(the great ginger fever of) Bring Her to the Seventh Sky (as first appeared in anonymous spam email)
He began again, as on the other evening, to clean house and establish a
methodical disorder. He slipped a cushion under the false disarray of
the armchair, then he made roaring fires to have the rooms good and warm
when she came.
But he was without impatience. That silent promise which he had
obtained, that Mme. Chantelouve would not leave him panting this night,
moderated him. Now that his uncertainty was at an end, he no longer
vibrated with the almost painful acuity which hitherto her malignant
delays had provoked. He soothed himself by poking the fire. His mind was
still full of her, but plethoric, content. When his thoughts stirred at
all it was, at the very most, to revolve the question, “How shall I go
about it, when the time comes, so as not to be ridiculous?” This
question, which had so harassed him the other night, left him troubled
but inert. He did not try to solve it, but decided to leave everything
to chance, since the best planned strategy was almost always abortive.
Then he revolted against himself, accused himself of stagnation, and
walked up and down to shake himself out of a torpor which might have
been attributed to the hot fire. Well, well, was it because he had had
to wait so long that his desires had left him, or at least quit
bothering him—no, they had not, why, he was yearning now for the moment
when he might crush that woman! He thought he had the explanation of his
lack of enthusiasm in the stage fright inseparable from any beginning.
“It will not be really exquisite tonight until after the newness wears
off and the grotesque with it. After I know her I shall be able to
consort with her again without feeling solicitous about her and
conscious of myself. I wish we were on that happy basis now.”
The cat, sitting on the table, cocked up its ears, gazed at the door
with its black eyes, and fled. The bell rang and Durtal went to let her
in.
Her costume pleased him. He took off her furs. Her skirt was of a plum
colour so dark that it was almost black, the material thick and supple,
outlining her figure, squeezing her arms, making an hourglass of her
waist, accentuating the curve of her hips and the bulge of her corset.
“You are charming,” he said, kissing her wrists, and he was pleased to
find that his lips had accelerated her pulse. She did not speak, could
hardly breathe. She was agitated and very pale.
He sat down facing her. She looked at him with her mysterious, half
sleepy eyes. He felt that he was falling in love all over again. He
forgot his reasonings and his fears, and took acute pleasure in
penetrating the mystery of these eyes and studying the vague smile of
this dolorous mouth.
He enlaced her fingers in his, and for the first time, in a low voice,
he called her Hyacinthe.
She listened, her breast heaving, her hands in a fever. Then in a
supplicating voice, “I implore you,” she said, “let us have none of
that. Only desire is good. Oh, I am rational, I mean what I say. I
thought it all out on the way here. I left him very sad tonight. If you
knew how I feel—I went to church today and was afraid and hid myself
when I saw my confessor—”
These plaints he had heard before, and he said to himself, “You may sing
whatever tune you want to, but you shall dance tonight.” Aloud he
answered in monosyllables as he continued to take possession of her.
He rose, thinking she would do the same, or that if she remained seated
he could better reach her lips by bending over her.
“Your lips, your lips—the kiss you gave me last night—” he murmured,
as his face came close to hers. She put up her lips and stood, and they
embraced, but as his hands went seeking she recoiled.
“Think how ridiculous it all is,” she said in a low voice, “to undress,
put on night clothes—and that silly scene, getting into bed!”
He avoided declaring, but attempted, by an embrace which bent her over
backward, to make her understand that she could spare herself those
embarrassments. Tacitly, in his own turn, feeling her body stiffen under
his fingers, he understood that she absolutely would not give herself in
the room here, in front of the fire.
“Oh well,” she said, disengaging herself, “if you will have it!”
He made way to allow her to go into the other room, and seeing that she
desired to be alone he drew the porti?re.
Sitting before the fire he reflected. Perhaps he ought to have pulled
down the bed covers, and not left her the task, but without doubt the
action would have been too direct, too obvious a hint. Ah! and that
water heater! He took it and, keeping away from the bedroom door, went
to the bathroom, placed the heater on the toilet table, and then,
swiftly, he set out the rice powder box, the perfumes, the combs, and,
returning into his study, he listened.
She was making as little noise as possible, walking on tiptoe as if in
the presence of the dead. She blew out the candles, doubtless wishing no
more light than the rosy glow of the hearth.
