“Why Cramoisi, of course, the man who always does.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure,” said Thibault, as if these details were familiar to him, “Cramoisi will look after it.”
“Come, come,” said the maid, “we must make haste or Madame will complain again that we loiter in the corridors.” And as she spoke these words, which recalled a phrase in the letter which had been written to Raoul, she laughed, and showed a row of pearly white teeth, and Thibault felt that he should like to loiter in the park, before waiting to get into the corridors.
Then the maid suddenly stood still a moment with her head bent, listening.
“What is it?” asked Thibault.
“I thought I heard the sound of a branch creaking under somebody’s foot.”
“Very likely,” said Thibault, “no doubt Cramoisi’s foot.”
“All the more reason that you should be careful what you do … at all events out here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you not know that Cramoisi is the man I am engaged to?”
“Ah! to be sure! But when I am alone with you, my dear Rose, I always forget that.”
“I am called Rose now, am I! I never knew such a forgetful man as you are, Monsieur Raoul.”
“I call you Rose, my pretty one, because the rose is the queen of flowers, as you are the queen of waiting-maids.”
“In good truth, my Lord,” said the maid, “I have always found you a lively, witty gentleman, but you surpass yourself this evening.”
Thibault drew himself up, flattered by this remark—really a letter addressed to the Baron, but which it had fallen to the shoemaker to unseal.
“Let us hope your mistress will think the same!” he said.
“As to that,” said the waiting maid, “any man can make one of these ladies of fashion think him the cleverest and wittiest in the world, simply by holding his tongue.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I will remember what you say.”
“Hush!” said the woman to Thibault, “there is Madame behind the dressing-room curtains; follow me now staidly.”
For they had now to cross an open space that lay between the wooded part of the park and the flight of steps leading up to the Castle. Thibault began walking towards the latter.
“Now, now,” said the maid, catching hold of him by the arm, “what are you doing, you foolish man?”
“What am I doing? well, I confess Suzette, I don’t know in the least what I am doing!”
“Suzette! so that’s my name now, is it? I think Monsieur does me the honour of calling me in turn by the name of all his mistresses. But come, this way! You are not dreaming I suppose of going through the great reception rooms. That would give a fine opportunity to my lord the Count, truly!”
And the maid hurried Thibault towards a little door, to the right of which was a spiral staircase.
Halfway up, Thibault put his arm round his companion’s waist, which was as slender and supple as a snake.
“I think we must be in the corridors, now, eh?” he asked, trying to kiss the young woman’s pretty cheek.
“No, not yet,” she answered; “but never mind that.”
“By my faith,” he said, “if my name this evening were Thibault instead of Raoul, I would carry you up with me to the garrets, instead of stopping on the first floor!”
At that moment a door was heard grating on its hinges.
“Quick, quick, Monsieur!” said the maid, “Madame is growing impatient.”
And drawing Thibault after her, she ran up the remaining stairs to the corridor, opened a door, pushed Thibault into a room, and shut the door after him, firmly believing that it was the Baron Raoul de Vauparfond or, as she herself called him, the most forgetful man in the world, whom she had thus secured.
XVII
The Baron de Mont-Gobert
Thibault found himself in the Countess’s room. If the magnificence of Bailiff Magloire’s furniture rescued from the lumber-room of his Highness the Duke of Orleans, had astonished Thibault, the daintiness, the harmony, the taste of the Countess’s room filled him with intoxicating delight. The rough child of the forest had never seen anything like it, even in dreams; for one cannot even dream of things of which we have no idea.
Double curtains were drawn across the two windows, the one set of white silk trimmed with lace, the other of pale china blue satin, embroidered with silver flowers. The bed and the toilet table were draped to match the windows, and were nearly smothered in clouds of Valenciennes lace. The walls were hung with very light rose-coloured silk, over which thick folds of Indian muslin, delicate as woven air, undulated like waves of mist at the slightest breath of air from the door. The ceiling was composed of a medallion painted by Boucher, and representing the toilet of Venus; she was handing her cupids the various articles of a woman’s apparel, and these were now all distributed, with the exception of the goddess’s girdle.
The central medallion was surrounded by a series of panels, on which were painted supposed views of Cnidos, Paphos, and Amathus. All the furniture—chairs, armchairs, settees, sociables—was covered with China satin similar to that of the curtains; over the groundwork of the carpet, of the colour of pale green water, were scattered bouquets of blue cornflowers, pink poppies, and white daisies. The tables were of rosewood; the corner-pieces of Indian lacquer; and the whole room was softly lighted by pink wax candles held in two candelabra. A vague and indescribably delicate perfume pervaded the air, one could not say from what sweet essence, for it was scarcely even a perfume, but rather an emanation, the same kind of odorous exhalation whereby Aeneas, in the Aeneid, recognised the presence of his mother.
Thibault pushed into the room by the waiting-maid, made one step forward, and then stopped. He had taken everything in at a glance, inhaled everything at a breath. For a second there passed before his mind’s eye like a vision—Agnelette’s little cottage, Madame Polet’s dining-room, the bedchamber of the Bailiff’s
