My old friend, who suffers from stabbing rheumatism, is flattered and smiles at me.
He’s very thin just now, old-looking, lightweight, very tall, with a fleshless hooked nose, strongly resembling the Knight of the Doleful Countenance . . .
“Yet it seems we’ve already had the pleasure of lunching together this week.
What an overflow of affection for my old bones, Renee!”
“Exactly, I’m overflowing.
It’s nice out today, I’m in a good mood, and . . . we’re all alone!”
“Meaning what?”
”That the Big Ninny isn’t here—you’ve guessed it!”
Hamond shakes his head with its long, melancholy face:
“No question about it, you’ve got an aversion for him!”
“Not at all, Hamond, not at all!
It’s . . . it’s nothing! . . .
And, look, for several days now, I’ve been thinking of being frank with you: I absolutely can’t detect in myself even the shadow of any feeling for Dufferein-Chautel . . . except for distrust, maybe.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I don’t even have an opinion of him.”
“It would be a pleasure to offer mine.
This honorable man has no history.”
“Not enough!”
“Not enough?
That’s really provoking!
You never encourage him to tell you his story.”
“That’s all I need!
Can’t you see him, with his big hand on his big heart, saying,
‘I’m not like other men . . .’? Isn’t that what he’d say?
At such moments men always say the same thing that women do.”
Hamond stares at me with an ironic look:
“I really like you, Renee, when you lay claim to experience that you fortunately don’t possess.
‘Men do this . . . men say that . . .’ How did you get so sure of yourself?
Men!
Men!
Have you known many?”
“Just one.
But what a specimen! . . .”
“Exactly.
You don’t accuse Maxime of reminding you of Taillandy?”
“Heavens, no.
He doesn’t remind me of anything!
Not of anything, I tell you! He isn’t witty . . .”
“Men in love are always slightly foolish.
The same with me when I was in love with Jeanne . . .”
“And me, of course, when I was in love with Adolphe!
But that was conscious foolishness, almost sensual.
Do you remember when Adolphe and I were invited out to dinners and I used to put on my look of inferiority, ‘like a girl married without a dowry,’ as Margot used to say?
My husband would speechify, smile, settle everyone’s problems, shine . . . No one else was visible. If people looked at me for a moment, I think it was only to pity him.
They gave me so clearly to understand that, without him, I didn’t exist!”
“Oh, come now . . . you’re exaggerating a little . . .”
“Not a bit, Hamond!
Don’t argue!
I used to strive wholeheartedly to stay as much out of sight as possible.
I loved him so idiotically!”