“How I have thought of you,” said he.
“And I,” she replied.
They sat down and smiled at one another, looking into each other’s eyes with a longing to kiss.
“My dear little Clo, I do love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then—then—you have not been so very angry with me?”
“Yes, and no. It hurt me a great deal, but I understood your reasons, and said to myself, ‘He will come back to me some fine day or other.’ ”
“I dared not come back. I asked myself how I should be received. I did not dare, but I dearly wanted to. By the way, tell me what is the matter with Laurine. She scarcely said good morning to me, and went out looking furious.”
“I do not know. But we cannot speak of you to her since your marriage. I really believe she is jealous.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is so, dear. She no longer calls you Pretty-boy, but Monsieur Forestier.”
Du Roy reddened, and then drawing close to her said:
“Kiss me.”
She did so.
“Where can we meet again?” said he.
“Rue de Constantinople.”
“Ah! the rooms are not let, then?”
“No, I kept them on.”
“You kept them on?”
“Yes, I thought you would come back again.”
A gush of joyful pride swelled his bosom. She loved him then, this woman, with a real, deep, constant love.
He murmured, “I love you,” and then inquired, “Is your husband quite well?”
“Yes, very well. He has been spending a month at home, and was off again the day before yesterday.”
Du Roy could not help laughing. “How lucky,” said he.
She replied simply: “Yes, it is very lucky. But, all the same, he is not troublesome when he is here. You know that.”
“That is true. Besides, he is a very nice fellow.”
“And you,” she asked, “how do you like your new life?”
“Not much one way or the other. My wife is a companion, a partner.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more. As to the heart—”
“I understand. She is pretty, though.”
“Yes, but I do not put myself out about her.”
He drew closer to Clotilde, and whispered. “When shall we see one another again?”
“Tomorrow, if you like.”
“Yes, tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock.”
He rose to take leave, and then stammered, with some embarrassment: “You know I shall take on the rooms in the Rue de Constantinople myself. I mean it. A nice thing for the rent to be paid by you.”
It was she who kissed his hands adoringly, murmuring: “Do as you like. It is enough for me to have kept them for us to meet again there.”
Du Roy went away, his soul filled with satisfaction. As he passed by a photographer’s, the portrait of a tall woman with large eyes reminded him of Madame Walter. “All the same,” he said to himself, “she must be still worth looking at. How is it that I never noticed it? I want to see how she will receive me on Thursday?”
He rubbed his hands as he walked along with secret pleasure, the pleasure of success in every shape, the egotistical joy of the clever man who is successful, the subtle pleasure made up of flattered vanity and satisfied sensuality conferred by woman’s affection.
On the Thursday he said to Madeleine: “Are you not coming to the assault-at-arms at Rival’s?”
“No. It would not interest me. I shall go to the Chamber of Deputies.”
He went to call for Madame Walter in an open landau, for the weather was delightful. He experienced a surprise on seeing her, so handsome and young-looking did he find her. She wore a light-colored dress, the somewhat open bodice of which allowed the fullness of her bosom to be divined beneath the blonde lace. She had never seemed to him so well-looking. He thought her really desirable. She wore her calm and ladylike manner, a certain matronly bearing that caused her to pass almost unnoticed before the eyes of gallants. She scarcely spoke besides, save on well-known, suitable, and respectable topics, her ideas being proper, methodical, well ordered, and void of all extravagance.
Her daughter, Susan, in pink, looked like a newly-varnished Watteau, while her elder sister seemed the governess entrusted with the care of this pretty doll of a girl.
Before Rival’s door a line of carriages were drawn up. Du Roy offered Madame Walter his arm, and they went in.
The assault-at-arms was given under the patronage of the wives of all the senators and deputies connected with the Vie Francaise, for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris. Madame Walter had promised to come with her daughters, while refusing the position of lady patroness, for she only aided with her name works undertaken by the clergy. Not that she was very devout, but her marriage with a Jew obliged her, in her own opinion, to observe a certain religious attitude, and the gathering organized by the journalist had a species of Republican import that might be construed as anti-clerical.
In papers of every shade of opinion, during the past three weeks, paragraphs had appeared such as: “Our eminent colleague, Jacques Rival, has conceived the idea, as ingenious as it is generous, of organizing for the benefit of the orphans of the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris a grand assault-at-arms in the pretty fencing-room attached to his apartments. The invitations will be sent out by Mesdames Laloigue, Remontel, and Rissolin, wives of the senators bearing these names, and by Mesdames Laroche-Mathieu, Percerol, and Firmin, wives of the well-known deputies. A collection will take place during the interval, and the amount will at once be placed in the hands of the mayor of the Sixth Arrondissement, or of his representative.”
It was a gigantic advertisement that the clever journalist had devised to his own advantage.
Jacques Rival received all-comers in the hall of his dwelling, where a refreshment buffet had been
