She cried for a long time, now with no idle dreams: she made no attempt at further discovery. Little by little she was overcome with weariness, and closed her eyes. She dozed, for a few minutes, in the unrefreshing slumber of a person too exhausted to undress and get into bed; her sleep was long and fitful, roughly broken whenever her head slipped from between her hands.
She did not go to bed until the earliest gleam of daylight, when the chill of dawn drove her from the window.
During the next day and the day after, she kept an air of melancholy and reserve. A ceaseless and urgent travail of thought was moving within her; she was learning to watch, to guess, to reason. A gleam, still vague, seemed to throw a new light upon the men and events passing around her; distrust invaded her soul, distrust of everyone that she had believed in, distrust of her mother. During those two days she conjectured every conceivable supposition. She envisaged every possibility, making the most extravagant resolutions, in the impulsiveness of her volatile and unrestrained nature. On the Wednesday she fixed on a plan, a whole scheme of conduct and an elaborate plan of espionage. On the Thursday morning she rose with the determination to be more cunning than the most experienced detective, to be armed against all the world.
She even decided to take as her motto the two words “Myself alone,” and for more than an hour she wondered how they could with best effect be engraved round her monogram and stamped on her notepaper.
Saval and Servigny arrived at ten o’clock. The young girl held out her hand with reserve, but without embarrassment, and said in a familiar, though serious, tone:
“Good morning, Muscade. How are you?”
“Pretty well, thank you, Mam’zelle. And you?”
He watched her narrowly. “What game is she playing now?” he said to himself.
The Marquise having taken Saval’s arm, he took Yvette’s, and they began to walk round the lawn, disappearing and reappearing behind the clumps of trees.
Yvette walked with a thoughtful air, her eyes on the gravel path, and seemed scarcely to hear her companion’s remarks, to which she made no reply. Suddenly she asked:
“Are you really my friend, Muscade?”
“Of course, Mam’zelle.”
“But really, really and truly?”
“Absolutely your friend, Mam’zelle, body and soul.”
“Enough not to tell a lie for once, just for once?”
“Enough not even to tell one for twice, if necessary.”
“Enough to tell me the whole truth, even if it’s unpleasant?”
“Yes, Mam’zelle.”
“Well, what do you really think, really, really think, of Prince Kravalow?”
“Oh, Lord!”
“There you are, already getting ready to tell a fib.”
“No, I’m searching for the words, the right words. Well, dash it, the Prince is a Russian—a real Russian, who speaks Russian, was born in Russia, and perhaps had a passport to get into France. There’s nothing false about him except his name and his title.”
She looked into his eyes.
“You mean he’s a … a …”
He hesitated; then, making up his mind, said:
“An adventurer, Mam’zelle.”
“Thank you. And the Chevalier Valréali is no better, is he?”
“It’s as you say.”
“And Monsieur de Belvigne?”
“Ah, he’s rather different. He’s a gentleman, provincial of course; he’s honourable … up to a point … but he’s singed his wings through flying too near the candle.”
“And you?”
Without hesitation he replied:
“I? Oh, I’m what’s generally called a gay dog, a bachelor of good family who once had brains and frittered them away on making puns; who had health, and ruined it by playing the fool; moderate wealth, and wasted it doing nothing. All I have left is a certain experience of life, a pretty complete freedom from prejudice, a vast contempt for men, women included, a profound sense of the uselessness of my actions, and a wide tolerance of scoundrels in general. I still have momentary flashes of honesty, as you see, and I’m even capable of affection, as you could see if you would. With these qualities and defects I place myself at your orders, Mam’zelle, body and soul, for you to dispose of at your pleasure. There!”
She did not laugh; she listened attentively, carefully scrutinising his words and intentions.
“What do you think of the Comtesse de Lammy?” she continued.
“You must allow me not to give you my opinions on women,” he said gaily.
“Not on any?”
“No, not on any.”
“Then that means you must have a very low opinion of them, of all of them. Now think, aren’t there any exceptions?”
He laughed with the insolent air he almost always wore, and the brutal audacity that was his strength, his armour against life.
“Present company always excepted, of course,” he said.
She flushed slightly, but coolly asked: “Well, what do you think of me?”
“You want to know? Very well, then. I think you’re a person of excellent sense, of considerable experience, or, if you prefer it, of great common sense; that you know very well how to mask your battery, amuse yourself at others’ expense, hide your purpose, pull the strings and wait, without impatience, for the result.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“That’s all,” he replied.
“I’ll make you alter your opinion, Muscade,” she said very gravely. Then she went over to her mother, who was walking with bent head and tiny steps, with the languid gait one falls into when murmuring of things sweet and intimate. As she walked she drew designs, letters perhaps, with the tip of her sunshade, and talked to Saval without looking at him, talked long and slowly, resting on his arm, held close against his side. Yvette looked sharply at her, and a suspicion, so vague that
