When spring came, Renée remembered her elegy of old. She insisted that Maxime accompany her into the Parc Monceau at night and stroll with her by moonlight. They went to the grotto and sat on the grass in front of the colonnade. But when she reminded him of her desire to row out on the little lake, they noticed that the boat that could be seen from the house moored alongside one of the paths had no oars. Apparently they were put away at night. This was a disappointment. The darkness of the park made the lovers nervous in any case. They would have preferred a Venetian festival with red balloons and an orchestra. They were more comfortable in daylight, in the afternoon, and they often stood at one of the windows of the house to watch the carriages round the pleasant curve of the main carriageway. They liked this charming section of new Paris, this lovely and clean patch of nature with its velvety lawns punctuated by beds of flowers and carefully selected shrubs and lined with splendid white roses. Carriages here were as thick as on the boulevards, and strolling ladies dragged their skirts along the ground as softly as if they had never left their carpeted salons. Peering through the foliage, the lovers criticized the women’s outfits, pointed out their carriages, and with genuine delight savored the soft colors of this huge garden. A section of gilded fence shone between two trees, a line of ducks glided along the lake, and the little Renaissance bridge with its fresh coat of white paint stood out amid the greenery, while mothers seated in yellow chairs on either side of the main path became so absorbed in conversation that they forgot about the little boys and girls precociously making eyes at one another.

The lovers were in love with the new Paris. They often dashed about the city by carriage, detouring down certain boulevards for which they felt a special affection. They took delight in the imposing houses with big carved doors and innumerable balconies emblazoned with names, signs, and company insignia in big gold letters. As their coupé sped along, they fondly gazed out upon the gray strips of sidewalk, broad and interminable, with their benches, colorful columns, and skinny trees. The bright gap stretching all the way to the horizon, narrowing as it went and opening out onto a patch of empty blue sky; the uninterrupted double row of big stores with clerks smiling at their customers; the bustling streams of pedestrians—all this filled them little by little with a sense of absolute and total satisfaction, a feeling of perfection as they viewed the life of the street. They even loved the jets from the watering nozzles that spewed white mist ahead of their horses and then fell in a fine shower beneath the wheels of their coupé, darkening the ground and raising a thin cloud of dust. They were constantly on the move, and to them it seemed as though their carriage rolled on carpet along a straight and endless roadway that had been built expressly to allow them to avoid the dark side streets. Each boulevard became but another corridor of their house. The sun bathed the façades of the new buildings in joy, illuminating windows, warming the awnings of shops and cafés, and heating the asphalt beneath the feet of pedestrians rushing from one place to the next. And when they returned home, their heads spinning from the noisy spectacle of those interminable bazaars, they took delight in the Parc Monceau, which was like a floral strip essential for defining the edge of the new Paris and displaying its riches in those first warm days of spring.

When fashion absolutely forced them to leave Paris, they went to the seaside, but they went reluctantly, always longing for the sidewalks of the boulevards as they lay on the beaches of the Atlantic. At the shore, even love grew bored. For their love was a hothouse flower that needed the big gray-and-pink bed, the naked flesh of the dressing room, and the golden dawn of the small salon. When they sat alone in the evening facing the sea, they found that they had nothing to say to each other. Renée tried to sing songs she’d learned at the Théâtre des Variétés while accompanying herself on an old piano that stood on its last legs in a corner of her hotel room, but the instrument, damp from the sea breeze, had the melancholy voice of the tides. La Belle Hélène sounded lugubrious and fantastic when played on it. To console herself, the young woman stunned the beach with her prodigious costumes. Her whole gang was there, yawning, waiting for winter, and desperately searching for bathing suits that wouldn’t make them look too ugly. Renée had no luck at all persuading Maxime to go swimming. He was deathly afraid of the water, turned pale when the waves lapped at his boots, and wouldn’t go near the edge of a cliff for anything in the world. He kept well away from all tidal pools and made long detours to avoid any place where the coast was at all steep.

Saccard came out two or three times to see “the children.” He was overwhelmed by worry, he said. It was only in October, when all three were together again in Paris, that he gave serious consideration to the idea of a closer relationship with his wife. The Charonne affair was almost ripe. His plan was clear and ruthless. He intended to trap Renée in the sort of game he might play with a prostitute. She needed ever greater sums of cash, yet pride prevented her from asking her husband to supply the money unless she was at the end of her tether. Saccard vowed to take advantage of her next request by gallantly offering his assent and then using the joy occasioned by the repayment of some huge debt to resume relations long since severed.

Terrible financial difficulties awaited Renée and Maxime in Paris. Several of the notes payable to Larsonneau had come due, but since Saccard of course left them lying untouched at the bailiff ’s office, Renée didn’t worry much about them. She was a good deal more terrified of her debt to Worms, which had now risen to nearly 200,000 francs. The tailor was demanding partial payment, in lieu of which he threatened to cut off her credit. She shuddered at the thought of the scandal that a lawsuit would cause and above all at the idea of a to-do with the illustrious couturier. She also needed pocket money. She and Maxime would die of boredom if they didn’t have several louis to spend every day. The dear child was broke now that his forays into his father’s cabinets were coming up empty. His fidelity and exemplary behavior over the past seven or eight months had had a great deal to do with the emptiness of his wallet. He didn’t always have twenty francs to invite a trollop to supper, so he philosophically returned home. On each of their escapades Renée opened her purse so that he could pay in the restaurants, dance halls, and burlesque houses they visited. She still treated him maternally and even handled money herself, with the tips of her gloved fingers, at the pastry shop where they stopped nearly every afternoon to eat little oyster pâtés. Many mornings he found louis in his jacket that he didn’t know were there, money she had put there as a mother to make sure her boy didn’t go off to school with empty pockets. And now this delightful life of tasty treats, gratified whims, and facile pleasures was to end! But that was not their greatest worry. Sylvia’s jeweler, to whom Maxime owed 10,000 francs, was angry and made dark allusions to Clichy—the debtor’s prison. The notes he held, long since overdue, had accumulated so many penalties that the young man’s debt had increased by another three or four thousand francs. Saccard declared flatly that he could do nothing. His son in prison would garner him a certain notoriety, and when he bailed the boy out, the news of his paternal generosity would spread far and wide. Renée was in despair. When she envisioned her dear child in prison, she imagined him in a dungeon lying on a bed of damp straw. One night she seriously proposed that they stop going out, that they remain shut up at home out of everyone’s sight and beyond the reach of the law’s minions. And she swore that she would find the money. She never mentioned the reason for the debt or the name of Sylvia, who recorded her amours on the mirrors of private rooms in restaurants. She needed 50,000 francs: 15,000 for Maxime, 30,000 for Worms, and 5,000 for pocket money. That would buy them two solid weeks of happiness. She set to work.