THE COMPLETE ROUGON-MACQUART SERIES (All 20 Books in One Edition). Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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Название: THE COMPLETE ROUGON-MACQUART SERIES (All 20 Books in One Edition)
Автор: Ðмиль ЗолÑ
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 9788027219599
isbn:
She burst into laughter, a mad light shone in her eyes. Pressing her lover still more tightly, she continued:
“Do we sin, you and I? We are in love, and we amuse ourselves as we like. That’s what all of us have come to, have we not?… Look at your father, he does not put himself out. He is fond of money and he takes it when he can get it. He’s quite right, and it sets me at my ease…. To begin with, I sha’n’t sign a single thing, and then you must come back every evening. I was afraid you would refuse, you know, because of what I told you…. But you say you don’t mind…. Besides, I shall keep him out now, you understand.”
She rose and lit the night-light. Maxime hesitated in despair. He saw what a piece of folly he had perpetrated, and he reproached himself harshly for having talked too much. How could he now tell her of his marriage? It was his own fault, the rupture had been accomplished, there was no need for him to go up into that room again, nor above all to go and prove to Renée that her husband was swindling her. And his anger against himself increased when he found that he was not able to remember what had prompted him to act as he did. He thought for a moment of being brutal a second time, but the sight of Renée taking off her slippers filled him with insurmountable cowardice. He was frightened. He stayed.
The next day, when Saccard came to his wife to make her sign the deed of transfer, she replied quietly that she did not mean to do so, that she had thought better of it. On the other hand, she gave him no hint whatever; she had sworn to be discreet, not wishing to create worries for herself, eager only to enjoy the renewal of her amour in peace. The Charonne affair could arrange itself as it pleased; her refusal to sign was merely an act of vengeance; she did not care a scrap for the rest. Saccard was on the verge of flying into a passion. His whole dream crumbled away. His other affairs were going from bad to worse. He had come to the end of his resources, and only kept his balance by miracles of equilibrium: that very morning he had been unable to pay his baker’s bill. This did not prevent him from preparing a splendid entertainment for the Thursday in midLent. In the presence of Renée’s refusal he experienced the white rage of a vigorous man that is hindered in his work by a child’s caprice. With the deed of transfer in his pocket he had relied on being able to raise cash while waiting for the indemnity. Then, when he had calmed down a little, and looked at things clearly, he was amazed at his wife’s sudden change of mind; some one must, undoubtedly, have advised her. He suspected a lover. He had so clear a presentiment, that he ran round to his sister to question her, to ask her if she knew anything of Renée’s private life. Sidonie displayed great acrimony. She had not forgotten the affront her sister-in-law had given her in refusing to see M. de Saffré. So when she understood from her brother’s questions that he accused his wife of having a lover, she cried out that she felt certain of it. And she offered of her own accord to spy on “the turtle-doves.” She would show the minx what sort of stuff she was made of. As a rule Saccard did not seek out disagreeable truths; his interest alone compelled him to open his discreetly-closed eyes. He accepted his sister’s offer.
“I tell you, make your mind easy, I shall find out everything,” she said to him, in a voice full of compassion…. “Ah, my poor brother, Angèle would never have betrayed you! So good, so generous a husband! Those Parisian dolls have no heart…. And to think that I always gave her good advice!”
CHAPTER VI
There was a fancy-dress ball at the Saccard’s on the Thursday in midLent. The great event, however, of the evening was the poem of Les Amours du Beau Narcisse et de la Nymphe Écho, in three tableaux, which was to be performed by the ladies. The author of the poem, M. Hupel de la Noue, had for more than a month been journeying to and fro between his prefecture and the house in the Parc Monceau in order to superintend the rehearsals and give his advice on the costumes. He had at first thought of writing his work in verse; then he had decided in favour of the tableaux vivants; it was more dignified, he said, and came nearer to the classical ideal.
The ladies had no more rest. Some of them had no less than three changes of dress. There were endless conferences, over which the préfet presided. To begin with, the character of Narcissus was discussed at length. Was it to be enacted by a woman or by a man? At last, at Renée’s entreaties, it was decided that the part should be entrusted to Maxime; but he was to be the only man, and even then Madame de Lauwerens declared she would never have consented to this if “little Maxime had not been so like a real girl.” Renée was to be Echo. The question of the dresses was far more complicated. Maxime was of great assistance to the préfet, who was distracted in the midst of the nine women whose mad imaginations threatened seriously to compromise the purity of outline of his work. Had he listened to them, Olympus would have worn powdered hair. Madame d’Espanet wanted positively to have a train to her dress so as to hide her feet, which were a trifle large, while Madame Haffner had visions of herself clad in the skin of a wild beast. M. Hupel de la Noue was vehement; once he even grew angry; he had made up his mind; he said that the only reason why he had renounced verse was that he might write his poem “in cunningly-contrived fabrics and the most beautiful eclectic poses.”
“The general effect, mesdames,” he repeated at each fresh instance of unreasonableness, “you forget the general effect…. I can’t possibly spoil my whole work for the sake of the furbelows you ask me for.”
The conferences took place in the buttercup drawingroom. Whole afternoons were spent in settling the cut of a skirt. Worms was called in several times. At last all was arranged, the costumes decided on, the positions learnt, and M. Hupel de la Noue declared he was satisfied. Not even the election of M. de Mareuil had given him so much trouble.
Les Amours du Beau Narcisse et de la Nymphe Écho was to begin at eleven o’clock. At half-past ten the large drawingroom was full, and as there was to be a fancy-dress ball afterwards, the women had come in costume, and were seated on chairs ranged in a semicircle before the improvised stage, a platform hidden by two broad curtains of red velvet with a gold fringe, running on rods. The men stood at the back, or moved to and fro. At ten o’clock the upholsterers had driven the last nail. The platform was erected at the end of the long gallery of a drawingroom, and occupied a whole section of it. The stage was approached from the smoking-room, which had been converted into a greenroom for the actors. In addition, the ladies had a number of rooms at their disposal on the first floor, where an army of ladies’ maids laid out the costumes for the different tableaux.
It was half-past eleven, and the curtains were not yet drawn apart. A loud buzzing filled the drawingroom. The rows of chairs offered a bewildering display of marquises, noble dames, milkmaids, Spanish ladies, shepherdesses, sultanas; while the compact mass of dress-coats set a great black blotch beside that shimmering of bright stuffs and bare shoulders, all flashing with the bright scintillations of jewellery. The women alone were in fancy-dress. It was already getting warm. The three chandeliers lit up the golden flood of the drawingroom.
At last M. Hupel de la Noue was seen to emerge from an opening arranged on the left of the platform. He had been helping the ladies since eight o’clock in the evening. His dress-coat had on the left sleeve the mark of three white fingers, a small woman’s hand which had been laid there after dabbling in a box of rice-powder. But the préfet had other things to think of besides his dress! His eyes were dilated, his face swollen and rather pale. He seemed to see nobody. And advancing towards Saccard, whom he recognized among a group of serious men, he said to him in an undertone:
“Damn it all! Your wife has lost her girdle of leaves…. We’re in a pretty mess!”
He swore, he could have thumped people. Then, СКАЧАТЬ