The young man began to swim, and seizing the floating stick in his mouth, like a dog, he brought it ashore, and then climbing the bank he kneeled on one knee to present it.
Yvette took it."You are handsome," said she, and with a friendly stroke, she caressed his hair.
A stout woman indignantly exclaimed: "Are such things possible!"Another woman said: "Can people amuse themselves like that!"A man remarked: "I would not take a plunge for that sort of a girl."She again took Belvigne's arm, exclaiming in his face: "You are a goose, my friend; you don't know what you missed."They now returned.She cast vexed looks on the passers-by."How stupid all these people seem," she said.Then raising her eyes to the countenance of her companion, she added: "You, too, like all the rest."M.de Belvigne bowed.Turning around she saw that the Prince and the Chevalier had disappeared.Servigny, dejected and dripping, ceased playing on the trumpet, and walked with a gloomy air at the side of the two wearied young men, who also had stopped the drum playing.
She began to laugh dryly, saying:
"You seem to have had enough; nevertheless, that is what you call having a good time, isn't it? You came for that; I have given you your money's worth."Then she walked on, saying nothing further; and suddenly Belvigne perceived that she was weeping.Astounded, he inquired:
"What is the matter?"
She murmured: "Let me alone, it does not concern you."But he insisted, like a fool: "Oh, Mademoiselle, come, what is the matter, has anyone annoyed you?"She repeated impatiently: "Will you keep still?"Then suddenly, no longer able to resist the despairing sorrow which drowned her heart, she began to sob so violently, that she could no longer walk.She covered her face with her hands, panting for breath, choked by the violence of her despair.
Belvigne stood still at her side, quite bewildered, repeating: "Idon't understand this at all."
But Servigny brusquely came forward: "Let us go home, Mam'zelle, so that people may not see you weeping in the street.Why do you perpetrate follies like that when they only make you sad?"And taking her arm he drew her forward.But as soon as they reached the iron gate of the villa she began to run, crossed the garden, and went upstairs, and shut herself in her room.She did not appear again until the dinner hour, very pale and serious.Servigny had bought from a country storekeeper a workingman's costume, with velvet pantaloons, a flowered waistcoat and a blouse, and he adopted the local dialect.Yvette was in a hurry for them to finish, feeling her courage ebbing.As soon as the coffee was served she went to her room again.
She heard the merry voices beneath her window.The Chevalier was making equivocal jokes, foreign witticisms, vulgar and clumsy.She listened, in despair.Servigny, just a bit tipsy, was imitating the common workingman, calling the Marquise "the Missus." And all of a sudden he said to Saval: "Well, Boss?" That caused a general laugh.
Then Yvette decided.She first took a sheet of paper and wrote:
"Bougival, Sunday, nine o'clock in the evening.
"I die so that I may not become a kept woman.
"YVETTE."
Then in a postscript:
"Adieu, my dear mother, pardon."
She sealed the envelope, and addressed it to the Marquise Obardi.
Then she rolled her long chair near the window, drew a little table within reach of her hand, and placed upon it the big bottle of chloroform beside a handful of wadding.
A great rose-tree covered with flowers, climbing as high as her window, exhaled in the night a soft and gentle perfume, in light breaths; and she stood for a moment enjoying it.The moon, in its first quarter, was floating in the dark sky, a little ragged at the left, and veiled at times by slight mists.
Yvette thought: "I am going to die!" And her heart, swollen with sobs, nearly bursting, almost suffocated her.She felt in her a need of asking mercy from some one, of being saved, of being loved.
The voice of Servigny aroused her.He was telling an improper story, which was constantly interrupted by bursts of laughter.The Marquise herself laughed louder than the others.
"There is nobody like him for telling that sort of thing," she said, laughing.
Yvette took the bottle, uncorked it, and poured a little of the liquid on the cotton.A strong, sweet, strange odor arose; and as she brought the piece of cotton to her lips, the fumes entered her throat and made her cough.
Then shutting her mouth, she began to inhale it.She took in long breaths of this deadly vapor, closing her eyes, and forcing herself to stifle in her mind all thoughts, so that she might not reflect, that she might know nothing more.
It seemed to her at first that her chest was growing larger, was expanding, and that her soul, recently heavy and burdened with grief, was becoming light, light, as if the weight which overwhelmed her was lifted, wafted away.Something lively and agreeable penetrated even to the extremities of her limbs, even to the tips of her toes and fingers and entered her flesh, a sort of dreamy intoxication, of soft fever.She saw that the cotton was dry, and she was astonished that she was not already dead.Her senses seemed more acute, more subtle, more alert.She heard the lowest whisper on the terrace.Prince Kravalow was telling how he had killed an Austrian general in a duel.
Then, further off, in the fields, she heard the noise of the night, the occasional barkings of a dog, the short cry of the frogs, the almost imperceptible rustling of the leaves.
She took the bottle again, and saturated once more the little piece of wadding; then she began to breathe in the fumes again.For a few moments she felt nothing; then that soft and soothing feeling of comfort which she had experienced before enveloped her.
Twice she poured more chloroform upon the cotton, eager now for that physical and mental sensation, that dreamy torpor, which bewildered her soul.
It seemed to her that she had no more bones, flesh, legs, or arms.
