She murmured: “But I have no clothes. I have nothing.”
He smiled carelessly: “Bah! we will arrange all that there.”
The cab rolled along the street. George took one of the young girl’s hands and began to kiss it slowly and with respect. He scarcely knew what to say to her, being scarcely accustomed to platonic lovemaking. But all at once he thought he noted that she was crying. He inquired, with alarm: “What is the matter with you, darling?”
She replied in tearful tones: “Poor mamma, she will not be able to sleep if she has found out my departure.”
Her mother, indeed, was not asleep.
As soon as Susan had left the room, Madame Walter remained face to face with her husband. She asked, bewildered and cast down: “Good heavens! What is the meaning of this?”
Walter exclaimed furiously: “It means that that schemer has bewitched her. It is he who made her refuse Cazolles. He thinks her dowry worth trying for.” He began to walk angrily up and down the room, and went on: “You were always luring him here, too, yourself; you flattered him, you cajoled him, you could not cosset him enough. It was Pretty-boy here, Pretty-boy there, from morning till night, and this is the return for it.”
She murmured, livid: “I—I lured him?”
He shouted in her face: “Yes, you. You were all mad over him—Madame de Marelle, Susan, and the rest. Do you think I did not see that you could not pass a couple of days without having him here?”
She drew herself up tragically: “I will not allow you to speak to me like that. You forget that I was not brought up like you, behind a counter.”
He stood for a moment stupefied, and then uttered a furious “Damn it all!” and rushed out, slamming the door after him. As soon as she was alone she went instinctively to the glass to see if anything was changed in her, so impossible and monstrous did what had happened appear. Susan in love with Pretty-boy, and Pretty-boy wanting to marry Susan! No, she was mistaken; it was not true. The girl had had a very natural fancy for this good-looking fellow; she had hoped that they would give him her for a husband, and had made her little scene because she wanted to have her own way. But he—he could not be an accomplice in that. She reflected, disturbed, as one in presence of great catastrophes. No, Pretty-boy could know nothing of Susan’s prank.
She thought for a long time over the possible innocence or perfidy of this man. What a scoundrel, if he had prepared the blow! And what would happen! What dangers and tortures she foresaw. If he knew nothing, all could yet be arranged. They would travel about with Susan for six months, and it would be all over. But how could she meet him herself afterwards? For she still loved him. This passion had entered into her being like those arrowheads that cannot be withdrawn. To live without him was impossible. She might as well die.
Her thoughts wandered amidst these agonies and uncertainties. A pain began in her head; her ideas became painful and disturbed. She worried herself by trying to work things out; grew mad at not knowing. She looked at the clock; it was past one. She said to herself: “I cannot remain like this, I shall go mad. I must know. I will wake up Susan and question her.”
She went barefooted, in order not to make a noise, and with a candle in her hand, towards her daughter’s room. She opened the door softly, went in, and looked at the bed. She did not comprehend matters at first, and thought that the girl might still be arguing with her father. But all at once a horrible suspicion crossed her mind, and she rushed to her husband’s room. She reached it in a bound, blanched and panting. He was in bed reading.
He asked, startled: “Well, what is it? What is the matter with you?”
She stammered: “Have you seen Susan?”
“I? No. Why?”
“She has—she has—gone! She is not in her room.”
He sprang onto the carpet, thrust his feet into his slippers, and, with his shirt tails floating in the air, rushed in turn to his daughter’s room. As soon as he saw it, he no longer retained any doubt. She had fled. He dropped into a chair and placed his lamp on the ground in front of him.
His wife had rejoined him, and stammered: “Well?”
He had no longer the strength to reply; he was no longer enraged, he only groaned: “It is done; he has got her. We are done for.”
She did not understand, and said: “What do you mean? done for?”
“Yes, by Jove! He will certainly marry her now.”
She gave a cry like that of a wild beast: “He, never! You must be mad!”
He replied, sadly: “It is no use howling. He has run away with her, he has dishonored her. The best thing is to give her to him. By setting to work in the right way no one will be aware of this escapade.”
She repeated, shaken by terrible emotion: “Never, never; he shall never have Susan. I will never consent.”
Walter murmured, dejectedly: “But he has got her. It is done. And he will keep her and hide her as long as we do not yield. So, to avoid scandal, we must give in at once.”
His wife, torn by pangs she could not acknowledge, repeated: “No, no, I will never consent.”
He said, growing impatient: “But there is no disputing about it. It must be done. Ah, the rascal, how he has done us! He is a sharp one. All the same, we might have made a far better choice as regards position, but not as regards intelligence and prospects. He
