But in attempting to take up a brush Nana had just
let it drop on the ground, and as she stooped to pick it up he rushed
forward. Their breath mingled for one moment, and the loosened tresses
of Venus flowed over his hands. But remorse mingled with his enjoyment,
a kind of enjoyment, moreover, peculiar to good Catholics, whom the fear
of hell torments in the midst of their sin.
At this moment Father Barillot's voice was heard outside the door.
"May I give the knocks, madame? The house is growing impatient."
"All in good time," answered Nana quietly.
She had dipped her paint brush in a pot of kohl, and with the point
of her nose close to the glass and her left eye closed she passed it
delicately along between her eyelashes. Muffat stood behind her, looking
on. He saw her reflection in the mirror, with her rounded shoulders and
her bosom half hidden by a rosy shadow. And despite all his endeavors he
could not turn away his gaze from that face so merry with dimples and so
worn with desire, which the closed eye rendered more seductive. When she
shut her right eye and passed the brush along it he understood that he
belonged to her.
"They are stamping their feet, madame," the callboy once more cried.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241