The men soon withdrew to the smoking room. M. de Mussy came over and in a familiar way took Maxime by the arm. He had known the boy at school, even though he was six years older. Mussy led his younger schoolmate out onto the terrace and after both had lit cigars began to complain bitterly about Renée.

“So tell me, what’s got into her? I saw her yesterday, and she was delightful. But today she’s treating me as though it were all over between us. What crime could I have committed? It would be awfully nice of you, my dear Maxime, if you’d ask her what’s the matter and tell her how much she’s making me suffer.”

“Oh, no, not that! Never!” Maxime replied with a laugh. “Renée has a case of nerves, and I’m not keen to bear the brunt of her wrath. Figure it out for yourself, and take care of your own business.”

After slowly exhaling the smoke from his Havana cigar, he finished his thought. “That’s a fine role you’d have me play!”

Mussy professed his warm friendship for Maxime, however, and told the younger man that he was only waiting for an opportunity to prove his devotion to him. He loved Renée so much, he said, that it was making him miserable.

“All right, then,” Maxime finally gave in. “Have it your way. I’ll speak to her. But I promise you nothing. She’s certain to turn me away.”

They returned to the smoking room and stretched out in big lounging chairs. For the next half hour, Mussy poured out his woes to Maxime. For the tenth time he told the young man how he had fallen in love with his stepmother and how she had been kind enough to single him out. And Maxime, while finishing off his cigar, offered him advice, explained Renée to him, and pointed out how he ought to behave if he wanted to dominate her.

Meanwhile, Saccard came in and sat down a short distance away from the two young men, so Mussy remained silent, and Maxime ended by saying, “If I were in your shoes, I’d treat her in a most cavalier manner. She likes that.”

The smoking room, located at one end of the drawing room, occupied the round space formed by one of the turrets. Its style was very rich and very sober. Hung with imitation cordovan leather, it had drapes and door curtains of Algerian inspiration, while the rug was a pile carpet with a Persian pattern. The furniture, with its tawny-colored shagreen upholstery, consisted of ottomans, armchairs, and a circular sofa that occupied a portion of the wall’s circumference. The small chandelier, the decorative items displayed on a pedestal table, and the fire irons were of light green Florentine bronze.

Only a few young people and pasty-faced old men who loathed tobacco remained with the ladies. In the smoking room the men laughed and joked quite freely. M. Hupel de la Noue greatly amused the company by repeating the same story he had told at dinner but with all the truly vulgar details restored. This was his specialty: he always had two versions of every anecdote, one for the ladies, the other for the men. When Aristide Saccard came in, he was immediately surrounded and heaped with compliments, and when he pretended not to understand, M. de Saffré explained, in words that garnered considerable applause, that he, Saccard, had done his country a great service by preventing the beautiful Laure d’Aurigny from going over to the English.

“No, really, gentlemen, you’re mistaken,” Saccard stammered with false modesty.

“No, father, don’t deny it!” Maxime exclaimed in a bantering tone of voice. “At your age, it’s quite an accomplishment.”

The young man disposed of his cigar and returned to the drawing room. Lots of people had gathered. The gallery was full of dark frock coats, standing and talking in low voices, and of skirts, spread out across love seats. Servants had begun to circulate with silver trays laden with ice cream and glasses of punch.

Maxime, wanting to speak to Renée, traversed the length of the drawing room, knowing full well where he would find the ladies gathered. At the opposite end of the gallery from the smoking room was another round room that had been turned into an adorable little salon. With its hangings, drapes, and door curtains of buttercup satin, this room had a voluptuous charm, a delicate, original flavor. The light from the chandelier—a piece of exquisite craftsmanship—played a symphony in yellow minor on the sun-colored silks. The effect was like a fountain of subdued sunlight, a sunset on a field of ripe wheat. Ultimately the light settled onto an Aubusson carpet strewn with autumn leaves. For furniture the room had only an ebony piano with ivory inlay, two small cabinets with glass doors displaying a collection of curios, a Louis XVI table, and a jardinière console holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. The love seats, armchairs, and poufs were upholstered with buttercup satin striped with bands of the same material in black and conspicuously embroidered with tulips. And then there were footstools and ottomans, a whole host of elegant and bizarre varieties of the tabouret. ¹⁷ The wood in these pieces could not be seen: satin and stuffing covered everything. The backs had the curvaceous fullness of bolsters, so that these sofas and armchairs were like discreet beds where a person could sleep and make love on a cushion of down while the sensual symphony in yellow minor played on in the background.

Renée loved this little salon, one of whose French doors opened onto the magnificent conservatory attached to the side of the mansion. During the day this was where she spent her idle hours. The yellow hangings did not outshine her pale blonde hair but rather lent it a strange golden glow. Her head stood out against an auroral gleam of pink and white, as if a blonde Diana were awakening in the morning light. No doubt that was why she loved this room, which highlighted her beauty.

Now she found herself there with her intimates. Her sister and aunt had just left. Only the inner circle remained, the fast crowd. Half-reclining on one of the love seats, Renée listened to the confidences of her friend Adeline, who whispered in her ear while making kittenish expressions punctuated by bursts of laughter. Suzanne Haffner had gathered quite a crowd. She was holding forth to a group of young men, who pressed in close without disturbing her German languor or subduing her provocative impudence, as naked and cold as her shoulders. In a corner Mme Sidonie, speaking in a low voice, was indoctrinating a young woman with the eyelashes of a Madonna. A little farther off, Louise stood chatting with a tall, shy youth, who blushed, while Baron Gouraud slumbered in his armchair in the bright light, his flabby flesh and elephantine frame making a stark contrast with the frail grace and silky delicacy of the women. In the room, meanwhile, a fantastic light rained like gold dust on satin skirts as hard-edged and polished as porcelain and on shoulders whose milky whiteness sparkled with diamonds. A fluting voice and laughter like a cooing of doves could be heard with crystal clarity. It was very hot. Fans fluttered slowly to and fro, like wings, each stroke sending a musky fragrance of bosom wafting into the languid air.

When Maxime appeared in the doorway, Renée, who had been listening to the marquise with half an ear, suddenly stood up as if to attend to her duties as hostess. She moved into the main drawing room, and the young man followed. After walking a short distance and shaking a few hands, she drew Maxime aside.

“So,” she whispered. “The chore turned out to be a rather pleasant one. Making love to her isn’t such a fool’s errand after all.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” replied the young man, who had come to plead the case of M. de Mussy.

“Why, it looks to me as though I did well not to rescue you from Louise. You two aren’t wasting any time.”

With some annoyance she added, “It was indecent, the way you were carrying on at the dinner table.”