“You prefer me when I have headache …”
“Absolutely. On days when you are cheerful I feel we aren’t such good friends … as if I weren’t so close to you, do you understand?”
“What nonsense!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mascarell, I beg you, don’t get me going! I forbid you! For God’s sake don’t wind me up!”
“But I’m not, as far as I can see. Can’t I say that I hold you in high esteem?”
“No! Not with that sad face! You can joke as much as you like, but, please, don’t ever speak seriously to me. I ask that as a favor. Don’t ever speak to me seriously …”
“Why not? This is really shocking …”
“You can be shocked as much as you like. That’s how it is.”
“Why don’t you want me to speak seriously? Don’t you like me one little bit?”
“Please don’t force me to say anything I’d rather not! Why do you do that? Why do you ask me questions that compel me to be unpleasant? Why are you so nosey? Why are you so rude and bossy?”
“Eulàlia, can you believe that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this? Never! You are extraordinary! I’ve never had dealings with a woman who is so independent …”
The conversation had taken such a vexing turn for Mascarell he could hardly contain himself. He struggled to put on a brave front, but so obviously his real inner state was quite transparent. One remark from Eulàlia had particularly floored him. “Why are you so nosey?” Eulàlia had rasped harshly. The meaning of that sentence is clear enough, Mascarell told himself. This young lady wouldn’t accept my presence in her life, not even on the doorstep. Mascarell found this deeply disturbing. His self-esteem suffered a battering. He felt sore. Something he could never have imagined — a person refusing to accept him as a friend — had actually happened right in his face. He felt disgust inside, and looked at Eulàlia with barely concealed contempt. He felt the need to irritate her, to make her feel his presence.
“Eulàlia,” he asked rather smugly, “who were those two gentlemen over there?”
“And what business of yours is that?”
“Are they close friends of yours?”
“Mascarell, don’t wind me up! Don’t be nosey, I beg you! Leave me and my independence well alone! You must realize that things are different here.”
“And you like things to be different?”
“I should think I do. It’s glorious! And now, believe me, let’s put all that behind us! Let’s cool down.”
“And why should we cool down?”
“We should cool down because if you continue along this path I’ll think you’re un homme fatal and you’ll go down in my estimation.”
“So I’m un homme fatal, am I? What exactly is that?”
“Un homme fatal is someone like you, like most men in our country, a boor who won’t let anyone live in peace. Believe me: let’s put all that behind us! We can still be friends, but don’t expect anything more. What do you say?”
Mascarell was in a state of nervous tension he could no longer conceal. The tension was such that he had the good sense to say nothing else. He’d never thought he would ever find himself in such a situation. His self-esteem had been so grievously harmed — his words — that he looked highly disgruntled. They walked on for a while in complete silence. They now looked as if they’d been married for ten years. They said goodbye — Mascarell being so ingenuous — frostily by the entrance to the hotel. Back in her bedroom, Eulàlia objectively reviewed the events of the evening. On the one hand, she was upset by what she’d been forced to say. On the other, however, she realized that what she’d done was the only way to stop Mascarell in his tracks and put an end to what would have been a very boring and trying business.
Mascarell withdrew too, agitated and fraught, convinced he’d been acting like a complete fool for the last three or four hours.
What Eulàlia had said — that he was un homme fatal — had lodged painfully in his brain. He thought it was the most cutting barb in all that Eulàlia had said. He tried to decide what un homme fatal might be, but couldn’t get any clarity at all, in view of which he decided to find out.
A few days later — it was dusk, and so mild and pleasant — Mascarell was strolling through Le Jardin du Luxembourg, on the Rue d’Assas side, and when he was close to the statue of Sainte-Beuve he spotted Eulàlia in the company of a foreign-looking man. And once he’d set his eyes on her, he made the mistake of loitering around hoping to find out more — and so obviously — that it was inevitable they would see each other. Eulàlia seemed very cheerfuclass="underline" she was laughing and talking loudly, sometimes took the arm of the person accompanying her, and was being wonderfully vivacious.
The gentleman by her side seemed rather perplexed. Perhaps he felt the young lady’s gestures were too flamboyant. At any rate, he kept looking fearfully to his left and right as if he was worried about being seen. He’d have probably acted quite differently if they’d been indoors.
Their paths crossed. When Eulàlia saw Mascarell she blanched slightly, bit her lip, tensed her whole body, but said nothing. Perhaps she’d just remembered what she’d repeatedly said that evening to Mascarell about interfering.
The gentleman accompanying her turned out to be a friend and acquaintance of the latter: it was Sr Tallada, from the Rambla de Catalunya, who ran a large outfitter’s concern and came to Paris every year. When Tallada saw Mascarell — they went to the same casino — he blinked for a moment and was briefly at a loss about what to do next. A second later he yanked his arm away from Eulàlia and shook Mascarell’s hand but without his usual noisy bonhomie. The latter seemed very pleased.
“Good heavens, Mascarell,” said Tallada. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”
“Well, here I am …”
“Do you know Srta Fanny? We met in the Café de la Paix and she’s been so kind as to keep me company for a while.”
“Yes indeed, I do know her. How are you, senyoreta?”
Eulàlia shook hands but said nothing. That fellow’s appearance seemed to have changed her completely. She must have been aware of the transformation, because she made a visible effort to hide her sudden deflation. She acted as if she couldn’t care less about Mascarell, as if she felt contempt for him.
They spent a long time walking around the park chattering about nothing in particular. They observed the Palais du Sénat at great length that looked wonderful at twilight and left through la Porte de l’Odéon. They then walked as far as the Panthéon tavern that was almost on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Rue Soufflot. The big bulk of the Panthéon, its stone a light chamois tone, loomed at the end of this street.
“What’s that?” Tallada asked the young lady.
“It’s the Panthéon …”
Tallada put on the most admiring expression he could manage, took a couple of steps so he had a better view of the building and then said, with an air of great conviction, “You know, it is rather nice, isn’t it?”
If Eulàlia hadn’t been so downcast, she’d have burst out laughing at Tallada’s comment. All the same, she found his remark reeked of Barcelona.
When they reached the tavern door, Eulàlia assumed that Mascarell would take his leave, but not so. Mascarell stayed on. He seemed increasingly interested in what Tallada had to say. Eulàlia assumed that his interest was simply a pretext to annoy her, to justify a presence she found deeply wearisome.
They took a table inside and ordered aperitifs. It wasn’t crowded. They were playing a cloying sentimental ballad.
“That music is so lovely …” said Tallada, looking intense.