works. An
ancient Russian icon in nielloed silver and one of these Christs in
carved wood, executed in the seventeenth century by Bogard de Nancy, in
an antique frame of gilded wood backed with velvet, were the only things
that slightly relieved the banality of the decoration. The rest of the
furniture looked like that of a bourgeois household fixed up for Lent,
or for a charity dance or for a visit from the priest. A great fire
blazed on the hearth. The room was lighted by a very high lamp with a
wide shade of pink lace--

"Stinks of the sacristy!" Durtal was saying to himself at the moment the
door opened.

Mme. Chantelouve entered, the lines of her figure advantageously
displayed by a wrapper of white swanskin, which gave off a fragrance of
frangipane. She pressed Durtal's hand and sat down facing him, and he
perceived under the wrap her indigo silk stockings in little patent
leather bootines with straps across the insteps.

They talked about the weather. She complained of the way the winter hung
on, and declared that although the furnace seemed to be working all
right she was always shivering, was always frozen to death. She told him
to feel her hands, which indeed were cold, then she seemed worried about
his health.

"You look pale," she said.

"You might at least say that I _am_ pale," he replied.

She did not answer immediately, then, "Yesterday I saw how much you
desire me," she said. "But why, why, want to go so far?"

He made a gesture, indicating vague annoyance.

"How funny you are!" she went on. "I was re-reading one of your books
today, and I noticed this phrase, 'The only women you can continue to
love are those you lose.' Now admit that you were right when you wrote
that."

"It all depends. I wasn't in love then."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she said, "I must tell my husband
you are here."

Durtal remained silent, wondering what role Chantelouve actually played
in this triangle.

Chantelouve returned with his wife. He was in his dressing-gown and had
a pen in his mouth. He took it out and put it on the table, and after
assuring Durtal that his health was completely restored, he complained
of overwhelming labours. "I have had to quit giving dinners and
receptions," he said, "I can't even go visiting. I am in harness every
day at my desk."

And when Durtal asked him the nature of these labours, he confessed to a
whole series of unsigned volumes on the lives of the saints, to be