There was a touch of red in the bodice, a spray of red carnations fell from her waist and was caught up at her side, a red rose was fastened in her dark hair. There was a flame in her tonight, in her whole being, in the simple dress with the bloodred blossoms, in the glance that lingered on her neighbour, in her slow voice, in her rare movements.
Saval too was grave and preoccupied. From time to time, with a gesture familiar to him, he stroked his brown Vandyke beard, and seemed sunk in thought.
For some moments no one spoke.
“There is sometimes a saving grace in silence,” said Servigny at last, as the trout was being handed. “Neighbours are often closer to one another when silent than when speaking; isn’t that so, Marquise?”
She turned slightly towards him and replied:
“Yes, it’s true. It is so sweet for both of us to think of the same delightful thing.”
She turned her burning gaze on Saval; for some moments they remained looking into one another’s eyes. There was a slight, an almost imperceptible movement under the table.
“Mam’zelle Yvette,” continued Servigny, “you’ll make me think you’re in love if you continue to behave so beautifully. Now with whom can you be in love? Let’s think it out together. I leave the vulgar herd of sighing swains on one side, and go straight for the principals. How about Prince Kravalow?”
At this name Yvette was roused.
“My poor dear Muscade, what are you thinking about? The Prince looks like a Russian in the waxworks who would win medals at a hairdressing competition.”
“Very well. The Prince is out of it. Perhaps you have chosen the Vicomte Pierre de Belvigne?”
This time she broke into a fit
