Part 23 (1/2)
The meat was good, the beds were bad. M. Coignard slept in the lower chamber, under the stairs, in the same feather bed with the host and his wife, and all three thought they would be suffocated. M. d'Anquetil with Jahel took the upstairs room, where the bacon and the onions were suspended on hooks driven into the ceiling. I myself climbed by means of a ladder to a loft and stretched out on a bundle of straw. Being awakened by the moonlight, a ray of which fell into my eyes, I suddenly saw Jahel in her night-cap coming through the trap door. At a cry that I gave she put her finger to her lips.
”Hus.h.!.+” she said to me, ”Maurice is as drunk as a stevedore and a marquis. He sleeps the sleep of Noah.”
”Who is Maurice?” I inquired, rubbing my eyes.
”It's Anquetil. Who did you think it was?”
”n.o.body, but I did not know that his name was Maurice.”
”It's not long that I knew it myself, but never mind.”
”You are right, Jahel, it's of no importance.”
She was in her chemise, and the moonlight fell like drops of milk on her naked shoulders. She slipped down at my side, called me by the sweetest of names and by the most horrid of coa.r.s.e names, in whispers sounding out of her lips like heavenly murmurs. And then she became dumb, and kissed me with the kisses she alone was able to give, and in comparison with which the caresses of any other woman were but an insipidity.
The constraint and the silence enhanced the furious tension of my nerves. Surprise, the joy of revenge, and, perhaps, a somewhat perverse jealousy inflamed my desires. The elastic firmness of her flesh and the supple violence of the movements wherewith she enveloped me demanded, promised, and deserved the most ardent caresses. We became aware, during that wonderful night, of voluptuousness the abyss of which borders on suffering.
When I came down to the innyard in the morning I met M. d'Anquetil, who, now that I had deceived him, appeared to me less odious than formerly.
On his part he felt better inclined to me than he had yet done since we started on our travels. He talked familiarly to me, with sympathy and confidence; his only reproach was that I did not show to Jahel all the regard and attention she deserved, and did not give her the care an honest man ought to bestow on every woman.
”She complains,” he said, ”of your want of civility. Take care, my dear Tournebroche; I should be sorry for a difference to arise between her and yourself. She's a pretty girl, and loves me immensely.”
The carriage had rolled on for more than an hour when Jahel put her head out of the coach window and said to me:
”The other carriage has reappeared. I should like to discover the features of the two men who occupy it, but I cannot.”
I replied that at such a distance, and in the morning mist, it would be impossible to discern them.
”But,” she exclaimed, ”those are not faces.”
”What else do you want them to be?” I questioned, and burst out laughing.
Now, in her turn, she inquired of me what silly idea had sprung into my brain to laugh so stupidly and said:
”They are not faces, they are masks. Yonder two men follow us and are masked.”
I informed M. d'Anquetil that seemingly an ugly carriage followed us.
But he asked me to let him alone.
”If all the hundred thousand devils were on our track,” he exclaimed, ”I should not care a rap for it as I have enough to do to look after that obese old abbe who plays his tricks with the cards in the most artful way, and who robs me of my money. I almost suspect, Tournebroche, you call my attention to yonder coach for the purpose of aiding and abetting that old sharper. Cannot a carriage be on the same road as ours without causing you anxiety?”
Jahel whispered to me:
”I predict, Jacques, that yonder carriage brings trouble for us. I have a presentiment of it, and my presentiments have never failed to come true.”
”Do you want to make me believe that you have the gift of prophecy?”
Gravely, she replied:
”Yes; I have.”