"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur Charles
Santerre."
This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together
once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a
novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine
brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache and
beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to conceal.
He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought under
pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as instruments
of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he had remained a
bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of others. In
literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made it his
specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined
surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of
his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to
be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had
allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays
he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest
pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human
passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the
world.
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