before walking up the three flights to her apartment and tapping gently on her door. This was their unspoken agreement: he used his key at the street door but always knocked at her apartment door to warn her of his arrival.
Today, there was no answer. He waited a minute, just in case he had caught her at her toilette. He did not keep his mistress in such style that she could afford a lady’s maid to pin up her hair or tighten her corsets, and one could hardly have called her lodging large, although both of its rooms were generously proportioned. There was an alcove off themain room where she could prepare simple meals, and a bathtub behind a curtain in the bedroom; water had to be fetched from the pump on the landing and heated on the stove, a task performed by the daily maid employed by the concierge who lived on the ground floor. In these small quarters, a knock did not go unheard. Dubon knocked again. He now thought he heard a faint rustling from within, like the swishing sound Madeleine’s skirts made as she crossed a room, but when his third knock went unanswered, he supposed he had only imagined it, gave up, and retreated down the stairs.
He emerged on the street in what was, for such an even-tempered man, a sullen mood, more disappointed than he would have been if a scheduled appointment with his mistress had been canceled. The world was not bending itself to his will this morning, and for Dubon, a lawyer who spared himself the drama of the courtroom and a man who had achieved what he considered a happily balanced domestic life, this gave rise to an uncomfortable feeling of impotence.
Turning onto the boulevard, he straightened himself and breathed in the fresh air. The wide pavements seemed full of well-dressed ladies enjoying the first fine spring day. Admiring them, Dubon felt his good humor return and, reviewing the morning’s failed business, he reminded himself that, on the one hand, he would see Madeleine that afternoon and that, on the other, he was not without his own contacts in the press.
As he stepped into the office, he ignored the sheaf of messages that Lebrun, who was now back at his post, handed him. Instead he sat down to write a letter, which he instructed the clerk to post immediately while he went around the corner for his tripe.
The reply came promptly by midafternoon: his old school friend and former comrade from the days of the Commune, the sports journalist Morel, was only too happy to arrange a meeting with
Le Soleil
’s military correspondent but would be at Longchamp covering the races the rest of the week. If Dubon was free that very evening, Morel invited him to the Bistro des Italiens after six, when he would introduce him to his colleagues who regularly gathered there. Dubon sighed. Events were conspiring to keep him from Madeleine these days. No, really, it would not do. This was not his case, after all. He responded sayingthat evening was unfortunately impossible, but wondering if they could not invite the military correspondent to the races sometime in the next few days? Dubon was not a gambling man, but he might enjoy a day at Longchamp. He could always, he thought as he remembered again the fate of the unfortunate young Fiteau, set himself a strict budget.
He returned to his neglected files, and at 4:50 left the office promptly.
Letting himself into Madeleine’s building a few minutes later, he inhaled appreciatively as he caught the scent of a particularly fragrant cigar smoke lingering in the lobby, and climbed the stairs with enthusiasm. This time, his knock was answered promptly.
FIVE
“I am in need, Lebrun, of a box of chocolates.”
The next day, Dubon was giving a few quick instructions before he left the office for lunch. Roberge’s lugubrious presence was still fresh enough in his imagination that he felt a little wave of comfort and relief every time Lebrun’s face appeared at the office door.
“The five-hundred-gram with the gold bow?” Lebrun
Today, there was no answer. He waited a minute, just in case he had caught her at her toilette. He did not keep his mistress in such style that she could afford a lady’s maid to pin up her hair or tighten her corsets, and one could hardly have called her lodging large, although both of its rooms were generously proportioned. There was an alcove off themain room where she could prepare simple meals, and a bathtub behind a curtain in the bedroom; water had to be fetched from the pump on the landing and heated on the stove, a task performed by the daily maid employed by the concierge who lived on the ground floor. In these small quarters, a knock did not go unheard. Dubon knocked again. He now thought he heard a faint rustling from within, like the swishing sound Madeleine’s skirts made as she crossed a room, but when his third knock went unanswered, he supposed he had only imagined it, gave up, and retreated down the stairs.
He emerged on the street in what was, for such an even-tempered man, a sullen mood, more disappointed than he would have been if a scheduled appointment with his mistress had been canceled. The world was not bending itself to his will this morning, and for Dubon, a lawyer who spared himself the drama of the courtroom and a man who had achieved what he considered a happily balanced domestic life, this gave rise to an uncomfortable feeling of impotence.
Turning onto the boulevard, he straightened himself and breathed in the fresh air. The wide pavements seemed full of well-dressed ladies enjoying the first fine spring day. Admiring them, Dubon felt his good humor return and, reviewing the morning’s failed business, he reminded himself that, on the one hand, he would see Madeleine that afternoon and that, on the other, he was not without his own contacts in the press.
As he stepped into the office, he ignored the sheaf of messages that Lebrun, who was now back at his post, handed him. Instead he sat down to write a letter, which he instructed the clerk to post immediately while he went around the corner for his tripe.
The reply came promptly by midafternoon: his old school friend and former comrade from the days of the Commune, the sports journalist Morel, was only too happy to arrange a meeting with
Le Soleil
’s military correspondent but would be at Longchamp covering the races the rest of the week. If Dubon was free that very evening, Morel invited him to the Bistro des Italiens after six, when he would introduce him to his colleagues who regularly gathered there. Dubon sighed. Events were conspiring to keep him from Madeleine these days. No, really, it would not do. This was not his case, after all. He responded sayingthat evening was unfortunately impossible, but wondering if they could not invite the military correspondent to the races sometime in the next few days? Dubon was not a gambling man, but he might enjoy a day at Longchamp. He could always, he thought as he remembered again the fate of the unfortunate young Fiteau, set himself a strict budget.
He returned to his neglected files, and at 4:50 left the office promptly.
Letting himself into Madeleine’s building a few minutes later, he inhaled appreciatively as he caught the scent of a particularly fragrant cigar smoke lingering in the lobby, and climbed the stairs with enthusiasm. This time, his knock was answered promptly.
FIVE
“I am in need, Lebrun, of a box of chocolates.”
The next day, Dubon was giving a few quick instructions before he left the office for lunch. Roberge’s lugubrious presence was still fresh enough in his imagination that he felt a little wave of comfort and relief every time Lebrun’s face appeared at the office door.
“The five-hundred-gram with the gold bow?” Lebrun
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