“We must make her walk,” said one.
“But, sirs, I can’t!” she cried.
“I can’t move!”
Then they took hold of her, raised her and dragged
her a short distance, but she slipped from their grasp
and fell to the floor, groaning and giving vent to
such heartrending cries that they carried her back
to her seat with infinite care and precaution.
They pronounced a guarded opinion—agreeing,
however, that work was an impossibility to her.
And when Hector brought this news to his wife she
sank on a chair, murmuring:
“It would be better to bring her here; it would
cost us less.”
He started in amazement.
“Here? In our own house? How can you
think of such a thing?”
But she, resigned now to anything, replied with tears
in her eyes:
“But what can we do, my love? It’s
not my fault!”
About half-past five one afternoon at the end of June
when the sun was shining warm and bright into the
large courtyard, a very elegant victoria with two
beautiful black horses drew up in front of the mansion.
The Comtesse de Mascaret came down the steps just
as her husband, who was coming home, appeared in the
carriage entrance. He stopped for a few moments
to look at his wife and turned rather pale. The
countess was very beautiful, graceful and distinguished
looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like
yellow ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair;
and she got into her carriage without looking at him,
without even seeming to have noticed him, with such
a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy
by which he had been devoured for so long again gnawed
at his heart. He went up to her and said:
“You are going for a drive?”
She merely replied disdainfully: “You see
I am!”
“In the Bois de Boulogne?”
“Most probably.”
“May I come with you?”
“The carriage belongs to you.”
Without being surprised at the tone in which she answered
him, he got in and sat down by his wife’s side
and said: “Bois de Boulogne.”
The footman jumped up beside the coachman, and the
horses as usual pranced and tossed their heads until
they were in the street. Husband and wife sat
side by side without speaking. He was thinking
how to begin a conversation, but she maintained such
an obstinately hard look that he did not venture to
make the attempt. At last, however, he cunningly,
accidentally as it were, touched the countess’
gloved hand with his own, but she drew her arm away
with a movement which was so expressive of disgust
that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his usual
authoritative and despotic character, and he said:
“Gabrielle!”
“What do you want?”
“I think you are looking adorable.”
She did not reply, but remained lying back in the
carriage, looking like an irritated queen. By
that time they were driving up the Champs Elysees,
toward the Arc de Triomphe. That immense monument,
at the end of the long avenue, raised its colossal
arch against the red sky and the sun seemed to be
descending on it, showering fiery dust on it from the
sky.
