The Lucky Find

The Story of a Pretty Woman Who Had a "Perfectly Gorgeous" Apartment

COLETTE

THE setting sun glinted on the curtains and traversed the drawing-room from end to end. Irene's friends chorused their admiration:

"It's like a scene from fairyland!"

"What a stroke of luck!"

"The river seems all on fire!"

"How red the sky is!"

But one of them, more honest than the others—letting her eyes travel rapidly from the river outside through the fine old drawing room, lengthened out at one end by a sunny little breakfast room, and back again to the violet and silver hangings, the orange tea-cups, and the crackling wood fire—murmured vindictively, "Really, it isn't fair!"

And poor little Mrs. Auroux, who had gotten her divorce solely in order to marry again and then couldn't marry after all because she couldn't find an apartment, had two tears swimming in her blue eyes so obviously that Irene took her in her arms and said: "Now, you little silly, it was getting my divorce that brought me this lucky chance; for, really, darling, it was just sheer luck, you know, my finding this treasure!"

She exulted shamelessly in her beautiful apartment—she who had never before been willing to let a new ring flash its jewelled fires before the eyes of a poorer friend. She leaned forward and breathed, in the confidential tone of one imparting guilty secrets, "My dears, if you could only see how wonderful it is here in the mornings! The thousands of boats on the river and the reflection of the rippling water on the ceiling!"

"QUT the>' had stood as much of this as thev _ ID cared to; and bursting with envy, and gorged with cakes, they departed forthwith, as if by common consent. Leaning over the wrought iron railings, Irene waved her adieux just as she might have done had she been standing on the balcony of a chateau far away in the country.

Then she went back into the apartment and leaned her forehead against a window pane. A brief winter twilight was rapidly dimming the rose and gold reflection in the water and in the sky one large palpitating star heralded a sharp night.

Irene heard behind her the tinkle of cups being gathered up by a hasty hand and the bustling steps of her maid. She turned swiftly about:

"Arc you in a hurry, Pauline?"

"No, it's not exactly that I'm in a hurry, madame. But you know it's Saturday and my husband has an afternoon off."

"Go along, then. You can do the dishes tomorrow. No, don't set the table for me. Leave the sandwiches and the chocolate. I've eaten so much that I shan't be very hungry this evening."

Since she had established herself in the new apartment, Irene had put up with hastv dinners, or, even, with a cold supper from the delicatessen shop, on account of Pauline, maid ot all work, who came in by the day. On evenings when Pauline was particularly anxious to get away, Irene sometimes donned the blue kitchen apron and fried herself some bacon and eggs.

She heard the door slam and the sound of Pauline's goloshes descending the stairs. A street car sang along the rails on the opposite side of the river. The house, old and solidly built, did not tremble with the passing of vehicles; and the thick walls were impervious equally to the barking of the neighbor's dog and the piano on the floor above. Irene put a log on the fire and arranged near the fire place—"a fine piece of marble in the shell shape of the period, my dear"—the little writing table, the big armchair, some books, and a screen, and remained standing, lost in contemplation of her happy attempt at decorating. Outside, a church clock boomed in muffled, measured strokes.

"Seven o'clock! Only seven. Thirteen hours before tomorrow!"

SHE shuddered, and, in the presence of those unresponsive witnesses—the violet curtains, the statue of a shepherdess, which loomed up like the figure-head on the prow of a ship, the useless armchair and the book that had lost its savor—she humbly abdicated her position as a fortunate woman of whom one might say, "She has a very enviable life and a perfectly gorgeous apartment."

No husband, now, worrisome and extravagant. No more scenes; no more of his unexpected returns, and his departures that were more like flights; no more suspicious letters; and no more invisible friends who were addressed ostentatiously over the telephone as "old fellow" and "my dear sir".

No husband, no children, no suitors. "As free as air!" said her envious friends who came to see her.

"Put did I ask to be as free as air?"

When she had succeeded in getting back her own private means with her independence, as well, she had decided to ensconce herself in a charming abode, "sunny and secret", meant for a recluse or for a pair of lovers, where she could live in tranquility—in perfect peace.

"Put do I need so much 'peace'?"

She remained standing there in front of the shepherdess and the screen which seemed, under the too lofty ceiling, to be conspiring together to provide for Irene a refuge and a hiding place. She felt an urgent need of light, and turned on the small lamp of smoked crystal, the candelabra of old bronze, and the basket of electric fruits on the dining table. Put she left in shadow her bedroom, of which she had been boasting shortly before, with its Spanish bed around which four gilded torches at each corner stood like pillars.

"Well, my apartment is very lovely!" she admitted icily. "And I have nothing to do except to wait until tomorrow to show it to some more of my friends who happen to drop in. And after that—? "

SHE saw a succession of davs on which she would show ofl, like a cicerone, the shellshaped fireplace, the wrought-iron railing, the river, the panelled wainscotting. Of a sudden, she envied, with a terrible envy, a tiny little furnished apartment, a villainous little suite, where, for lack of anything better, one of her friends was living with a young painter—two rooms soiled with cigarette ashes and with daubs of paint, but glowing with quarrels, with laughter, and with reconciliations. And then she experienced envy, almost physical and full of a bitter pain, for a studio which she knew well, a studio that was being used as an apartment—one has to live somewhere, you know— by a whole family, father and mother and three lovely children, the latter all resembling each other as closely as three puppies of pure breeding.

The warmth of the tiny apartment occupied by the lovers, the flood of light from the windows of the studio coming down vertically on those three little half naked bodies—

Irene quickly turned off the electric light and felt a certain relief when the beautiful old trappings of her apartment disappeared from view. She pulled the shepherdess and the screen back from the fireplace, drew the curtains together, wrapped herself in a warm cloak, extinguished the last light in the apartment—with an air at once cautious and inimical —and then fled, bearing with her a detective story, some caviare sandwiches, and a pot of cold chocolate—to finish her evening in the depths of an old wicker chair which stood between the wash-basin and the shower-bath in the bath room.