Maxime passively waited for an occasion that would allow him to get rid of this troublesome mistress. He said again that they had done something foolish. Although their camaraderie had initially added a novel pleasure to their amours, it now prevented him from breaking off the relationship, as he certainly would have done with another woman. He simply wouldn’t have returned: that was his way of ending his affairs, so as to avoid all effort and any possibility of a quarrel. But he felt incapable of any grand gesture and was indeed still glad to abandon himself to Renée’s caresses. She was motherly, she paid his way, she rescued him from difficulty when a creditor lost patience with him. The idea of Louise came back to him, the idea of the million-franc dowry, and this made him think, even as Renée showered him with kisses, “that all this is fine and dandy, but it isn’t serious, and it’s high time to end it.”

One night, Maxime went to play cards at the home of a lady where the game often continued until dawn, and he was wiped out so quickly that he fell prey to the kind of silent rage that often afflicts gamblers whose pockets are empty. He would have given anything in the world for a few more louis to lay on the table. He took his hat, and with the mechanical step of a man driven by an unalterable idea, he went to the Parc Monceau, opened the side gate, and found himself in the conservatory. It was past midnight. Renée had forbidden him to come that night. Now, when she shut her door to him, she no longer even tried to fob him off with an explanation, and he could think of nothing but taking advantage of his day off. He didn’t clearly remember the young woman’s warning to stay away until he was standing in front of the glass door to the small salon, which he found locked. On nights when he was expected, Renée normally left the door unlatched.

“Bah!” he thought on seeing a light in her dressing room. “I’ll whistle, and she’ll come down. I won’t disturb her. If she has a few louis, I’ll be off immediately.”

And he whistled softly. He often signaled his arrival that way. On this night, however, he repeated his whistle several times to no avail. He persisted, whistling still more loudly, unwilling to give up his idea of an instant loan. At last he saw the door open with the utmost precaution; until then he hadn’t heard the slightest noise. Renée emerged into the obscurity of the conservatory, her hair undone, barely dressed, as if she had been on the point of going to bed. Her feet were bare. She pushed him toward one of the arbors, proceeding down the stairs and along one of the sandy walkways, apparently undeterred by the cold or the roughness underfoot.

“It’s stupid to whistle that loudly,” she whispered, holding back her anger. “I told you not to come. What do you want from me?”

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Maxime, taken aback by this welcome. “I’ll tell you there. You’ll catch cold.”

He went to take a step, but she held him back, and he saw then that she was dreadfully pale. An unspoken terror curved her spine. Her most intimate garments, her laciest underthings, were draped over her shivering flesh like a tragic heroine’s rags.

He examined her with growing astonishment.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?”

Instinctively, he looked up and saw through the glass of the conservatory the window of the dressing room in which he had previously glimpsed a light.

“But there’s a man in your apartment,” he said suddenly.

“No, no, there isn’t,” she stammered in a pleading voice, ceding to panic.

“Now see here, my dear, I can see his shadow.”

They stood there for an instant face-to-face, not knowing what to say. Renée’s teeth were chattering in terror, and she felt as though buckets of ice water were being poured over her bare feet. Maxime felt more irritated than he would have expected, yet he remained detached enough to reflect on the situation, to tell himself that the moment was ripe to break off the relationship.

“You’re not going to make me believe that it’s Céleste wearing a topcoat,” he went on. “If the conservatory windows weren’t so thick, I might even recognize the gentleman.”

She pushed him farther into the darkness of the foliage, clasping her hands and pleading with growing terror, “I beg you, Maxime . . .”

But all the young man’s instincts for needling were aroused, ferocious instincts in search of vengeance. He was too fragile to find relief in anger. Spite pinched his lips, and rather than hit her, which had been his initial impulse, he took a sharper tone and went on. “You should have told me, I wouldn’t have disturbed you. . . . These things happen all the time. People stop loving each other. I had almost had my fill myself. . . . Don’t be impatient now. I’ll let you go back up, but not until you’ve told me the gentleman’s name.”

“Never! Never!” the young woman whispered, choking back tears.

“I have no intention of challenging him to a duel. I just want to know. . . . The name, quick, tell me the name, and I’ll go.”

He had seized her by the wrists and was staring at her, laughing wickedly. She struggled desperately, unwilling to open her mouth lest the name she was being asked to reveal somehow escape her lips.

“If we go on this way, we’re going to make noise, which won’t help matters. What are you afraid of? Aren’t we good friends? . . . I want to know who’s taking my place. I’m entitled to that. . . . Wait, I’ll help you. It’s M. de Mussy, whose suffering touched you.”

She did not answer but bowed her head at being questioned in such a manner.

“It’s not M. de Mussy? . . . The duc de Rozan, perhaps? No, not him either? . . . Perhaps the comte de Chibray? Wrong again?”

He stopped and searched his mind.

“Damned if I can think of anyone else. . . . It’s not my father, after what you told me.”

Renée jumped as if seared with a hot poker and in a muffled voice said, “No, you know quite well that he doesn’t come anymore. I wouldn’t allow it. It would be vile.”

“Who then?”

And he squeezed her wrists even tighter. The poor woman struggled a while longer.

“Oh, Maxime, if only you knew! . . . But I can’t tell you.”

Then, vanquished, overwhelmed, staring in terror at the illuminated window, in a voice barely above a whisper, she stammered, “It’s M. de Saffré.”

Maxime, until then amused by his cruel game, turned quite livid at this confession, which he had insisted on having. He was vexed that the man’s name should have caused him such unexpected pain. Violently he pushed Renée away, then moved close to her, right in her face, and through clenched teeth said, “You know what you are? You’re a—”

He pronounced the word. He turned to leave but she ran after him, sobbing, taking him in her arms, whispering tender words, begging forgiveness, swearing that she still adored him and would explain everything the next day. But he pulled away and slammed the door of the conservatory, saying, “No, it’s over. I’ve had it,” on his way out.

Crushed, she watched him cross the garden. The trees in the conservatory seemed to whirl around. Then, slowly, she dragged her bare feet down the sandy path and climbed back up the porch stairs. The cold made her skin look like marble, and her lacy negligee being in disarray only added to her tragic appearance. Upstairs, where her husband was waiting, she responded to his questions by saying that she thought she’d remembered where she’d dropped a small notebook that had been missing since morning. No sooner was she in bed than she felt a deep sense of despair at the thought that she should have told Maxime that his father, having accompanied her home, had followed her into her bedroom to discuss some question of money with her.

The next day, Saccard decided to force the Charonne business to a conclusion. His wife was now his. He had just held her in his hands and felt her softness, her inertness—an object that has ceased to resist. What is more, the route of the boulevard du Prince-Eugène was about to be announced, and it was essential that Renée be stripped of her title before word of the upcoming expropriation leaked out. Throughout this business, Saccard proceeded with an artist’s love of his work. He watched his plan ripen with rapt devotion and set traps with the cunning of a hunter who prides himself on his sporting approach to his prey. With him there was a simple satisfaction in playing the game well, a particular pleasure in ill-gotten gains. If he could have the land for a crust of bread, he would gladly give his wife jewels worth a hundred thousand francs in the joy of triumph. The simplest operations grew complex, turned into dark dramas, whenever he became involved. Passion took hold of him, and he would have beaten his own father to lay hands on a hundred sous. And afterwards he would have strewn the gold about with royal largesse.