Part 14 (2/2)

The ill-advised individual who might happen, through an oversight of the porter, to enter Madame Rabourdin's establishment about eleven o'clock in the morning would have found her in the midst of a disorder the reverse of picturesque, wrapped in a dressing-gown, her hair ill-dressed, and her feet in old slippers, attending to the lamps, arranging the flowers, or cooking in haste an extremely unpoetic breakfast. The visitor to whom the mysteries of Parisian life were unknown would certainly have learned for the rest of his life not to set foot in these greenrooms at the wrong moment; a woman caught in her matin mysteries would ever after point him out as a man capable of the blackest crimes; or she would talk of his stupidity and indiscretion in a manner to ruin him. The true Parisian woman, indulgent to all curiosity that she can put to profit, is implacable to that which makes her lose her prestige. Such a domiciliary invasion may be called, not only (as they say in police reports) an attack on privacy, but a burglary, a robbery of all that is most precious, namely, CREDIT. A woman is quite willing to let herself be surprised half-dressed, with her hair about her shoulders. If her hair is all her own she scores one; but she will never allow herself to be seen ”doing” her own rooms, or she loses her pariostre,--that precious /seeming-to-be/!

Madame Rabourdin was in full tide of preparation for her Friday dinner, standing in the midst of provisions the cook had just fished from the vast ocean of the markets, when Monsieur des Lupeaulx made his way stealthily in. The general-secretary was certainly the last man Madame Rabourdin expected to see, and so, when she heard his boots creaking in the ante-chamber, she exclaimed, impatiently, ”The hair-dresser already!”--an exclamation as little agreeable to des Lupeaulx as the sight of des Lupeaulx was agreeable to her. She immediately escaped into her bedroom, where chaos reigned; a jumble of furniture to be put out of sight, with other heterogeneous articles of more or rather less elegance,--a domestic carnival, in short. The bold des Lupeaulx followed the handsome figure, so piquant did she seem to him in her dishabille.

There is something indescribably alluring to the eye in a portion of flesh seen through an hiatus in the undergarment, more attractive far than when it rises gracefully above the circular curve of the velvet bodice, to the vanis.h.i.+ng line of the prettiest swan's-neck that ever lover kissed before a ball. When the eye dwells on a woman in full dress making exhibition of her magnificent white shoulders, do we not fancy that we see the elegant dessert of a grand dinner? But the glance that glides through the disarray of muslins rumpled in sleep enjoys, as it were, a feast of stolen fruit glowing between the leaves on a garden wall.

”Stop! wait!” cried the pretty Parisian, bolting the door of the disordered room.

She rang for Therese, called for her daughter, the cook, and the man-servant, wis.h.i.+ng she possessed the whistle of the machinist at the Opera. Her call, however, answered the same purpose. In a moment, another phenomenon! the salon a.s.sumed a piquant morning look, quite in keeping with the becoming toilet hastily got together by the fugitive; we say it to her glory, for she was evidently a clever woman, in this at least.

”You!” she said, coming forward, ”at this hour? What has happened?”

”Very serious things,” answered des Lupeaulx. ”You and I must understand each other now.”

Celestine looked at the man behind his gla.s.ses, and understood the matter.

”My principle vice,” she said, ”is oddity. For instance, I do not mix up affections with politics; let us talk politics,--business, if you will,--the rest can come later. However, it is not really oddity nor a whim that forbids me to mingle ill-a.s.sorted colors and put together things that have no affinity, and compels me to avoid discords; it is my natural instinct as an artist. We women have politics of our own.”

Already the tones of her voice and the charm of her manners were producing their effect on the secretary and metamorphosing his roughness into sentimental courtesy; she had recalled him to his obligations as a lover. A clever pretty woman makes an atmosphere about her in which the nerves relax and the feelings soften.

”You are ignorant of what is happening,” said des Lupeaulx, harshly, for he still thought it best to make a show of harshness. ”Read that.”

He gave the two newspapers to the graceful woman, having drawn a line in red ink round each of the famous articles.

”Good heavens!” she exclaimed, ”but this is dreadful! Who is this Baudoyer?”

”A donkey,” answered des Lupeaulx; ”but, as you see, he uses means,--he gives monstrances; he succeeds, thanks to some clever hand that pulls the wires.”

The thought of her debts crossed Madame Rabourdin's mind and blurred her sight, as if two lightning flashes had blinded her eyes at the same moment; her ears hummed under the pressure of the blood that began to beat in her arteries; she remained for a moment quite bewildered, gazing at a window which she did not see.

”But are you faithful to us?” she said at last, with a winning glance at des Lupeaulx, as if to attach him to her.

”That is as it may be,” he replied, answering her glance with an interrogative look which made the poor woman blush.

”If you demand caution-money you may lose all,” she said, laughing; ”I thought you more magnanimous than you are. And you, you thought me less a person than I am,--a sort of school-girl.”

”You have misunderstood me,” he said, with a covert smile; ”I meant that I could not a.s.sist a man who plays against me just as l'Etourdi played against Mascarille.”

”What can you mean?”

”This will prove to you whether I am magnanimous or not.”

He gave Madame Rabourdin the memorandum stolen by Dutocq, pointing out to her the pa.s.sage in which her husband had so ably a.n.a.lyzed him.

”Read that.”

Celestine recognized the handwriting, read the paper, and turned pale under the blow.

<script>