The courtship had lasted three months—the normal period which includes an honourable struggle and just sufficient resistance—then she had consented, but with what flutterings, what timidity, what awful yet exquisite shrinkings at that first meeting, followed by all the others, in the little bachelor flat in the Rue Miromesnil. Her heart? What did she feel when, tempted, vanquished, conquered, she entered the door of that house of nightmares for the first time? She really did not know! She had forgotten! An act, a date, a thing, may be remembered, but it is rare to remember a fleeting emotion two years afterwards, it is too fragile for memory. Oh! for instance, she had not forgotten the others, the rosary of meetings, the stations of the cross of love, those stations that were so fatiguing, so monotonous, so alike, that she was filled with nausea at the thought of what was going to happen presently.
Goodness! think of all the four-wheelers that had been hired to go there, they were not like ordinary four-wheelers. Certainly, the drivers guessed the truth. She felt that by the way they looked at her, and the eyes of the Parisian cabman are terrible eyes! When you remember that in court they always recognise criminals whom they have only driven once in the dead of night, from some street to the station, years before, and that they have about as many fares as there are hours in a day, that their memory is so good that they say at once: “This is the man I picked up in the Rue des Martyrs and put down at the Lyons station at 12:45 a.m. on July 10th last year!” it is enough to make you shiver with apprehension when you are risking all a woman risks in going to a rendezvous, placing her reputation in the keeping of the first cabman she meets! The last two years she had engaged at least a hundred or a hundred and twenty for the journey to the Rue Miromesnil, counting one a week. These were all witnesses who might appear against her at a critical moment.
As soon as she was in the cab she drew the other veil—as thick and as black as a mask—from her pocket and fastened it over her eyes. It hid her face, true enough, but what about the rest, her dress, hat, parasol, would they not be noticed, had they not been seen already! Oh! what torture she endured in the Rue Miromesnil! She thought she recognised all the passersby, all the servants, everybody. Almost before the cab stopped she jumped out and ran past the porter who was always standing outside his lodge. He was a man who must know everything, everything—her address, her name, her husband’s profession, everything, for janitors are the most artful of all the police. For two years she had wanted to bribe him, to throw him a hundred-franc note as she passed. She had never dared to throw the piece of paper at him! She was afraid. Of what?—she did not know! Of being called back if he did not understand? Of a scandal? Perhaps of being arrested? The Viscount’s flat was only halfway up the first flight of stairs but it seemed as high up as the top of the Tower of St. Jacques to her. As soon as she reached the entrance of the building she felt she was caught in a trap and the slightest noise in front or behind made her feel faint. She could not go back again with the janitor and the road blocking her retreat, and if anyone was coming downstairs she dared not ring Martelet’s bell but passed the door as if she were going somewhere else. She went up, up, up! She would have climbed up forty stories! Then when all seemed quiet she would run down terrified lest she should make a mistake in the flat!
He was there, waiting, dressed in a velvet suit lined with silk, very smart but rather ridiculous, and for two years he had never varied the way he received her, never made the slightest change, not in a single gesture!
As soon as he had shut the door he would say: “Allow me to kiss your hands, my dear, dear friend!” Then he followed her into the room where the shutters were closed and lights lit both winter and summer because this was the fashion, and knelt down gazing at her from head to foot with an air of adoration. The first time it had been very nice, very successful! Now she felt that she was looking at M. Delaunay playing the fifth act of a popular piece for the hundred-and-twentieth time. He really ought to make some change.
And then after, oh! God! after! that was the worst to bear! No, he never made any change, poor chap! A good chap, but so ordinary! …
How difficult it was to undress without a maid! For once it did not matter much, but repeated every
