Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/54

painter could have supplied that touch himself. Perspiring with excitement, Lepetit went over to the window, pushed aside the draperies, and took a deep breath. It suddenly occurred to him that Monique had been talking a lot about painting recently. Maybe she was posing even now for Henri, whoever he was. At this very moment she might be sprawled in front of him, thighs brazenly spread out, her breasts bare, smoking a cigarette! "What a damn fool I am!" His thoughts flew off in a confusion of wanton images.

He went over to the table, took the stopper out of a carafe of red Bordeaux wine, and poured some into a glass. He sighed heavily, and lowered himself derrick-like, onto the divan. He tried to think of his business affairs, of the truckload of oranges that had been consumed by fire, of his competitor, Bardou, who was driving him crazy by constantly lowering his prices. He thought, too, of his wife, who had been bedridden for more than two years now; of the terrible People's Front; and of his little daughter who-alas-had no real home like other children.

But these forced thoughts could not drive the image of Monique from his mind. A bitter pain gnawed at his heart. Monique! Why wasn't she here?

Lepetit had his own opinion about women. Everything was a matter of business, of buying and selling. They had the right to present their merchandise so as to make it look more attractive and to get a higher price out of the customer. But to deliberately deceive a customer-this was too much! He was a businessman himself-but nobody could ever say of him that he had made false claims, or failed to keep his word. Conservative and sentimental as he was, he found himself at a loss in the present situation, which was treacherous, like speculating on the Bourse.

"How long are things going to go on this way?" he asked