Bougival and Love They had set the table on the veranda which overlooked the river.
The Printemps villa, leased by the Marquise Obardi, was halfway up this hill, just at the corner of the Seine, which turned before the garden wall, flowing toward Marly.
Opposite the residence, the island of Croissy formed a horizon of tall trees, a mass of verdure, and they could see a long stretch of the big river as far as the floating cafe of La Grenouillere hidden beneath the foliage.
The evening fell, one of those calm evenings at the waterside, full of color yet soft, one of those peaceful evenings which produces a sensation of pleasure.No breath of air stirred the branches, no shiver of wind ruffled the smooth clear surface of the Seine.It was not too warm, it was mild--good weather to live in.The grateful coolness of the banks of the Seine rose toward a serene sky.
The sun disappeared behind the trees to shine on other lands, and one seemed to absorb the serenity of the already sleeping earth, to inhale, in the peace of space, the life of the infinite.
As they left the drawing-room to seat themselves at the table everyone was joyous.A softened gaiety filled their hearts, they felt that it would be so delightful to dine there in the country, with that great river and that twilight for a setting, breathing that pure and fragrant air.
The Marquise had taken Saval's arm, and Yvette, Servigny's.The four were alone by themselves.The two women seemed entirely different persons from what they were at Paris, especially Yvette.She talked but little, and seemed languid and grave.
Saval, hardly recognizing her in this frame of mind, asked her:
"What is the matter, Mademoiselle? I find you changed since last week.You have become quite a serious person.""It is the country that does that for me," she replied."I am not the same, I feel queer; besides I am never two days alike.To-day Ihave the air of a mad woman, and to-morrow shall be as grave as an elegy.I change with the weather, I don't know why.You see, I am capable of anything, according to the moment.There are days when Iwould like to kill people,--not animals, I would never kill animals,--but people, yes, and other days when I weep at a mere thing.A lot of different ideas pass through my head.It depends, too, a good deal on how I get up.Every morning, on waking, I can tell just what I shall be in the evening.Perhaps it is our dreams that settle it for us, and it depends on the book I have just read."She was clad in a white flannel suit which delicately enveloped her in the floating softness of the material.Her bodice, with full folds, suggested, without displaying and without restraining, her free chest, which was firm and already ripe.And her superb neck emerged from a froth of soft lace, bending with gentle movements, fairer than her gown, a pilaster of flesh, bearing the heavy mass of her golden hair.
Servigny looked at her for a long time: "You are adorable this evening, Mam'zelle," said he, "I wish I could always see you like this.""Don't make a declaration, Muscade.I should take it seriously, and that might cost you dear."The Marquise seemed happy, very happy.All in black, richly dressed in a plain gown which showed her strong, full lines, a bit of red at the bodice, a cincture of red carnations falling from her waist like a chain, and fastened at the hips, and a red rose in her dark hair, she carried in all her person something fervid,--in that simple costume, in those flowers which seemed to bleed, in her look, in her slow speech, in her peculiar gestures.
Saval, too, appeared serious and absorbed.From time to time he stroked his pointed beard, trimmed in the fashion of Henri III., and seemed to be meditating on the most profound subjects.
Nobody spoke for several minutes.Then as they were serving the trout, Servigny remarked:
"Silence is a good thing, at times.People are often nearer to each other when they are keeping still than when they are talking.Isn't that so, Marquise?"She turned a little toward him and answered:
"It is quite true.It is so sweet to think together about agreeable things."She raised her warm glance toward Saval, and they continued for some seconds looking into each other's eyes.A slight, almost inaudible movement took place beneath the table.
Servigny resumed: "Mam'zelle Yvette, you will make me believe that you are in love if you keep on being as good as that.Now, with whom could you be in love? Let us think together, if you will; I put aside the army of vulgar sighers.I'll only take the principal ones.
Is it Prince Kravalow?"
At this name Yvette awoke: "My poor Muscade, can you think of such a thing? Why, the Prince has the air of a Russian in a wax-figure museum, who has won medals in a hairdressing competition.""Good! We'll drop the Prince.But you have noticed the Viscount Pierre de Belvigne?"This time she began to laugh, and asked: "Can you imagine me hanging to the neck of 'Raisine'?" She nicknamed him according to the day, Raisine, Malvoisie, [Footnote: Preserved grapes and pears, malmsey,--a poor wine.] Argenteuil, for she gave everybody nicknames.And she would murmur to his face: "My dear little Pierre," or "My divine Pedro, darling Pierrot, give your bow-wow's head to your dear little girl, who wants to kiss it.""Scratch out number two.There still remains the Chevalier Valreali whom the Marquise seems to favor," continued Servigny.
