“Oh well,” she said, disengaging herself, “if you will have it!”

He made way to allow her to go into the other room, and seeing that she desired to be alone he drew the portiere.

Sitting before the fire he reflected.  Perhaps he ought to have pulled down the bed covers, and not left her the task, but without doubt the action would have been too direct, too obvious a hint.  Ah! and that water heater!  He took it and, keeping away from the bedroom door, went to the bathroom, placed the heater on the toilet table, and then, swiftly, he set out the rice powder box, the perfumes, the combs, and, returning into his study, he listened.

She was making as little noise as possible, walking on tiptoe as if in the presence of the dead.  She blew out the candles, doubtless wishing no more light than the rosy glow of the hearth.

He felt positively annihilated.  The irritating impression of the lips and eyes of Hyacinthe was far from him now.  She was nothing but a woman, like any other, undressing in a man’s room.  Memories of similar scenes overwhelmed him.  He remembered girls who like her had crept about on the carpet so as not to be heard, and who had stopped short, ashamed, for a whole second, if they bumped against the water pitcher.  And then, what good was this going to do him?  Now that she was yielding he no longer desired her!  Disillusion had come even before possession, not waiting, as usual, till afterward.  He was distressed to the point of tears.

The frightened cat glided under the curtain, ran from one room to the other, and finally came back to his master and jumped onto his knees.  Caressing him, Durtal said to himself, “Decidedly, she was right when she refused.  It will be grotesque, atrocious.  I was wrong to insist, but no, it’s her fault, too.  She must have wanted to do this or she wouldn’t have come.  What a fool to think she could aggravate passion by delay.  She is fearfully clumsy.  A moment ago when I was embracing her and really was aroused, it would perhaps have been delicious, but now!  And what do I look like?  A young bridegroom waiting—­or a green country boy.  Oh God, how stupid!  Well,” he said, straining his ears and hearing no sound from the other room, “she’s in bed.  I must go in.

“I suppose it took her all this time to unharness herself from her corset.  She was a fool to wear one,” he concluded, when, drawing the curtain, he stepped into the other room.

Mme. Chantelouve was buried under the thick coverlet, her mouth half-open and her eyes closed; but he saw that she was peering at him through the fringe of her blonde eyelashes.  He sat down on the edge of the bed.  She huddled up, drawing the cover over her chin.

“Cold, dear?”

“No,” and she opened wide her eyes, which flashed sparks.