“What are you thinking of?” he asked.
“I? … Nothing, I’m so happy.”
“Then you don’t care for me?”
“Yes, I do, Muscade. I care for you, I care for you a great deal; only don’t talk about it now. It’s too beautiful here to listen to your nonsense.”
He clasped her to him, though she strove, with little struggles, to free herself; through the flannel, so soft and fleecy to the touch, he could feel the warmth of her body.
“Yvette,” he stammered.
“Yes; what is it?”
“It’s … I who care for you.”
“You … don’t mean that, Muscade.”
“Yes, I do; I’ve cared for you for a very long time.”
She was still struggling to get away, striving to free her arm caught between their two bodies. They walked with difficulty, hampered by this link and by her struggles, zigzagging like a couple of drunkards.
He did not know what to say to her now, well aware that it is impossible to use to a young girl the words one would use to a grown woman; he was worried, wondering what he could do, wondering if she consented or did not understand, at his wit’s end for words that would be at once tender, discreet, and unmistakable.
Every second he repeated:
“Yvette! Speak to me, Yvette!”
Suddenly he pressed an audacious kiss on her cheek. She made a little movement of withdrawal, and said in a vexed tone:
“Oh! How absurd you are. Will you leave me alone?”
Her voice revealed nothing of her thoughts and wishes; he saw that she was not too angry, and he stooped his lips to the nape of her neck, on the first few downy golden hairs, the adorable spot he had coveted so long.
Then she struggled with all her might to get free. But he held her firmly, and placing his other hand on her shoulder, forced her head round towards him, and took from her mouth a long, maddening kiss. She slipped between his arms with a quick twist of her whole body, stooped swiftly, and having thus dexterously escaped from his embrace, vanished in the darkness with a sharp rustling of petticoats like the whirring noise of a pheasant rising.
At first he remained motionless, stunned by her quickness and by her disappearance; then, hearing no further sound, he called in a low voice:
“Yvette!”
There was no answer; he began to walk on, ransacking the darkness with his eyes, searching in the bushes for the white patch that must be made by her dress. All was dark. He called again more loudly:
“Mam’zelle Yvette!”
The nightingales were silent.
He hurried on, vaguely uneasy, calling ever louder and louder:
“Mam’zelle Yvette! Mam’zelle Yvette!”
Nothing! He stopped, listened. The whole island was silent; there was barely a rustle in the leaves overhead. The frogs alone kept up their sonorous croaking on the banks.
He wandered from copse to copse, descending first to the steep wooded slope of the swift main stream, then returning to the bare flat bank of the backwater. He went right up until he was opposite Bougival, then came back to the café La Grenouillère, hunting through all the thickets, constantly crying:
“Mam’zelle Yvette, where are you? Answer! It is only a joke. Answer me, answer me! Don’t make me hunt like this.”
A distant clock began to strike. He counted the strokes; it was midnight. For two hours he had been running round the island. He thought that she had probably gone home, and, very uneasy, went back, going round by the bridge.
A servant, asleep in an armchair, was waiting in the hall. Servigny woke him and asked:
“Is it long since Mademoiselle Yvette came in? I left her out in the country, as I had to pay a call.”
“Oh, yes, your Grace,” the fellow replied, “Mademoiselle came in before ten.”
He walked up to his room and went to bed. But he lay with his eyes open, unable to sleep. That snatched kiss had disturbed her. What did she want? he wondered. What did she think? What did she know? How pretty she was, and how she had maddened him! His desire, dulled by the life he had led, by all the women he had known, was reawakened by this strange child, so fresh, provoking, and inexplicable.
He heard one o’clock strike, then two. He realised that he would get no sleep that night. He was hot and wet with sweat; he felt in his temples the quick thudding of his heart. He got up to open the window.
A cool breeze came in, and he drew long deep breaths of it. The night was utterly dark, silent, and still. But suddenly in the darkness of the garden he caught sight of a speck of light, like a little piece of glowing coal. “Ah, a cigar,” he thought. “It can’t be anyone but Saval. Léon,’ he called softly.
“Is that you, Jean?” a voice answered.
“Yes. Wait, I’m coming down.”
He dressed, went out, and joined his friend, who was smoking astride an iron chair.
“What are you doing at this time of night?”
“Having a rest,” replied Saval, and laughed.
Servigny shook his head.
“I congratulate you, my dear chap. As for me, I’ve run my head into a wall.”
“You are telling me … ?”
“I am telling you … that Yvette is not like her mother.”
“What happened? Tell me all about it.”
Servigny recounted his unsuccessful efforts, then continued:
“Yes, the child really worries me. Do you realise that I haven’t been able to get to sleep? What a queer thing a girl is. This one looks as simple as possible, and yet she’s a complete mystery. One can understand at once a woman who has lived and loved, who knows what life is like. But with a young girl, on the other hand, one can’t be sure of anything at all. I’m really beginning to think she’s playing the fool with me.”
Saval rocked gently on his chair.
“Be careful, my dear chap,” he said very slowly; “she’ll get you to marry her. Remember the illustrious examples in history. That was how Mademoiselle de Montijo became empress, and
