sedwhen,oneThursdayevening(Thursdaywasalwaysahalf-holiday),asIwassittingallaloneinmyapartment,correctingahugepileofEnglishandLatinexercises,aservanttappedatthedoor,and,onitsbeingopened,presentedMadamePelet’scompliments,andshewouldbehappytoseemetotakemy“gouter”(amealwhichanswerstoourEnglish“tea”)withherinthedining-room.
“Plait-il?”saidI,forIthoughtImusthavemisunderstood,themessageandinvitationweresounusualthesamewordswererepeated.Iaccepted,ofcourse,andasIdescendedthestairs,Iwonderedwhatwhimhadenteredtheoldlady’sbrainhersonwasout—gonetopasstheeveningattheSalleoftheGrandeHarmonieorsomeotherclubofwhichhewasamember.JustasIlaidmyhandonthehandleofthedining-roomdoor,aqueerideaglancedacrossmymind.
“Surelyshe’snotgoingtomakelovetome,”saidI.“I’veheardofoldFrenchwomendoingoddthingsinthatlineandthegouter?Theygenerallybeginsuchaffairswitheatinganddrinking,Ibelieve.”
Therewasafearfuldismayinthissuggestionofmyexcitedimagination,andifIhadallowedmyselftimetodwelluponit,Ishouldnodoubthavecutthereandthen,rushedbacktomychamber,andboltedmyselfinbutwheneveradangerorahorrorisveiledwithuncertainty,theprimarywishofthemindistoascertainfirstthenakedtruth,reservingtheexpedientofflightforthemomentwhenitsdreadanticipationshallberealized.Iturnedthedoor-handle,andinaninstanthadcrossedthefatalthreshold,closedthedoorbehindme,andstoodinthepresenceofMadamePelet.
Graciousheavens!Thefirstviewofherseemedtoconfirmmyworstapprehensions.Thereshesat,dressedoutinalightgreenmuslingown,onherheadalacecapwithflourishingredrosesinthefrillhertablewascarefullyspreadtherewerefruit,cakes,andcoffee,withabottleofsomething—Ididnotknowwhat.Alreadythecoldsweatstartedonmybrow,alreadyIglancedbackovermyshoulderatthecloseddoor,when,tomyunspeakablerelief,myeye,wanderingmildlyinthedirectionofthestove,resteduponasecondfigure,seatedinalargefauteuilbesideit.Thiswasawoman,too,and,moreover,anoldwoman,andasfatandasrubicundasMadamePeletwasmeagreandyellowherattirewaslikewiseveryfine,andspringflowersofdiffe