“Can you see me hanging round Raisiné’s neck”—she called him Raisiné, Malvoisie, or Argenteuil according to the day of the week, for she nicknamed everyone—“and whispering in his ear: ‘My dear little Pierre,’ or ‘My divine Pedro, my adored Pietri, my darling Pierrot, give your dear fat poodlehead to your darling little wifie because she wants to kiss it’?”
“Away with Number Two, then,” said Servigny. “We are left with the Chevalier Valréali, whom the Marquise seems to favour.”
Yvette was as much amused as before.
“What, Old Lachrymose? Why, he’s a professional mourner at the Madeleine; he follows all the high-class funerals. Whenever he looks at me I feel as though I were already dead.”
“That’s three. Then you’ve fallen hopelessly in love with Baron Saval, here present.”
“With Rhodes Junior? No, he’s too strong. It would feel like being in love with the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile.”
“Well, then, Mam’zelle, it is plain that you’re in love with me, for I’m the only one of your worshippers that we haven’t already dealt with. I had kept myself to the end, out of modesty and prudence. It only remains for me to thank you.”
“You, Muscade!” she replied with charming gaiety. “Oh, no, I like you very much … but I don’t love you … Wait, I don’t want to discourage you. I don’t love you yet. … You have a chance … perhaps … Persevere, Muscade, be devoted, ardent, obedient, take plenty of trouble and all possible precautions, obey my lightest whims, be prepared to do anything I may choose … and we’ll see … later.”
“But, Mam’zelle, I’d rather do all this for you after than before, if you don’t mind.”
“After what … Muscade?” she asked him with the ingenuous air of a soubrette.
“Why, deuce take it, after you’ve shown me that you love me.”
“Well, behave as though I did, and believe it if you want to.”
“But, I must say …”
“Be quiet, Muscade. That’s enough about it for this time.”
He made her a military salute and held his tongue.
The sun had gone down behind the island, but the sky still glowed like a brazier, and the quiet water of the river was as though changed to blood. The sunset spilled a burning light over houses, people, everything; the scarlet rose in the Marquise’s hair was like a drop of crimson fallen upon her head from the clouds.
Yvette was looking the other way; her mother laid her hand on Saval’s, as though by accident. But the young girl turned, and the Marquise quickly snatched away her hand and fumbled at the folds of her bodice.
Servigny, who was watching them, said:
“If you like, Mam’zelle, we’ll go for a walk on the island after dinner.”
She was delighted with the idea.
“Oh, yes; that will be lovely; we’ll go by ourselves, won’t we, Muscade?”
“Yes, all by ourselves, Mam’zelle.”
Once more they were silent.
The calm of the wide landscape, the restful slumber of eventide weighed on their hearts, their bodies, their voices. There are rare, quiet hours wherein speech is almost impossible. The servants made no noise. The flaming sky burnt low; slowly night folded the earth in shadow.
“Do you propose to stay here long?” asked Saval.
“Yes,” replied the Marquise, dwelling upon each word, “for just as long as I’m happy here.”
As it was now too dark to see, lamps were brought. They flung across the table a strange pale light in the hollow darkness. A rain of little flies began falling upon the cloth. They were tiny midges, burnt as they flew over the glass chimneys of the lamps; their wings and legs singed, they powdered the table-linen, the plates, and the glasses with a grey, creeping dust. The diners swallowed them in their wine, ate them in the sauces, watched them crawling over the bread. Their faces and hands were perpetually tickled by a flying swarm of innumerable tiny insects.
The wine had constantly to be thrown away, the plates covered; they took infinite precautions to protect the food they were eating. Yvette was amused at the game; Servigny carefully sheltered whatever she was raising to her lips, guarded the wineglass and held his napkin spread out over her head like a roof. But it was too much for the fastidious nerves of the Marquise, and the meal was hastily brought to an end.
“Now let’s go to the island,” said Yvette, who had not forgotten Servigny’s suggestion.
“Don’t stay long, will you?” advised her mother languidly. “We’ll come with you as far as the ferry.”
They went off along the towpath, still two and two, the young girl in front with her friend. They could hear the Marquise and Saval behind them talking very fast in very low voices. All round them was black, with a thick, inky blackness. But the sky, swarming with seeds of fire, seemed to spill them out on the river, for the dark water was richly patined with stars.
By this time the frogs were croaking; all along the banks their rolling, monotonous notes creaked out.
The soft voices of innumerable nightingales rose in the still air.
Yvette remarked abruptly:
“Hallo! They are no longer following us. Where are they?”
And she called: “Mother!”
There was no answer. “They can’t be far away,” continued the young girl. “I heard them a moment ago.”
“They must have gone back,” murmured Servigny. “Perhaps your mother was cold.” He led her on.
A light shone in front of them; it was the inn of Martinet, a fisherman who also ran a tavern. At their call a man came out of the house, and they boarded a large boat moored in the grasses on the bank. The ferryman took up his oars, and the heavy boat advanced, waking the stars slumbering on the water and rousing them to a frenzied dancing that died slowly down in their wake. They touched the other bank and stepped off under the tall trees. The coolness of the moist earth floated up under the high thick branches that seemed to bear as many nightingales as leaves. A distant piano began to play a popular waltz.
Servigny had taken Yvette’s arm;
