XVI
During the remainder of the winter the Du Roys often visited the Walters. George even dined there by himself continually, Madeleine saying she was tired, and preferring to remain at home. He had adopted Friday as a fixed day, and Madame Walter never invited anyone that evening; it belonged to Pretty-boy, to him alone. After dinner they played cards, and fed the goldfish, amusing themselves like a family circle. Several times behind a door or a clump of shrubs in the conservatory, Madame Walter had suddenly clasped George in her arms, and pressing him with all her strength to her breast, had whispered in his ear, “I love you, I love you till it is killing me.” But he had always coldly repulsed her, replying, in a dry tone: “If you begin that business once again, I shall not come here any more.”
Towards the end of March the marriage of the two sisters was all at once spoken about. Rose, it was said, was to marry the Count de Latour-Yvelin, and Susan the Marquis de Cazolles. These two gentlemen had become familiars of the household, those familiars to whom special favors and marked privileges are granted. George and Susan continued to live in a species of free and fraternal intimacy, romping for hours, making fun of everyone, and seeming greatly to enjoy one another’s company. They had never spoken again of the possible marriage of the young girl, nor of the suitors who offered themselves.
The governor had brought George home to lunch one morning. Madame Walter was called away immediately after the repast to see one of the tradesmen, and the young fellow said to Susan: “Let us go and feed the goldfish.”
They each took a piece of crumb of bread from the table and went into the conservatory. All along the marble brim cushions were left lying on the ground, so that one could kneel down round the basin, so as to be nearer the fish. They each took one of these, side by side, and bending over the water, began to throw in pellets of bread rolled between the fingers. The fish, as soon as they caught sight of them, flocked round, wagging their tails, waving their fins, rolling their great projecting eyes, turning round, diving to catch the bait as it sank, and coming up at once to ask for more. They had a funny action of the mouth, sudden and rapid movements, a strangely monstrous appearance, and against the sand of the bottom stood out a bright red, passing like flames through the transparent water, or showing, as soon as they halted, the blue edging to their scales. George and Susan saw their own faces looking up in the water, and smiled at them. All at once he said in a low voice: “It is not kind to hide things from me, Susan.”
“What do you mean, Pretty-boy?” asked she.
“Don’t you remember, what you promised me here on the evening of the fête?”
“No.”
“To consult me every time your hand was asked for.”
“Well?”
“Well, it has been asked for.”
“By whom?”
“You know very well.”
“No. I swear to you.”
“Yes, you do. That great fop, the Marquis de Cazolles.”
“He is not a fop, in the first place.”
“It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out by dissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, and so intelligent.”
She inquired, smiling: “What have you against him?”
“I, nothing.”
“Yes, you have. He is not all that you say.”
“Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer.”
She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said: “Come, what is the matter with you?”
He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of his heart: “I—I—am jealous of him.”
She was slightly astonished, saying: “You?”
“Yes, I.”
“Why so?”
“Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl.”
She said, in a severe tone: “You are mad, Pretty-boy.”
He replied; “I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan.”
He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer being thrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, and looking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troubling themselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly: “It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done. It is settled.”
He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: “If I were free, would you marry me?”
She replied, in a tone of sincerity: “Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marry you, for you please me far better than any of the others.”
He rose, and stammered: “Thanks, thanks; do not say ‘yes’ to anyone yet, I beg of you; wait a little longer, I entreat you. Will you promise me this much?”
She murmured, somewhat uneasily, and without understanding what he wanted: “Yes, I promise you.”
Du Roy threw the lump of bread he still held in his hand into the water, and fled as though he had lost his head, without wishing her goodbye. All the fish rushed eagerly at this lump of crumb, which floated, not having been kneaded in the fingers, and nibbled it with greedy mouths. They dragged it away to the other end of the basin, and forming a moving cluster, a kind of animated and twisting flower, a live flower fallen into the water head downwards.
Susan, surprised and uneasy, got up and returned slowly to the
