He could not help thinking of Maud. She was so gentle, so good, and yet so wicked, so atrociously wicked. He could well understand that his happiness was now wrecked, that he could no longer know the tenderness of tranquil love, the smiling little familiarities of home.
To this then had Maud descended. She so gentle, and now so cruel! So good, and so wicked! She would be sulky to him, would deceive him, would even quit him, as he had no more money to give her, and since she wanted money. Oh! money! There were others who worked less than he did, and who earned hundreds and thousands. On the Stock Exchange or in trade, or even by failing in business. He on the other hand, worked for eight hours a day in his studio, for?18 or?20 a month. How can one, with that, purchase dresses at twenty pounds a piece? And there must be no mistake; if he did not enrich himself, if he could not give to Maud all the luxury she wished for, he would lose her. Sometimes, seized with rage, he wanted to go back into the ball, to take hold of his wife's arm, to take her back to the house, to tear her fine toilette to pieces, to beat her, to say to her: “Now no more silk, that is all over.
“You must take to plain cotton, without trimming, and we shall dismiss the servant, and to-morrow morning you must do the household work, you shall mend my socks while I'm in my studio.” For, after all, to mend socks, do household work, wear cotton dresses, that is the life that the honest wife of a poor man ought to lead. But he remembered that Maud had said to him: “If you cannot manage to find money; I will find it.” And she would find it. She would therefore take a lover, — a rich lover! Ah! that was horrible and appalling. He knew her now. She would do as she had threatened to do, the wicked woman, he knew her now. She would do just as she had said. Therefore he must also earn big sums. Yes, he must. But how? By what means? He was only worth a place of sub-manager. He understood nothing at all of commercial business; he just knew enough to be sub-manager in a public office. Banknotes are not found wandering in the streets, and if you stroll along before Rothschild's bank you are not likely to have a chance of picking them up on the pavement! His elbows on his knees, he drove his fists into his temples, and at last, his mind on fire, his heart tortured, he began to sob despairingly, and — poor feeble manbegan to stammer, “Money! Money! Money! for Maud!
On raising his eyes, he saw before him a little writing-bureau, made of wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But why did he contemplate that piece of furniture? Without any object, without any reason, mechanically; the same as he looked at the lamp suspended from the ceiling, or the Chinese ornaments or the chimney.
He was still gazing at it, but more fixedly, and he noticed that the key, an extremely small key, was in the lock. That caused him at once pain and pleasure. The key was there. But in reality, he scarcely knew what he expected nor what he dreaded.
Something strange now occurred.
One of the folding doors of the escritoire, badly closed by a negligent hand, opened out slowly and widely, as if moved from within by an invisible power. The husband of Maud started up, gazing with eager eyes towards the opened piece of furniture.
On one of the shelves there was a pocket-book full of paper.
Brandon rushed to the writing-bureau, and opened the pocket-book with feverish hands.
It contained a mass of bank-notes: thirteen hundred or fourteen hundred pounds perhaps; enough money to buy Maud all the dresses she could wish for, enough money to ensure that she should never be false to him, that she should never abandon him! He trembled, a prey to the agonies of temptation. It came to his mind that he was alone, that nobody had seen him enter that room, that no one would see him leave it, that the robbery would not be discovered before three or four hours at least, that he would then be at home, that besides there were many people at this ball, that among so many persons it would be difficult to fix any suspicion. He thought that no one would ever suspect him, whose probity was known, and besides, it was not his fault after all. He had never thought of stealing anybody's money. It was the chiffonier, which opening, had suggested the idea to him. Why had this piece of furniture opened itself? Why was it opened, and who had pushed it open? What unknown force offered suddenly to him, a poor man, riches? The real culprit would be chance. No doubt, he still resisted, because he was honest. He could not, he would not steal! Leaning forward, he was about to put back into the pocketbook the bundle of banknotes which he was rumpling in his hands. But the music of a waltz, which he heard through the half-opened doors, made him lose his presence of mind. His wife was dancing. With whom? With somebody, of whom she thought perhaps of becoming the mistress. He shoved all the banknotes into his pocket and turned towards the door.
All at once he stopped, he had heard the sound of steps on the carpet; some one approaching. He would be detected! He cast his eyes around; there was no other issue than the door through which the approaching persons would enter. Having lost his wits, he rushed into the nearest window recess, and concealed himself behind the curtains, risking a look between the fringes.
Those who now entered were Maud and the Count of Sainte-Galette, and hardly were they in the room when she cast her arms about his neck, laughing close to his lips. He was reading one of his latest amorous compositions:
He was about to burst out, the curtains rustled. But then he began to tremble from head to foot, ready to faint.
He had the theft in his pocket! The banknotes swelled out his coat. No doubt, he could throw them away, hide them behind the hangings. But the chiffonier wide open, and the pocket-book open also and empty, that would be noticed, the Count would say: “I had money there. Where is it? Who has taken it? It is you.” And all the guests would hurry up. He would be arrested. And for every one he would be a thief, a thief.
Maud, clinging to the neck of Count Sainte-Galette, was saying to him tender words; those words which intoxicate and bring smiles to the lips. It was indeed charming to be there, both together, so near to all the world, and yet so for; to be in the midst of a ball and yet to be alone; how she loved him, loved him entirely, as she had never loved before and would never love again. And the Count kissed her hair as she spoke, laughing and lovely.
All that, Brandon could hear and could see.
“It is much nicer here than in the hot ball-room,” said Maud as she threw herself in an arm-chair.
“If I only had a glass of Champagne, I could be comfortable. But what would the waiter think if he found me here alone with you?”
“We can manage without his intervention,” said the Count as he opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a champagne knife. “A more important question is, what will your husband think if he should miss you?
“Oh, he is never likely to miss me, and if he did he would not think of looking for me here. But you might as well shut that door.”
“What a thoughtful little woman you are,” said the Count. He put down the bottle of Champagne, walked across the room, and locked the door. Then he returned, picked up the bottle again, and began to take off the wire.