“And I find you are not serious enough. You must not think I only want your body. I am very fond of you; fonder than you think. I can have lots of women's bodies. I want something more, and that is why I am here. But I shall not get what I desire at Sonis. Here I find only falsity, trickery, and little villainies. And you are such an awful liar, too!”
“I'll not have you call me a liar. I am not a liar!”
I begged her pardon ironically and asked her how she had got on with her lovers during the last three months.
“I have no lovers,” she answered snappishly, “I have had a letter from Gaston and that's all.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh! A lot of filth,” she replied contemptuously.
“Do you mean to tell me that you have been twelve weeks without spending?”
There was no answer.
“l really thought you had somebody who had cut me out. Let me see, there's the lieutenant. And you have been all this time without a man's member to play with?”
“No, I haven't!” She was getting angry now.
“How many have you had?”
“Fifteen!” she exclaimed, in a nervous, staccato manner. The words came through her teeth, when she was in a passion, as if clicking automatically from a talking machine.
“A good many! And I had hoped to see you married shortly. I should have liked to have left you with a good husband.”
“Who would have me without a dowry? And then we never see anybody down here. You are the only person we invite. But I have told you I could not play a part, or imitate with a man the love I did not feel.”
“You want a man who you could love as you do your Papa. Oh! Not me-Mr. Arvel, I mean.” I paused for a reply. None came. “You do love him. How beautifully you made him that suit of flannel pajamas. Did you really cut it out yourself?”
“Of course I did.”
“You are very clever. You can make dresses, hats, and cook. I noticed how well the trousers were made. They were really trousers and not loose pajamas. Did you take the measure of the trousers yourself?” She was silent. “How nice! I wish you would do that for me. I should like to feel your fingers fumbling with the tape between my legs.”
“You are always the same; quite obscene.”
“True, I am an obscene devil. I am a sadistic wretch. A disciple of the Marquis de Sade, whose masterpiece I am going to lend you to read. I have brought you the first volume. I glory in my shame, because women love us; we are dirty beasts, expert in every vile caress. We leave aside all mawkish sentiments. No birds, and flowers, and soft music with us. Am I not right, my darling daughter? Answer me, my child!”
“I'll not have you call me your daughter, nor your child. I do not like those terms of affection now. And I will not be your slave either. All that is over. I won't call you Papa any more!”
She said this rapidly and with genuine accents of rage. I drew my own inference from this strange outburst. Of late Papa had been using these words to her, and in my mouth they jarred on her nerves.
A strange thrill stirred me. I had frequently told her to seduce Arvel, so as to be mistress of the house, and I felt sure the thing was always in the mind of the stepfather. She had laughed at my vile imagination, as she called it. Had I been the indirect means of this guilty understanding? Had I driven her into his arms, only to lose her myself through my own bad advice? If so, I deserved my fate.
But no, the true reason why I had often persuaded her to give way to him, was because I always saw that it was bound to happen, even if the act had not been really consummated during the past winter; during the long evenings beneath the lamp, when Mamma had gone up to bed early, soon after dinner, leaving Pa and Lilian alone together. To sum up: I should think he had always had his hands under her petticoats, more or less, from childhood, and her final fall would be insensible.
“I'll be your mistress, but not your slave, nor your daughter,” she continued.
“Whatever you like, Lilian, as long as you tell me that you love me. You do love me, do you not?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then say so. You have never said to me: `I love you!'“
“l love you! I love you! I love you!” She said this with the same nervous clenching of the teeth. It was an effort for her, under a feeling of annoyance, to be forced to utter these words which she did not feel.
Decidedly, she did not care for me, and she started off once more to talk about her millinery business and how she wished to open in Paris, Each time I met her and heard her speak, I noticed more and more the emptiness of her heart. I allowed her to continue her discourse unchecked, and she always returned to a series of vague complaints, when she would make out that we could be much happier and see each other more often, if I could help her by finding a small capital. The more she asked, the more quiet and calm I became. I pointed out the folly of her projects. I also added that I had no money and, without beating about the bush, informed her that I was heavily in debt as well.
“Really now? You have debts? Dear me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “How unlucky we both are! And I am not at all well. Papa has made me some quinine wine, as I have been ordered it.”
I asked her how he did it. She informed me that he put sulfate of quinine in sherry. I ventured to disagree with this formula, and told her that I thought the bark properly macerated in old Malaga would be better and she asked me to make some for her. I promised I would. She thanked me, and we talked about books. She alluded to Flossie which I had lent her in the summer, and believed it was incredible that a girl of fifteen, such as Flossie was, should have experienced pleasure at her age, in using her maiden mouth to quench men's lusts. And an English girl too! That was quite impossible.
I did not dispute, although I knew from experience that directly the crisis of puberty is past, a girl is ready for anything, if of warm temperament.
I asked her if Raoul was much cut up about breaking off his engagement. She answered in the negative and told me that he had written to her, and had finished up his letter by saying “I kiss your sweet lips!”
“I sent it to Papa to let him see what Raoul had written to me,” Lilian went on to say, “and told him not to let Mamma know. And of course, the first thing he did, was to translate this compliment to her and we have both got into an awful row. Papa is vexed with Raoul, and Ma is in a temper with me.”
Now I could see more than ever why Papa was jealous of his stepson. Always shadowy signs of incest with Lilian; and half-truths!
I verified the story of the purse with a fiver in it, given by Papa. I had greatly changed my estimate of Lilian's veracity. I now did not believe one single word she might say.
I pressed her to come to me in Paris, She swore she could not get out. Granny had orders to telegraph to Nice, if she absented herself without a plausible excuse! This was an awful lie. She did not wish to get into bed with me. Had she wanted me, she would have arranged to meet me somewhere or somehow. Or more likely she was expecting me to offer her money. I did not push the point. What was the use? I had no money to spare, and if I had I do not think I should have given it. Any fool can buy women.
Without me asking her, she told me that it was not possible to get me into the house at night, as Granny and she slept in two rooms, with the doors open, so as to let the heat of the stove into both, and she would try and arrange something else for me, if she could. “But there is the dining-room,” I asked. “The stove is perpetually alight in it?”
By this time we had reached the house and stood beneath a gas-lamp in front of the gate. Lilian put on an air of innocent candor, and said slowly, like a child repeating something learnt by heart:
“What can we do in a dining-room?”
“Nothing,” I answered, roughly.
My face must have betrayed me. In my disgust, I forgot myself, and lost all control over my features. My mask dropped off. She kissed me warmly.