HAD lived so long in the whirling storm of my own thoughts that when Félice reminded me of the Duchesse de Folicœur's masquerade I laughed aloud. A masquerade! And I—I was to go! After a week of black torture, of terror, temptation, and regret—and all these miseries lashed into double agony by a self-ordained seclusion for the better possibility of brooding—after such a week, I was to put up my tangled hair, rouge my white cheeks, and go out gaily into the gay world.
I sat at my dressing table and studied my own haggard reflection. Yet, it was I, Cléo de Vincennes, one of the prettiest jeunes mariées in Paris. But sleeplessness, grief, suspense, and rage had made my eyes like saucers, and had given my mouth a droop that added ten—no, fifteen—years to my age.
It had all begun with a flirtation with Philippe de Pavaney. He was mad about me—all the world knew that, including my husband; but there was never any sort of declaration until the night of “Thais” at the Comique. After that delicious, seductive number that ends the second act, and prostrates the passionate monk with its piercing, cruel sweetness, Philippe leaned behind my chair, under cover of the darkness and applause, and kissed my arm, whispering crazily that I was lovelier than Thais herself. Of course, it was a mad thing to do—and in an opera box! I could never forgive such stupidity; but, after all, it was the effect of the music; so—well, one could not, really, blame him utterly. But Hugues had seen it!
Figure to yourself the situation! What was the use of telling the truth? That Philippe had never kissed me before, had never even told me that he loved me. I had often, as a matter of fact, wondered why he did not tell me. But who would believe it after that? At all events, Hugues did not. We had a ghastly scene when we got home. And then I did not see Hugues, or Philippe, all that black, awful week.
I do not know now, on looking back, whether I was most unhappy or most angry. The whole thing seemed to me so unnecessary, so enraging. Of course, I had never thought of Philippe as a lover, merely as some one who was beautifully convenient and comfortable, and who made me feel awfully pleased with myself all the time. I was truly and sincerely devoted to Hugues, when he would let me be. I admired him more than any man I knew, and had been head over heels in love with him when we were married.
After all, that was only a year before; and I think it would have been quite easy for me to have stayed just as madly in love with him as ever. But he was rather distant and reserved as a rule; and I used to wonder whether or not his mouth ever smiled under his iron-grey moustache. I was nineteen, and frivolous.
Well, I cried myself sick, and Hugues would not see me, and I would not see Philippe. And then Folicœur Félice reminded me of the masque. And I laughed. But, after all, it would be a change. I might even forget some of my troubles for a little while. I suddenly decided that I would go. And—well, le bon Dieu manages things very queerly, it seems to me, for women who wish to remain honest. Félice brought me a note from Philippe:—
—What is the use of further wretchedness for us both? You know I adore you, and you, who are all gentleness and mercy, cannot be entirely insensible to my feeling for you. Come to-night to the duchess's ball, and afterwards—we will go away together! Make all your plans, my bien aimé, as I shall make mine, and then allons! A life of love together!
The audacity of it! And yet it seemed to me at that moment—wretched, lonely, and depressed—very, very charming to be adored. The words “yours for ever” had rather a wonderful ring.
I am like a kitten. I must be stroked the right way, and caressed, and petted, and played with. I must!
I sent no answer. That salved my conscience somewhat, of course. But—I began to mean to go. Oh, it was very wicked! But I was nineteen, and frivolous, and Hugues had no further interest in me; and I had never been able to find out whether he could smile under that iron-grey moustache.
So I said to Félice: “Tiens! We will go to Goujet's and try on my new gown. I recall now that I ordered one for to-night, and Monsieur le Marquis chose the colour.”
Monsieur le Marquis is Hugues. He had chosen the colour ages before; a quite adorable blue. He said he picked it out because it was a pretty colour, and not too startling for a lady to wear. Philippe would have said that it matched my eyes.