Fernand VandErem

IT was past eleven lock and Mme. Chambannes had almost finished dressing when someone knocked at her door. Her maid opened it just enough to allow one arm to pass in, holding a special delivery letter, while a voice proclaimed:

“Telegram for Madame.”

“Give it to me ... quick!” Mme. Chambannes said.

Her maid was fastening her dress, but left it and hurried to take the message.

Mme. Chambannes tore it open with trembling fingers and read rapidly, glancing hurriedly at the lines:

Tuesday morning, 10 A. M.

My dear little ZozÉ: I am sure I do know what I could have been thinking of at the dance last night when I told you we would lunch together in our little nest. I pledged myself to the Mathays a week ago. Thank Heaven, I remembered it in time. We shall make up for this. Forgive my carelessness; till to-day at 4. In haste, all the kisses of your old

G.

Quietly she folded the note and laid it on the wash-stand. Then she selected two small pearl-headed pins and carefully pinned them on her broad-winged cravat. She found it growing too hard for her to repress her feelings, however, and there was a catch in her voice as she murmured:

“Leave these things, Anna! Bring me my pink negligÉ....”

“Madame, then, is not going out?” the maid protested, in feigned surprise.

Mme. Chambannes threw her corsage on a chair and feverishly began to unfasten her skirt.

“No! I am not going out.”

“Will Madame lunch here? Shall I call the cook?” “Yes.... No....” ZozÉ stammered out. “Tell her to prepare lunch for me ... whatever she has....”

“Very well, Madame.”

A moment later she returned holding on her arm a long soft gown with pink ribbons. Mme. Chambannes slipped into it; while she fastened the ribbons she ordered dryly:

“Go now!”

Anna disappeared. Mme. Chambannes dropped into a little cretonne-covered armchair.

They were not to lunch together. It was certain, definite, irrevocable. Between her and that Mathay woman Gerald had not even hesitated. Yet he must have foreseen how it would hurt her, and what poignant disappointment he would cause her by breaking his promise at the last moment.

Wretch! She conjured up a picture of him, sitting at the dining table beside the countess, that small fair-haired woman with her turned-up nose, her childish, impudent, saucy face. He was making himself pleasant, prattling pretty nonsense, fashioning his glances to hers and using his big eyes to offer himself. The lunch was perhaps ending, they were going into the hall to drink their coffee! Who knew? Mathay might be going out, leaving them alone, like the great fool of a husband he was! Well, then, what would happen? Did they not all know that young giddy countess? She had no name for being a stronghold, the Capitol!... Oh! what infamy! what an abject situation!

Mme. Chambannes would have liked to snatch out her own heart and hurl it through the window, far, far away. Her nails caught at her gown where it was beating against the armor of her corset. Her mind dwelt on reprisals, as it did whenever she saw Geral treason as an accomplished fact.

Yes! She would have revenge! She would do as he did; she would give herself to another, to anyone of the many who made love to her. Names of men began to surge in her mind, with proper settings. There was the studio of Mazuccio, the little sculptor, the flat of Burzig or that of Pums, the husband of her friend Flora. They were all eager to welcome her; all would receive her as a queen who condescended to offer herself. She would cry out from the door: “Here I am! Take me!” And they would fall on their knees, stammering their thanks with tears of happiness.

These flattering visions quieted her. She walked to her dressing-room, trying to fix upon her choice. To whom would she appeal? They were equally repugnant to her. As she imagined herself in the arms of any of them, a shiver of repulsion caused her to shake her head. Phew! She would require too much courage for her spite to make her lower herself to that extent! Moreover, it might be that none of them was free. She would then risk a polite refusal! No ... everything was against it ... and she admitted sadly to herself that, besides, she never could go through with it!

She fell back into her armchair. Her muscles pained her as if she had been walking all day.

She took up the note from the marble. As she read it again, every word in it seemed an insult or a lie. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sorrow took the place of rage. How nasty, how cold and pitiless Gerald was sometimes! She wished for the near presence of some mothering friend who could understand and pity her, in whom she could confide and who would weep with her. Yet she had none! Alas, neither Flora Pums, nor Rose Silberschmidt, nor Germaine de Marquesse, her friends with whom she had followed the lessons of Levannier, nor her kind Aunt Panhias had a soul that was lofty and charitable enough! Zoz pride revolted at the very idea of their concealed joy or their coarse comforting words.

She fell to sobbing again.

An impression rose in her that she was stranded on a desert island. She would have readily welcomed death. In such dramatic moments she felt forlorn, very much the “little Mouzarkhi girl,” quite alone and alien, this unfortunate Mme. Chambannes, for all her French name and Parisian education! She was only a poor exotic flower, planted near the surface of an alien land and the short roots she had taken gave way at the slightest storm as if they were mere threads! There was no help for her in her distress! She had not even the solace of a trust in Heaven, of a refuge in God, since she had been brought up without any religion. When she wanted to pray, there came back to her nothing but a short, strange prayer, one that her kind Aunt Panhias used to make her repeat every night when she was a child, kneeling down in her nightdress by the side of her bed. Unconsciously she now repeated it.

“Be blessed, O my God!

“Help me to be good, to work well, to satisfy Father, Mother, my aunt and my uncle and not to let Father be ruined on the Stock Exchange to-morrow. Amen!”

The last words brought a smile to her lips. She remembered her father, dead these seven years, her good old father, at once so strangely kind and so dishonest.

He had been a type, that Mouzarkhi. His origin had remained obscure and inexplicable to his intimates, to his own countrymen as much as to the others.

He had, one day, landed in Paris from Aleppo, without knowing anyone, with no references, no patrons of any kind. In six months he had gained, on ‘Change, one of the most powerful situations any broker could secure there. Of course, people said that he gambled and gained more by his coups than through his commissions. But he enjoyed the benefit of the respectful indulgence which, in such circles, is readily bestowed upon lucky gamblers. Nor did he hide his speculations. He had sworn to stop, to give up all work, as soon as he reached the million mark. He was on the eve of touching it when he met with his first smash. His liabilities amounted to twice his assets. He disappeared discreetly for a few weeks. Then he came back. He was active, cordial, and ingenuous and rapidly built himself up a new credit and a new clientele. His activities had now assumed a nobler aim, that of paying his debts. During the next two years he was most regular in paying sums on account. At the end of that time, there was left only an amount of 300,000 francs for him to pay. He lost patience, however, gambled once more to liberate himself faster, and thus he met his second “smash.” Ill-luck did not break him. Once more he took up his traffic, leading a merry, easy-going life, working, paying off, speculating, being “hammered,” springing up again like a light, strong balloon. He did not, however, survive his sixth smash. That time he had fallen from too high a flight, from a fictitious fortune of at least two millions down to nothing. He died of apoplexy, right on ‘Change, insolvent, of course, but leaving the reputation of a very sympathetic fellow and of a highly gifted financier.

He had, nevertheless, as a good father should, assured beforehand the future of his family.

First of all, when Mme. Mouzarkhi had died a few years after their arrival in Paris, he had called his brother-in-law, M. Panhias, and his wife, and entrusted them with the bringing up of little ZozÉ. Where had they come from? From Aleppo, Ghazir or Stambul? Were they Greeks, Jews, Turks or Maronites? Nobody had been able to find out, since the Panhias had proved as reserved concerning their origin as M. Mouzarkhi himself. Both had an undefinable accent which suggested all in one the Spanish, the Hungarian and the Moldo-Vallach languages. Panhias, modest and reserved, acted as confidential clerk in his brother-in-la business house. Mme. Panhias watched with faithful care over the education of the little girl; she took her to her lessons during the day and sat up with her in the evenings, while the father went to the theater or elsewhere. She was large, pleasant and, by fits, communicative. Through her, people learned that the Panhias had not been seriously affected by the dÉbÂcle of their relation and that they still had, despite their losses, about 15,000 a year. Upon the other points, she had preserved the silence which was a traditional virtue of the family.

Again, M. Mouzarkhi had had the foresight to give his daughter a husband, a year before taking his final jump. The affair, which had been broached by one of his Bourse colleagues, had not been settled without difficulties. They were cautious on both sides. Inquiring agencies had been consulted and forwarded particulars that induced certain fears. They gave M. Mouzarkhi the character of a man personally popular among his colleagues but with a credit that was doubtful and often weak. As to George Chambannes, the son of a little doctor in the province of Berri, himself an ex-student of the École Centrale, they made him out to be an engineer of talent, industrious and daring, but one who had, so far, achieved nothing and who sought his way through dubious enterprises. They had, however, debated the matter on both sides, each side feeling that too much precaution would be out of place. A compromise was struck, on the ground of future expectations, of respective faith in better times to come. Finally the negotiations came to a successful issue.

ZozÉ, who had but one wish—marriage which would free her from the Panhias guardianship and assure her liberty, showed her willingness from her first meeting with young Chambannes. He was, moreover, good-looking and smart and had caressing, winning ways. He did not insist upon a Church wedding when M. Mouzarkhi, who was anxious to preserve neutrality—or was it his incognito?—in religious matters, declared it would be contrary to his principles, as an “Old Republican” and a positivist. In truth, ZozÉ would have had to exhibit a baptismal certificate; M. Mouzarkhi had neglected to provide her with one; the need to obtain one now would further delay the marriage. Thus they were married at the city hall. The whole of the Petite Bourse flocked to the place; there were even a few persons from the Haute Banque, among whose numbers M. Mouzarkhi counted, if no friends, at least some admirers. The evening came and the young couple settled down in a pretty mansion on the rue de Prony, a wedding present from the financier. To the house he had added a capital of 100,000 francs in order to help the engineer find that road to success which he was seeking.

George Chambannes found nothing at all, but he spent the whole amount in the course of the next two years and heavily mortgaged the mansion.

Nor did he cut down expenses. Quite the contrary. He kept them up and even increased them, by means of gambling, secret expedients and unsavory manipulations. Gossips said that he was in receipt of money from some generous old ladies, whose names were quoted. These rumors found few incredulous listeners, because Chambannes was handsome, a spendthrift, and with no visible profession or resources. Discredit is like glory; it has its own legends which everyone, out of spite or stupidity, wishes to credit. ZozÉ was not alarmed at his spending his nights in gambling houses, leaving his own bed untouched, or at his seeming peevish. She had never known what financial embarrassment meant, even during the unlucky periods of her fathe career. To pocket sums of money and, when these were squandered, to ask for, and receive more, seemed to her to be woma natural functions. Only a refusal, a reproach or a check upon her luxurious ways could have worried her. But George never was stingy.

It was only after she heard from a friend that George was running after women that she modified her existence. The change was hardly perceptible; it took place without scenes or noise. She took a lover.

The latter was a relation of hers whom she deemed her cousin. His name was Demetrius Vassipoulo. He had not been more than eighteen months in Paris, was quite young—just turned three and twenty—and sported a thin brown mustache that seemed drawn with a pencil; yet Demetrius was already racing up on the footsteps of his Uncle Mouzarkhi. His future was already being discounted “on ‘Change,” as if it had been a state loan; he would surely make a colossal fortune or suffer a far-echoing bankruptcy.

All day he ran through Paris, reclining in his carriage, which was hired by the month. His languid arm lay on the folded hood, like that of a rich capitalist stretching himself out. The brass on the harness and the hors bell signaled his arrival and sparkled in the sunshine, his ensigns of triumph.

ZozÉ loved him three months. He had the hot passion of an animal and the ingenuousness of a savage. He amused her and she told of his ardor to two or three intimate friends who drew comparisons with their own lovers. She initiated him into the attractions of social life, covering his candor with the web of established customs, just as his tailor dressed him according to fashion.

However, she was tired of Demetrius after three months. She kept him for another two, out of kindness, she thought, albeit it was really out of caution and, perhaps unwittingly, because she had not found a better.

The moment she fancied that she had discovered the matchless lover, she wasted no time in breaking with the youthful financier. She gave as a pretext that her husband had been warned and that she had to safeguard her honor. Demetrius wept bitterly and roared out his sorrow in words so harsh sounding that one might have thought it the cry of a stricken lion. ZozÉ felt remorseful during a whole week. At night she imagined herself hearing again his unintelligible cries. She dreamt of wild animals threatening her. Her new lover reproached her with being gloomy and sighing without cause.

Her grief was not really eased until she saw Demetrius one night at the Noveau Cirque. He was in evening dress, with a white bow and carnations in his buttonhole; leaning on the front seat of a private box, by the side of a fat blonde girl, he was blowing his smoke in the faces of the clowns.

Henceforth she felt no qualms; Lastours, her new lover, had no further cause to complain.

He dealt in paintings in a little house in the rue ffÉmont. He was dark and bald, with the beard of a minion, a brutal mouth and the hands of a street-porter. He held an advantageous place in the syndicate of those painter-dealers whom the Paris of the parvenus freely provides with both a living and notoriety. He frequented assiduously the fashionable drawing-rooms of the smart set, mixed with the Élite of clubs and art circles, dressed like a sportsman, was as funny as a low comedian and carried about him a vague perfume of something beyond, an aristocratic vapor which seemed to float above his square shoulders. Listening to him, ZozÉ felt nearer the world of fashion. He was to her the higher step on the social ladder; merely to see that step was as good as believing she was on it and she clung to it with delight. She admired, as if they stood for the finest wit, his studio gossip, his prankish school ditties and the obscenity of his conversation. He had but to say a word and she laughed outright; she rushed to satisfy his slightest whim; in three months Chambannes took three paintings off his hands. Nevertheless Lastours soon abused his privilege. She dreamed of nothing else but the satisfaction of his desires and yet he treated her like a servant, ill-treated her when he was in bad humor; he even ordered the gentle ZozÉ, after their meetings, to fasten his boots for him.

Such insolence, daily renewed, exasperated the unhappy woman and acted upon her love as water upon flames.

She was fresh, loving and of a pleasant disposition; why should she be denied that happiness of the heart which fell to the lot of so many other women less beautiful than she was? In moments of passing intuition, ZozÉ gave herself the melancholy reply: They were often less beautiful, that was true, but they were Parisiennes; they were well read and resolute; they operated upon their native soil, while she was a little Mouzarkhi, blindly floating at the whim of her instincts, groping and stranded more than any girl lost on alien soil!... The next day, with renewed hope, she would go back to Lastours!

When she ceased to love him, she wanted to avenge the outrages he had piled upon her. Following a banal, instinctive strategy, she gave herself to one of his friends—also a painter and one of Lastours’ competitors—by the name of Montiers, who lived two doors further down the street.

This man was fat and red-headed and concealed his nature even less than the other had done. He was more ambitious and greedy for money than Lastours and entertained not the least intention of wasting his time with women. It was business before anything else with him. For the sake of a prospective sale, a meeting with a client or a patro call, he would dismiss ZozÉ or put off her visit without hesitation. Once he had kept her, frozen and crazy with fear, shut up for a whole hour in the dark closet used by his models to disrobe in, because some rich American had chanced to turn up at the studio during her visit.

When the American had departed, Montiers walked about the room so elated by his successful transaction that he forgot to deliver his prisoner. He only opened the door when he heard her cries; and when he opened it he smiled, seeing only the humorous side of the affair, while ZozÉ wept for vexation and grief.

After six weeks such treatment she was thoroughly disgusted with Montiers, and with fashionable painters, and indeed—or so she thought—with adventurous affaires in general.

Who would have thought that these men, who were outwardly so courteous, so much made of and so much petted by the most beautiful women, could prove themselves so mean upon intimacy? Why should she keep up these casual liaisons, expose herself to such insults which lacked even the excuse of accompanying tenderness; why seek happiness in love instead of waiting for it?

What, moreover, did she lack in order to be the most envied young woman?

George was spending more nights at home: he showed himself more courteous and took her frequently to dances and plays. On her last birthday he had hired a carriage by the month for her. His affairs were at last taking a better turn. He was gradually paying off his bills and the interest due on the mortgage. ZozÉ had a vague idea that he was consulting engineer to a large mining company owning mines in Bosnia.

A sort of Indian summer of affection brought her suddenly nearer to her husband. She boasted of it to her friends and declared that the age of folly had passed for her. In order to fill the vacancy left by her lovers, she threw herself with ardor into the pleasures of the mind.

Mercilessly, without choice or respite, she read every new book her bookseller offered her. Memoirs, fiction, poetry and travel books merely whetted her appetite. “I am devouring them!” she would say. And in point of fact, that was precisely what she did; she swallowed and engulfed her readings; she digested nothing, retained nothing.

She became a subscriber to lectures, delighted in old songs and waxed enthusiastic over new ones. She went to concerts on Sundays and dreamt in music of her past liaisons. The only branch of intellectual pleasure she neglected was painting; she never went to the Salon, out of spite for the painters. However, no light of understanding pierced through this chaos of contrary studies. Mme. Chambannes was surprised that, having learned so much, she had not acquired more assurance. Her opinions ran away from her call, like so many flies. She stammered whenever she had to express a personal view. And, in the end, the joys of the intellect bored her....

Her memories of the next two years were misty....

What had she been doing during those two years? She remembered that George had received the LÉgion onneur on the 14th of July. But the rest, her furious hunt for the perfect lover whom her heart and her senses called for in spite of herself—what was there left of it? Was it not withered, pressed tight at the back of her brain by weightier and more urgent affairs? Two anemic shadows re-appeared at her conjuring, standing in a dim, gray light: herself invariably one of them; while the other was this one or that one, names and features forgotten, or confusedly mixed up under the stamp of time. There had been flirtations at dances, some mild drives in closed carriages, unfinished kisses, mere sketches of self-giving, several vain attempts to reach the ideal and many false hopes and shattered illusions. How could she have felt any affection for those men, those German bank clerks, those exotic, dumpy fellows, more elaborately dressed than gentlemen should be and more caddish than the worst bounders could be! Had she given herself to them? Perhaps she had. To one or two of them, or to none at all? In sooth, she was not at all positive about it. Later, when she gravely swore to Gerald that she had never had but one lover, her conscious fib put that bungling little Mouzarkhi girl only two out of reckoning!

Her search was not guided solely by mere animality.

She longed secretly for an ideal lover. Her day dreams accentuated one feature after the other of his exquisite portrait. But the imagination of many women acts as their body does. It can reproduce but not create. That of Mme. Chambannes, impregnated by the reading of fashionable novels, was acting on a given formula.

She imagined the expected hero with a large blonde beard, melancholy eyes wherein passed at times the moist shadow of an old sorrow; he would also have an income of 30,000 or 40,000 francs and a name which, if not a noble one, belonged at least to the smart and wealthy bourgeoisie.

He would have bitterly suffered at the hands of women, of one especially, a treacherous actress, in love with deceit, notoriety and money. Unwittingly, Mme. Chambannes allowed her mind to dwell on this last point.... The disillusioned lover to come would lift his upper lip in a contraction that showed what bitter experiences he had undergone. From his lips would surge blasphemies against the perfidious sex, ma enemy. Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would tenderly stop the anathemas with her kisses; she would lay that sorrowful head upon her breast and bring smiles back to those defiant lips. If necessary, and he wished it, she would go away with him. They would then become exiles on a small English island, far from the wicked world, and stay for hours together sitting alone on the sands of the seashore, hand in hand, indefinitely contemplating the changing play of the waves or the ships returning home.

Why did this hero fail to arrive? She had made everything ready to receive him, even to follow him; down to an imaginary list of dresses and things which she would hurriedly pile up in a wicker trunk held by yellow straps and covered on the outside with a shining piece of black cowhide!

He tarried on his way, but he did arrive.

He was of the stay-at-home variety, selfish, titled, a libertine, he wore no beard, he had no languorous airs and no spite against anyone. Nevertheless Mme. Chambannes adored him from the very first.

His name was Gerald de Meuze, son of the Marquis de Meuze, of the Poitou branch of the Meuzes. George had known him at college and later lost sight of him.

The introduction occurred at one of the Auteuil races. It was a quiet Thursday, almost an intimate spring meeting. It proved decisive.

George, out of pride or his passion for gambling, soon left them alone to look after his bets, and Gerald stuck close to Mme. Chambannes.

He walked her out before the reserved seats, escorted her to the paddock, lost his way with her behind the buildings on the broad green expanses which were deserted by the public whenever a new race began.

A strong odor of hay, damp and sharp as a sea air-laden breeze, entered their lungs. Mme. Chambannes could hardly speak for happiness. A new ecstasy caused her breasts to tremble under her light silk blouse. She walked with her head bent forward, her eyes aimlessly watching the tips of her shiny patent leather shoes sliding on the grass. At last the longed-for lover had come! She had got hold of him! No power could have dissuaded her! She laughed nervously at all the remarks of Gerald, thinking that, when she looked at him she was replying to him; she thought she was losing her mind; the handle of her saffron sunshade trembled against her shoulder.

The little Mouzarkhi girl would have felt even more intoxicated had she heard what was being said of her in the exclusive club members’ tribune, among the friends of the young Count.

They were asking each other, with sly winks, who that pretty little woman was Gerald was keeping so close to. Not one of them knew. A professional? No, she could not be that. Probably a little woman from some sunny, hot land, whom that rascal de Meuze made feel warmer still, in order to tease the baroness.... Why, yes ... the Baroness Mussan ... from whom he had parted ... it was over ... did you know?... Oh, not more than a fortnight.... Just the same, this one was a jolly, good-looking creature!

And the success of ZozÉ was no less real in the ladies’ tribune.

Of course, the good ladies did not spare her the contemptuous tone which they used indiscriminately when passing judgment upon all women who were not of their caste: demi-mondaines, actresses or plain bourgeoises. Yet, apart from that disdain, their verdict was a favorable one. They found the strange woman nice, her dress a good fit and Gerald a man of taste. Several maliciously inquired about Zoz name of the baroness who, to save her face, joined the others in praising her.

Yet, Mme. Chambannes perceived nothing of this exciting triumph. How could she discern it? She saw no one in the whole crowd but Gerald, her true mate, her lover to be. She walked on, with evasive glances, like a happy bride advancing to the altar on her wedding day.

She was almost there when the races were over. Gerald had begged her, had pressed her as if he were already her master. He wanted to see her again, to possess her, the very next day. She remembered his ardent voice when, on leaving her, he had dared to whisper in the midst of the crowd, within Georg own hearing:

“Why wo you to-morrow? Oh! please, do refuse me!”

Nevertheless, she had refused, with a slow movement of her head, while her eyes turned up as if plunging into despair.

She had to resist, to oppose this man with as much coldness and as much caution as he was deserving of her love; she had to make him gain her instead of abandoning herself to him. A voice within her dictated this unusual reserve to Mme. Chambannes; she heeded it like the voice of duty, being persuaded that her delays were safeguarding the future.

She gave in only after a siege of three weeks, at the moment when he had grown discouraged and was on the verge of renouncing his intentions.

During that period, she had thought deeply and found out what she wanted, with that superhuman cunning which women often show in order to arm and defend their threatened passion.

She now knew everything about Gerald. He had led an idle, discontented life since the time of the financial smash of 1882, when, in a fit of juvenile anger, he had resigned his commission in the 30th cuirassiers. From the disaster his father had saved him a yearly income of about 40,000 francs. She learned also the names of the people of his set; heard of many of his liaisons, without names this time, all about the last one ... with the baroness; she was told of his antipathy for a world wherein his reduced circumstances no longer allowed him to figure as he wished.

Upon this information, she had rapidly drawn her plans. Two methods were possible in order to keep Gerald a prisoner.

Either she could rise and enter, with his help, the haughty circles of his peers, where he would find no difficulty in introducing and imposing her. She could thus know of all his movements, easily keep an eve on him and fend off any possible danger.

Or else she could take advantage of his weariness, gently lead him away from this set of which he affected to be tired and afford him, in her own house, a home that would be brighter, easier and more novel.

In the first case, a thousand obstacles stood before her. There would be innumerable petty deeds to perpetrate in the midst of much uncertainty, delay and humiliation. A short while back, Georg candidacy had been “adjourned” in two sporting clubs. The committees of those clubs, more rigorous in their verdicts than a Council of Ministers, had successively denied the white balls of their assent to a man upon whom the Government had bestowed the guarantee of the Cross of Honor. She would therefore expose herself to a rebuff, on this hostile ground, where she would be on an inferior footing. Mme. Chambannes chose the second method.

A few months proved sufficient for her to transform her life, organize receptions and assume regular visiting days. She convened her most attractive friends, some of Geral comrades, men of letters, musicians and even artists, when she had conquered her own repugnance for them. Thus, gradually she established for his evenings, as a supplement to their afternoon meetings elsewhere, a composite but sympathetic salon, a place for simple enjoyment where both men and women could come, without putting on any airs and without afterthoughts, with the sole intention of meeting each other and the firm desire to have a pleasant time.

Mme. Chambannes was near her goal. Gerald was captivated, attracted and firmly held; he surrendered to his lady, swore fealty, faithfulness and lasting love—and made Zoz house his own. He reigned therein, an all-powerful despot, coaxed by the husband, flattered by the visitors, servilely obeyed by Mme. Chambannes who rejoiced in, and was thankful for, the love at last acquired and conquered, the love unique forever, and more than legitimate, since it was even romantic and glorious!... Then came one evening when the young Count brought in his father. The Marquis de Meuze was charmed with his “daughter-in-law,” as he nicknamed ZozÉ to his own soul. He came again, of his own accord, having found the place attractive, the women pretty and the cooking excellent....

Yet, what struggles, what efforts she had made before she achieved victory! Every day she still had to use her craft and stratagems in order to keep her nobleman, to keep the thieves off and take care of the competition.

Mme. Chambannes thought of these things and gave a deep sigh. She stared aimlessly at the iridescent foam that the sugar sent up to the top of her coffee cup. Suddenly the sullen voice of Anna called her back to her reflections.

“Is Madame going out? May I get Madam clothes ready?”

Mme. Chambannes was stupefied.

“What is the time?” she asked.

“Almost two lock, Madame.”

Two! Why, she had left her room, gone to lunch, eaten and drunk and sat there all that time, not knowing what she was doing, her mind wandering far away, on the obscure paths of the past!

Sleepily, she replied:

“Yes, I am going out.... Give me my blue dress.... My astrakhan coat....”

She went wearily to the window and lifted the curtains. A heavy white mist hung low between the houses. It seemed as if a smoke was rising from everything, from the trees in the park, at the end of her street, from the street pavement and from the asphalt on the sidewalks; even men and horses that passed by threw it out of their nostrils in thick, parallel clouds. Far, far above, the sun gave out a pale light, like a lamp in a room where men have smoked much.

Such a cold, funereal day was a good day for lovemaking, was it not? Mme. Chambannes dreamt. To love Gerald, all kinds of weather seemed propitious to her, as the lower classes think all days are good for drinking.

Where was her Raldo now, he of the great, wide, beloved eyes? How she detested the unworthy wretch!... What were they talking about at the Mathays’, in the drawing-room darkened by the fog? NaÏvely, she let the curtains down again, as if she feared to see. Once more sobs came to her throat! Well, she must forgot, get some distraction, take a walk until four! Where could she go?

She raked her mind for names; she thought of visits to pay, of dressmakers and modistes. Then all at once she skipped and beat her hands with a childish gesture.

Of course! She had decided on the previous day to invite M. Raindal to her house, to make of him a super, if not a star, at her receptions, a noted and venerable pillar of her salon; why should she waste time, why not seize the opportunity? Tuesday was Mme. Rainda day. Again, there was their daughte accident; to go there and inquire about her—why, these were all pretexts that no one could suspect. She must not lose an instant!

She ran to her room. Ten minutes later, her muff under her arm, she was fastening her gloves outside the house, waiting for the cab she had sent for.