The Usual Thing

FRÉDÉRIC BOUTET

Wherein an Ambitious Wife Who Loved Luxurious Living Finds Herself in a Perplexing Dilemma

HAVING passed her fiftieth year, and having long since abandoned all personal pretensions to love, Mme. Lacombe, a childless widow with a comfortable income, had only one aim in life, and this was meddling with the love affairs of others. Her one passion, however, was all-embracing. She liked to make and unmake marriages, to advise young women and to offer the benefits of her experience to her vast circle of acquaintances.

One morning, while she was painting her cheeks, and generally repairing her ravaged features, the maid announced Mme. Valier. "Ask her to come into the bedroom."

In spite of her corpulence, Mme. Lacombe rushed nimbly forward to meet her visitor— a dark-haired young woman with a candid, doll-like face.

"It's very nice to see you so early in the morning, my child."

"Dear Mme. Lacombe, I know that I'm being presumptuous, but I've come to ask your advice. I come from the provinces you know..."

The older woman's face shone.

"My dear Marcelle, you have come to the right person. Just what is your difficulty?"

"WELL, it's really a very simple matter, but so much depends on it. You know that Maurice, my husband—"

"Who is only too lucky to have such an adorable wife."

"—is chief clerk in the Renoir factory. He used to be in charge of a branch office in the Southwest, and that's how we came to marry. Just now, he earns a very good salary, but with the present cost of living. . . ."

"It's nearly impossible to make two ends meet, and you can't afford the gowns and furs you deserve to have. Don't blush. Beauty has its own obligations."

"Well, anyhow, the general manager has resigned, and his place will have to be filled by someone. Maurice really deserves it. But he has two rivals, you understand, and their claims are almost as good as his. The poor fellow is so worried he can hardly sleep. Just think: his salary would be nearly doubled; we should live in comfort. ... I'd give anything in the world if he could be general manager. But he doesn't know how to put himself forward. I'm sure he'll do nothing at all. . . . Isn't there some way for me to help poor Maurice? Of course, I shouldn't like him to hear about it; he'd only think I was meddling. But tell me, what steps should I take? ... You know his employer, M. Etienne Renoir. . .

The older woman had listened in silence. At the moment she was scrutinizing her guest.

"A mere recommendation would have little if any effect," she said at last. "No, something else is needed, my dear Marcelle— something decisive."

She paused for a moment, then said in a solemn voice:

"My child, the success of your husband's future depends on you and on you alone."

Marcelle listened, full of hope and pride. The other continued:

"Etienne Renoir is still a young man. He is very attractive to women; I know that he has had many love affairs. And you, my child . . . well, you dress much too simply and your manners are still somewhat provincial, but nevertheless you are one of the prettiest women in Paris. And so. ... You understand me, don't you?"

"N-no," stammered Marcelle, turning purple.

"COME, come, you understand perfectly. It's quite usual. . . . Please don't protest, my dear child. You're sophisticated enough so that I needn't beat around the bush. You asked for my advice, and I'm giving it frankly. The end justifies the means. ..."

"But I couldn't deceive my husband . . . not for mercenary reasons, with a man I've never even met. . . . Oh, you don't know me!"

Mme. Lacombe looked her in the face.

"You needn't think, my child, that you'd be doing anything extraordinary. Don't you remember my introducing you to the beautiful Mme. Hutier? Well, how does it come that her husband has such a good position? And wasn't M. Le Maillard promoted over the heads of a dozen rivals merely because little Mme. Le Maillard had been the mistress of Judge Bervanche for the last ten years? And what about Mme. Eluard? . . . Really, dear child, it hurts me to think of you—so pretty, and so badly dressed, and married to a good, hard-working, capable young man who lacks enterprise, and who will spend all his life in subordinate positions unless you help him.

. . . Think it over, my dear, and choose for yourself."

"Oh . . . oh, it's horrible," moaned Marcelle, hiding her face in her hands.

"Why is it so horrible? M. Etienne Renoir is really a charming fellow. He's quite good looking, and you can rely absolutely on his discretion. Go to see him to-morrow . . . and let everything be understood. . . ."

"But I should die of embarrassment."

"Not at all. And besides, you have already decided to follow my advice, dear child. In any other case, you would have left the room as soon as I mentioned the matter. Life is very complicated, Marcelle, when one is a pretty woman, and likes nice things, and can't really afford them. I'm only advising the usual thing . . . the only sensible thing under the circumstances. And believe me, you will be neither the first nor the last to employ this method of recommendation. . . .

But perhaps you really don't care about your husband's future. Perhaps it would be just as well if somebody else was made general manager. After all, you have managed to struggle along in spite of your poverty."

Marcelle reflected. This was just the thing, she felt, that was becoming more and more impossible to her—to struggle along in spite of poverty. Her growing taste for fine clothes and luxuries of every sort was beginning to dominate her life. Already she realized that her decision was made.

She took leave of Mme. Lacombe, and the following morning, with a beating heart, she went to the home of M. Etienne Renoir, who received her immediately. It was her first sight of the man who was to seal her fate.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mme. Valier?" he inquired. In spite of his surprise, he retained his perfect manners.

Hastily, with a look of embarrassment, Marcelle, who had worn her most attractive dress and sprayed herself with an intoxicating perfume, explained that she had taken the liberty of coming to see him about the general managership. She hoped that M. Renoir would say nothing to her husband about this visit, which he would have forbidden her to make. She had acted on her own initiative in coming to plead a just cause. . . . She continued, gradually becoming more confident, especially since she thought she could read a look of admiration in the eyes of her host, who indeed found her very pretty. For the rest, he listened in silence. Irritated by his coldness and impassivity, she decided to put the matter bluntly.

"I SHOULD be so very, very grateful," she concluded, holding out her hand, with a gesture of surrender.

"Madam," said Renoir coldly, dropping her hand, "I regard your husband as a man of honour, and I believe that he knows nothing of the step you have taken . . . indiscreetly."

With a mocking smile, he continued:

"I am ingenuous enough, even at my age, to believe that love can neither be bought nor sold, in any fashion whatsoever, without losing all of its value. I am silly enough to insist on choosing my own loves, and I demand some measure of reciprocity. Even the most beautiful woman does not attract me unless she offers at least the semblance of personal affection. ... I am aware that this sort of . . . recommendation is the usual thing. But you can rest assured that your husband needed no recommendation from anyone else to become my general manager. He received the appointment this morning. And you can rest assured that he will keep it by his own merits. Your visit has not harmed him in the least."

Marcelle stood listening, motionless and overwhelmed. He led her politely to the door. In the street she hailed a taxi, sank back on the seat, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Well, my dear Marcelle, I hear that M. Valier is the new general manager," said Mme. Lacombe a few days later, when they met in the street. "You see, I was right after all. . . . Ah! your husband doesn't know how much he owes to you," she added with a knowing laugh.

Marcelle was ashamed of having offered herself, but she was still more ashamed of having been refused. She blushed deeply and let her silence be taken as assent.