“Monsieur, you are mistaken when you think that it would not be a great deprivation to me not to have my daughter with me; I love her just as dearly as you can possibly love her. As for your son, he is yours in fact, monsieur. You know my frankness, so you can believe what I tell you. Things will remain as they are; my daughter shall not leave me. Appeal to the law if you wish; nothing will change my determination.“EUGÉNIE.”
“Monsieur, you are mistaken when you think that it would not be a great deprivation to me not to have my daughter with me; I love her just as dearly as you can possibly love her. As for your son, he is yours in fact, monsieur. You know my frankness, so you can believe what I tell you. Things will remain as they are; my daughter shall not leave me. Appeal to the law if you wish; nothing will change my determination.
“EUGÉNIE.”
I could hardly endure to read that letter. I was angry, furious. She had dishonored me, she had made me unhappy, and she refused to give me back my daughter! Ah! that woman had no pity, no delicacy of feeling! She loved her daughter, she said; yes, as she had loved me; she defied me, she told me to appeal to the law! Ah! if I could do it! if I had proofs of her crime to produce! But no; even if I could, she knew very well that I would not; that I did not propose that the courts should ring with my complaints, that my name should never be mentioned in society without being the subject of a jest. Yes, she knew me, and that is why she had no fear. She declared that her son was mine and she expected me to believe her word! No! I would never see that child again, I wanted never to hear his name. But my daughter—ah! I neither could nor wished to forget her.
For several days I was in a state of most intense excitement; I did not know what to do, nor what course to adopt. Sometimes I determined to go away, to leave France forever; but the thought of Henriette detained me; sometimes I determined to go back into society, to have mistresses, to pass my time with them, and to do my best to forget the past.
A profound prostration succeeded to that feverish excitement of my senses. I avoided society, I did not even go to Ernest’s, although he had come several times to beg me to do so. Everything bored and tired me; I cared for nothing except to be alone, to think of my daughter. I hated and cursed her mother. Yes, I would go away, I would leave the country. What detained me there? I had no idea.
Several weeks passed, and I do not now know how I lived. I went out early in order to avoid even Ernest’s visits, for I became more misanthropical, more morose every day. I walked in solitary places, I returned early, and always ordered my concierge to say that I was not at home. My concierge was my servant also now; he took care of my apartment, which was wretchedly kept.
The house in which I was living suited me in many respects; it was gloomy and dark, like most of the old houses in the Marais, and contained but few tenants, I thought, for I never met anybody on the stairs. I had one neighbor, however, with whom I would gladly have dispensed; it was a man who lived in the attic rooms above my apartment, the house having only three floors in all.
That neighbor of mine was in the habit of beginning to sing as soon as he got home, which was ordinarily between ten and eleven o’clock at night; and I was forced to listen to his jovial refrains and drinking songs untilhe was in bed and asleep. It annoyed me; not because it prevented me from sleeping, for sleep never visited my eyes so early; but it disturbed me in my thoughts, in my reflections. I was inclined sometimes to complain to the concierge. But because I was unhappy, must I prevent others from being light-hearted?
For some days that music had become more unendurable than ever, because my neighbor had taken to returning much earlier, and his songs often began at eight o’clock. Although I never talked with my concierge, I decided to ask him who the man was who was always singing.
“Monsieur,” the concierge replied, “he’s a poor German, a tailor. I don’t understand how he has the courage to sing, for he hasn’t a sou, and apparently he never finds any work. That doesn’t surprise me, for he is a drunkard and he works very badly. I gave him a pair of trousers, to make a coat for my son; and it was very badly made, without fit or style, and the patches all in front! I took my custom away from him. However, he won’t trouble you long; as he doesn’t pay his rent, the landlord has decided to give him notice.”
I informed the concierge that I did not wish the man to be sent away; but it seemed that the landlord cared for nothing but his rent. That evening, about eight o’clock, I heard the tailor singing with all his lungs; he executed trills and flourishes. Who would ever have believed that the man had not a sou?
I remembered the fable of the cobbler and the banker; suppose I should go to my neighbor and give him money to keep silent? But perhaps that would make him sing all the louder; for one could find few cobblers like the one in the fable. However, I yielded to the idea of going to my neighbor. If he was an obligingperson, perhaps he would consent to sing not quite so loud. But I had little hope of it, for the Germans are obstinate and they are fond of music. Never mind, I would go to see the tailor none the less.
I ascended the stairs which separated me from the attic. My neighbor’s voice guided me to his door. The key was on the outside, but for all that I knocked before opening the door.
He continued to sing a passage fromDer Freischütz, and did not reply; thereupon I opened the door.
I entered a room in which there was a mattress with a wretched coverlid thrown over it, in one corner. A rickety chair, a few broken jars and a long board which served doubtless as a table, but which was then standing against the wall—that was all the furniture. Leaning on the sill of the window, which was open, was a man, still young, whose good-humored, bloated face was not unfamiliar to me. He was in his shirt sleeves, and was seated after the manner of tailors, with his knees outside the window, a position which made him likely to fall into the courtyard at the slightest forward movement.
On my arrival he stopped in the middle of a trill and exclaimed:
“Hello! I thought it was the concierge to ask for money again. I should have said to him: ‘prout, prout!’ Sit you down, monsieur.”
I sat down, for my neighbor seemed quite unceremonious; he had not risen. I do not know whether he thought that I had come to hear him sing; but he seemed inclined to resume his performance. I stopped him at once.
“Monsieur, I am your neighbor.”
“Indeed! you are my neighbor, are you? Beside me or below?”
“Below.”
“Oh, yes! it’s a fact that on this floor there’s nobody but the cooks of the house, all old women, unluckily. They don’t sing, they don’t make love, they don’t know how to make anything but sauces,—reduced consommés, as the one from the first floor says. For my part, I would give all her consommés for a bottle of beaune. Ah! how delicious beaune is! If I had any, I would give you some; but it is three days now that I haven’t drunk anything but water. Prout, prout! I must make the best of it.”
While the tailor was talking, I examined him, because I was confident that I had seen him somewhere before, but I could not remember where.
“Have you come to order trousers or a coat?” continued my neighbor. “It is just, the right time, for I have nothing to do, and I will make ‘em up for you at once, and in the latest style, although that miserable concierge presumed to complain of my skill. The idiot! he wanted me to make a new coat for his son out of an old pair of breeches that had already been turned three times.”
“I have not come for a coat or a waistcoat, but to make a request of you.”
“A request?”
“You sing a great deal, monsieur.”
“Parbleu! I have nothing else to do.”
“You sing very well, certainly.”
“Yes, I have some voice; we Germans are all musicians; it is born in us.”
“I know it; but do you think that for a person who works with his brain, who is obliged to think, to reflect, it is very pleasant to hear someone singing all the time?”
“What has all that got to do with me?”
“Look you, monsieur, I will come to the point; your singing inconveniences and annoys me; and if you wouldbe obliging enough to sing less, or not so loud, I would beg you to take this as a slight token of my gratitude.”
I had taken my purse from my pocket and I was looking about for something to put it on, which was hard to find, unless I should put it on the floor, when the tailor, who had abruptly left the window and begun to dance about the room, strode toward me with a frown.
“I say, monsieur from below, who don’t like music, do I look to you like a man who asks alms? Who gave you leave to come to my room and insult me? Has Pettermann ever been called a beggar?”
“Pettermann!” I said, looking at him more carefully; “is your name Pettermann?”
“Schnick Pettermann, journeyman tailor from the age of fifteen. I have never succeeded in getting to be a master tailor. It isn’t my fault. Well, when will you finish staring me out of countenance?”
“Yes, I know now; you used to live on Rue Meslay.”
“I think so, but I have moved so often that I can hardly remember all the rooms that I have occupied!”
“Don’t you remember that little room that you used to climb into so often through the window in the roof, after breaking the glass, because you had lost your key?”
“Ah! I remember now, there was a broad gutter; it was very convenient, I used to walk on it.”
“And that young neighbor of yours in whose room you used to light your candle?”
“Little Marguerite—ah, yes! I recognize you now. You were my neighbor’s lover.”
“Oh, no! I was only her friend; but I used to go there often, and we used to hear you come in. Ah! how happy I was in those days!”
“You were happy when I broke the window? Did that amuse you?”
“It seems that I must always happen on something to remind me of that time, although I try to avoid it. However, I am glad to see you.”
“You are very good, monsieur. That must be at least five years ago, more than five years, in fact, and I wasn’t married then.”
“Ah! have you been married since?”
“Mon Dieu! don’t mention it! I don’t know what crazy idea came into my head, I who never gave a thought to love, when one day—prout, prout!—it took me like a longing to sneeze; I fancied that I was in love with a young cook who had sometimes asked me the time, then for a light; in short, trifling things which indicated a purpose to scrape an acquaintance. Suzanne was very pretty; yes, she was a superb creature, well put together; I will do justice to her physical charms. She had saved twelve hundred francs by cheating her employers a little in vegetables and butter. I said to myself: ‘That will be enough to set up a nice little tailor’s shop, after the style of the Palais-Royal.’ I offered my hand which she accepted, and we were married; I hired a shop on Boulevard du Pont-aux-Choux, all went well for——”
“For several months?”
“Prout! you are very polite! For a few days, a week at most. After that my wife complained that I was slow, that I talked too much, that I drank. For my part, I claimed that she ought to do nothing but make buttonholes. She refused to take hold of the buttonholes, and that made me mad; I persisted, she was obstinate, and to make a long story short, we fought! oh! we fought like prize fighters! and once we had got into the habit of it, it was all over, we never missed a single day. Prout! prout! morning and night! you should have seen how we hammered each other!”
“Wouldn’t it have been better to leave your wife?”
“To be sure it would, and that is what I said to myself; one night when my wife had almost torn off my left ear, I packed up my clothes and I left her.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“I’m not such a fool. I have no desire to see her again, and for her part I fancy that she isn’t anxious to see me. It’s all over now! To the devil with love! Whether my wife dies or not, it’s all one to me; I shall never marry again.”
“You have no children?”
“What do you suppose? As if we had time for that when we were always fighting! And faith, I am glad that we hadn’t any; they would have been left on my hands and I should have had to support the brats; and that would be hard for a man who cannot feed himself every day.”
“But your wife was faithful to you, at all events?”
“Faithful? the devil! as if I paid any attention to that! In fact we only lived together four months, and that didn’t make me rich! For some time past I haven’t had any work at all, and a man’s fingers get stiff doing nothing. But for all that, there’s no reason why you should come here with your purse in your hand!”
“Look you, Monsieur Pettermann, I have not made myself understood; I had no intention of insulting you.”
“I am not insulted, but——”
“I was told that you were without work, and I simply proposed to give you my custom.”
“Oh! that makes a difference! your custom, that’s all right.”
“I can’t show you to-night what I want you to do; but I thought that there would be no harm in offering you a little money in advance on what you do for me. Wehave lived under the same roof before, and we know each other; I should be very sorry to fall out with you.”
“Monsieur, if you offer me that in advance for the clothes I may make for you, that’s a very different thing. Give me what you choose; I will take it and I will not charge you any more on account of it.”
“All right; here is forty francs; we will settle up later.”
“Forty francs; I will make you a nice coat and waistcoat and trousers for that. And as for singing, if it disturbs you——”
“No, sing on, Pettermann, sing on; now that I know that it’s you, it won’t annoy me any more; I shall imagine that I am still living in my old apartment.”
I left the tailor, who could not make up his mind which pocket to put his forty francs in, and I returned to my room. But neither that night, nor during the next week, did I hear Pettermann sing, because he did not come home until midnight, and because he was always drunk and went to sleep as soon as he was in bed.
My conversation with the tailor had quieted my thoughts; they were a little less black, and I slept better; when we become depressed, we shun all sorts of diversion, we avoid our friends, whose presence would eventually allay our suffering. At such times we ought to be treated like those invalids who are forced to take decoctionswhich they refuse to take, but which are essential to their cure.
One morning I went to see Ernest, who had been to my rooms at least ten times without finding me.
His wife scolded me warmly for my behavior.
“You avoid your true friends,” she said to me; “you live like a wolf! that is perfectly absurd. Ought you to punish us for other people’s faults? Your wife has chosen to keep her daughter—is that any reason for you to despair? Can you not go to see her?”
“Go to see her! oh! I have longed to do it a thousand times; but she is with her mother; and I could not bear the sight of her.”
“Her mother is not always with her,” said Ernest; “when she comes to Paris, and that has happened quite often lately, she rarely brings her daughter with her.”
“What! Eugénie has come to Paris already? I did not believe that she would dare to show herself here.”
“You must remember that in society you are the one who is blamed. It is you who have abandoned a lovely wife, whom you made wretched. I report exactly what people say; it does not make you angry, does it?”
“On the contrary, I am very glad to hear it. Go on, Ernest; tell me what you have learned.”
“After passing only a fortnight in the country, your wife returned to Paris. She hired a handsome apartment on Rue d’Antin. She has been going into society and has indulged in amusements of all sorts. She dresses with the greatest elegance; she is seen at the theatre, at balls, and at concerts. However, she returns often to the country, passes a few days there, and then comes back here. The night before last I saw her at Madame de Saint-Albin’s reception.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes; there were a great many people there. When I arrived, she was at a card table. She was talking very loud, and laughing; attracted by her loud voice, I walked in that direction. When she caught sight of me, my eyes were fixed upon her; she turned hers away, and a great change came over her face; her brow darkened, she stopped talking, and soon left the table.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No, I had no wish to; and for her part I think that she was no more anxious than I, for she carefully avoided meeting my eyes. She went away while I was still looking for her in the salon; I believe that my presence was the cause of her going.”
“Were not you at this reception, madame?” I asked Madame Ernest.
“Oh, no, Monsieur Henri! you know that people do not invite me; I am not married.”
It seemed to me that as she said this the little woman sighed and glanced furtively at Ernest. After a moment she continued:
“However, if I were married, I should not care any more about going into society! The little that I have seen of it has not made me love it.”
“My dear love,” said Ernest, “we should go into society as we go to the theatre, not to please others but to enjoy ourselves; when the play is tiresome, you are not compelled to stay to the end.”
“And Monsieur Dulac?” I said after a moment; “you have not mentioned him, Ernest. Don’t be afraid to tell me what you know. I suppose that he is more devoted than ever to Madame Blémont.”
“You are mistaken; he had no sooner recovered from his wound, and that was not long ago, than he went on a journey; I am told that he has gone to Italy.”
I confess that that news pleased me. And yet what did it matter to me now whether it was Dulac or some other man who was attentive to Madame Blémont, as I should have nothing more in common with that woman? Madame Blémont! She still called herself so, Ernest assured me. I hoped that she would have resumed her mother’s name. Was it not cruel to be unable to take one’s name away from a woman who dishonored it? If Madame Blémont should have other children, they too would bear my name and would share my property. Was that justice? But divorce was prohibited, because it was considered immoral! Oh! of course it is much more moral to leave to a guilty wife the name of the husband whom she abandons, and to strange children a title and property to which they have no right!
And Ernest insisted that I should return to that circle where Madame Blémont was welcomed and made much of; whereas they would consider that they compromised themselves by inviting dear little Marguerite, who loved her children, devoted herself to her family and made Ernest happy; and why? because she was not married. Oh! that society, overflowing with vices and absurd prejudices, disgusted me! I left it to Madame Blémont; I did not propose to share anything with her thenceforth.
I promised my friends to go often to see them. I had not yet made up my mind what I would do; but I still intended to travel, to leave Paris, especially since I knew that Madame Blémont had returned.
My concierge informed me that a gentleman had called to see me for the third time. From the description that he gave me I could not doubt that it was Bélan, and I ordered the man always to tell him that I was out. He also handed me a card upon which was the name of Giraud. Would those people never leave me to myself?Unluckily my business had made it necessary for me to leave my address at my former apartment; but I determined to settle all the cases which had been placed in my hands with all possible speed, in order that I might leave Paris as soon as possible.
I spent a part of every day going about to my former clients, to whom I restored their papers, on the pretext that my health compelled me to abandon my profession. In my peregrinations I occasionally saw Bélan or Giraud, but I always succeeded in avoiding them. I had just finished my last business. I felt free once more, and was congratulating myself upon being able to follow my inclinations, when, as I walked rapidly through the Palais-Royal, I was stopped by Bélan. That time I had no opportunity to avoid him.
“Ah! I have caught you at last! Upon my word, I am in luck; where in the devil have you been hiding, my dear friend? I have been to your apartment a great many times, but you are always out.”
“I have many matters to arrange, my dear Bélan, and at this moment I am in a great hurry.”
“I don’t care for that, I don’t propose to let you go; I have too many things to tell you. But I say, have you left your wife?”
“Yes, we could not agree.”
“That is what I said at once: ‘They did not agree.’ I admit that you are generally blamed; you are looked upon as a jealous husband, a domestic tyrant.”
“People may say what they choose; it is quite indifferent to me.”
“And you are right. As for myself, if I only could separate from my mother-in-law! Great heaven! how happy I would be! But Armide refuses to leave her mother, and the result is that I am constantly between twofires: when one is not picking a quarrel with me, the other is. To be sure, I am perfectly at ease now concerning my wife’s fidelity. The marquis no longer comes to see us; I don’t know why, but he has entirely ceased his visits. As for Armide, she has become so crabbed, so sour; mon Dieu! there are times when I think that I should prefer to be a cuckold, and to have my wife amiable; and yet——”
“Bélan, I am obliged to leave you.”
“Pshaw! what’s your hurry? You are very lucky now, you are living as a bachelor again; you are raising the deuce——”
“I am giving my whole attention to settling up my business, and——”
“Oh, yes! playing the saint! I know you, you rake! faith! between ourselves, I will tell you that I too have made a little acquaintance. Look you, we men are not saints, and although one is married, one may have weaknesses, moments of forgetfulness; indeed, that is quite legitimate for us. But I have to take the greatest precautions, for if my wife or my mother-in-law should surprise me——”
“Adieu, Bélan. I wish you all the pleasure in the world.”
“But where are you going so fast? I will go with you.”
I was not at all anxious for the little man’s company; and to get rid of him, I told him that I was going to the Bois de Boulogne. He clapped his hands and cried:
“Parbleu! how nicely it happens! That is just where I have arranged to meet my little one—near the Château de Madrid. I never see her except outside the barrier.”
“But I have business in another direction.”
“Never mind; we will take a cab and drive to the Bois together.”
I could not refuse; it mattered little to me after all whether I went to the Bois; I had plenty of time. And once there, I knew how to rid myself of Bélan.
We took a cab. On the way Bélan talked to me about his wife, his mistress, his mother-in-law, and my duel with Dulac; which he believed to be the result of our quarrel over the cards. I was careful not to undeceive him.
When we arrived at the Bois, Bélan insisted that I should go with him and be introduced to his acquaintance. I assured him that somebody was waiting for me too; but to satisfy him I agreed to meet him two hours later at the Porte Maillot; and I determined not to be there.
Bélan left me at last, and I entered a path opposite to that which he had taken. The weather was fine; it was four o’clock and there were many people, especially equestrians, in the Bois. I stood for several minutes watching the young people who came there to display their costumes and horses, and their skill in riding. There had been a time when I myself enjoyed that pleasure; but now nothing of the sort had any temptation for me.
A cloud of dust announced the approach of a party. I thought that I could see two women among the riders, and I stopped to look at them. The cavalcade came up at a gallop and passed close to me. Having glanced at one of the ladies, I turned my eyes upon the other. It was Eugénie,—Eugénie, dressed in a stylish riding habit, and riding gracefully a spirited horse. She almost brushed against me, her horse covered me with dust and I was utterly unable to step back. I stood there, so startled, so oppressed, that I had not the strength to walk.
The cavalcade was already far away, and my eyes were still following it; I stood in the same spot, benumbed, motionless, with no eyes for anything else. Other horsemen came up at a fast gallop. I did not hear them. They called to me: “Look out!” but I did not stir. Suddenly I felt a violent shock; I was thrown down upon the gravel, and a horse’s hoof struck me in the head.
My eyes closed and I lost consciousness. When I came to myself, I found myself in one of the cafés at the entrance to the Bois. I saw many people about me; among others, several young swells. One of them said to me:
“I am terribly distressed, monsieur; I am the cause of your accident. I shouted to you, however; but my horse had too much impetus, and I could not stop him.”
“Yes, that is true,” observed a man who was holding my head; “I can testify that monsieur shouted: ‘Look out!’ but why should anyone ride like the wind? I shouted to you: ‘Stop!’ but prout! you didn’t stop.”
I recognized Pettermann; it was he who was behind me. I accepted the apology of the young cavalier and told him that I bore him no ill will. I reassured him concerning my wound, although I felt very weak, for I had lost much blood. Someone had sent for a carriage and I asked Pettermann if he could go with me.
“What’s that? can I!” replied the tailor; “why, if I couldn’t, I’d go with you all the same. As if I would leave in this condition an excellent neighbor of mine who paid me forty francs in advance! Prout! you don’t know me!”
They bandaged my head and helped me into the cab. Pettermann seated himself opposite me and we returned to Paris.
On the way, my wound occupied my attention much less than the meeting I had had. I asked Pettermann if he had not seen a woman riding past me when they took me up and carried me away.
“When you were thrown down,” said the tailor, “I was within thirty yards of you. I was walking, loafing, I had nothing to do. However, I did go to your room this morning, monsieur, to ask you for your cloth; but I never find you in the morning and at night I can’t find your door.”
“That isn’t what I asked you.”
“True. Well, then, I was walking, and I had just noticed some ladies pass on horseback. Prout! but they rode finely! Other horses came along and I stepped to one side; and it was then that I saw you. They shouted: ‘Look out!’ I don’t know what you were looking at, but you didn’t move; and yet I said to myself: ‘That gentleman isn’t deaf, for he heard me sing well enough.’ Still the horses came on. I shouted ‘Look out!’ to you myself, and I sung out to the riders to stop; but prout! you were already on the ground, and with a famous scar! The young men stopped then. I already had you in my arms. The man who knocked you down was in despair, I must do him justice. We carried you to the nearest café; and when I said that I was your neighbor and that I knew you, they sent for a cab; and then you opened your eyes. But never mind! you got a rousing kick!”
“And while I was unconscious, you saw no other people near me? Those ladies on horseback—did not one of them come back?”
“No, monsieur; there was no other lady near you except the one that keeps the café; but she washed your head; oh! she didn’t spare the water!”
I said no more. I was beginning to suffer terribly; the carriage made me sick, my head was on fire and my brain in a whirl. At last we reached my home. Pettermann and the concierge carried me upstairs, put me to bed, and went to call a doctor. I had a violent fever; soon I was unable to reply to the people about me; I did not know them.
One evening I opened my heavy eyes and glanced about my room. It was dimly lighted by a lamp. I saw Pettermann sitting at a table, with his head resting on one of his hands, and his eyes fastened upon a watch which he held in the other. I called him feebly; he heard me, uttered a joyful cry, dropped the watch, and ran to my bed.
“Ah! you are saved!” he cried as he embraced me. “The doctor said that you would recover consciousness to-night, before nine o’clock. I was counting the minutes; there are only five left and I was beginning to doubt the doctor’s word. But you recognize me!Sacredi! you are saved!”
He embraced me again, and I felt tears upon my cheeks. So there were still some people who loved me! That thought relieved me. I held out my hand to that excellent man, pressed his hand, and motioned to him to sit down beside me.
“First of all,” he said to me, “you are going to drink this; it’s some medicine ordered by the doctor, and you must do what he orders, since he has cured you. I believe in doctors now.”
I drank the potion; then Pettermann picked up the watch and put it to his ear, saying:
“It was your watch that I dropped on the floor, monsieur; but it hasn’t even stopped. It’s like you, the spring is strong.”
He sat down and continued:
“For five days now you’ve been there in bed, and in that time fever and delirium have been playing a fine game with you! Your brain galloped like the infernal horse that knocked you down. We tried in vain to calm you; you called me Eugénie, you talked about nothing but Eugénie. Sometimes you adored her, and the next minute you cursed her; so that the concierge, who is a bit of a gossip, said that some woman named Eugénie must have been playing tricks on you; and I replied: ‘You must see that monsieur is delirious, and consequently he doesn’t know what he is saying.’ In short, I don’t know whether I did right, monsieur, but seeing you in that condition, and no one with you to nurse you, I stationed myself here and I haven’t budged. The concierge undertook to object, he wanted his niece, who is nine years old, to nurse you; but prout! I didn’t listen to him, and I said: ‘I was the one who brought monsieur home wounded, and I won’t leave him until he’s cured.’ If I did wrong, I ask your pardon, and I will go away.”
I offered my hand to Pettermann again.
“Far from doing wrong, my friend, it is I who am deeply indebted to you.”
“Not at all, monsieur, I owe you forty francs. But as soon as you get your cloth——”
“Let’s not talk about that.”
“All right; besides, you mustn’t talk much, that’s another of the doctor’s orders.”
“Has anyone been to see me?”
“Not a cat has entered the room except the doctor and the concierge.”
Ernest and his wife could know nothing of my accident; otherwise I was sure that they would have come to take care of me. So henceforth I could have onlystrangers about me. Ah! if my mother had known—but I was very glad that she had not been informed of the accident, which would have frightened her. There were many other things too which she did not know and which I would have been glad to conceal from her forever.
I tried to rest, but Eugénie’s image often disturbed my sleep.
It was she who was the cause of my being in that bed. It was impossible that she should not have recognized me, for her horse passed close to me; and she did not return! Had she heard the commotion caused by my accident? That I did not know. While I shunned society as if I were guilty, Eugénie was indulging in all forms of pleasure. She, who used to mount a horse only in fear and trepidation, and to ride very quietly, now rode through the Bois de Boulogne at a fast gallop and displayed the rash courage of an experienced horseman! It still seemed to me that I was dreaming, that I was delirious. Since the Eugénie of the old days no longer existed, it seemed to me I must forget the new one, I must think no more of the woman who had wrecked my life.
I believed that, if I could embrace my little Henriette, I should be entirely cured at once. I determined to go to see her before leaving Paris, and to take her in my arms without her mother’s knowledge; and even if her mother should know it, had I not the right to kiss my daughter? I would be patient until then.
The doctor came again to see me. He was a man whom I did not know; he seemed abrupt and cold; he talked little, but he neither made a show of his knowledge nor used long words to his patients. I like doctors of that sort.
After a few days I was much better, and I began to recover my strength. Pettermann was still in my room; he had told me to dismiss him as soon as he annoyed me, and I had kept him. I had become accustomed to his services and attentions. I could not doubt his attachment, for he had given me proofs of it. One especially convincing proof was that he had not drunk too much a single time since he had constituted himself my nurse. It was not selfish interest that guided him, for by refusing my purse when I went up to his room he had proved that he did not care for money. I had noticed also that he was neither prying nor talkative.
I indulged in all these reflections one evening as I lay upon a couch. Pettermann was seated by the window; he said nothing, for he never tried to converse when I did not speak to him. Sometimes we passed several hours in succession without a word; that was another quality which I liked in him.
“Pettermann.”
“Monsieur.”
“Are you very much attached to your tailor’s trade?”
“Faith, monsieur, I have had so little work lately that I shall end by forgetting my trade. And then, I may as well admit that I have never been able to distinguish myself at it, and I am sick of it!”
“As soon as I have fully recovered my strength, I propose to leave Paris and travel, for a very long time perhaps. If I should suggest to you to go with me, to remain with me, not as a servant, but as a confidential friend and trusted companion, how would that suit you?”
“Suit me! prout! that would suit me completely, monsieur. I will be your groom, your valet, whatever you choose; for I am sure that you will never treat me in a way to humiliate me.”
“Of course not. But, Pettermann, you have one failing——”
“I know what you mean; I get drunk. That is true; but it never happened to me except when I had nothing to do. You will keep me busy, and that will correct my habit of drinking. However, I don’t mean to swear to give up wine entirely, for I should break my oath. If you take me with you, you must allow me to get drunk once a month. I ask only that.”
“Once a month, all right; but no more!”
“No, monsieur.”
“It’s a bargain! You will stay with me. You have nothing to keep you in Paris?”
“Bless my soul, no, monsieur; I have nothing but my wife.”
“We start in a few days; but I warn you that I intend to travel like an artist, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a carriage; to defy the rain and the sun when that is my pleasure.”
“Monsieur is joking. I am not a dainty woman; I will do whatever you do.”
“One word more: do you know my name?”
“I have heard the concierge mention it once; I don’t remember it, but——”
“Don’t try to remember it. I mean to assume another under which I intend to travel. I shall call myself after this, Dalbreuse, and I do not wish to be called anything else.”
“That is enough, monsieur; you understand that I will call you whatever you please. So I have a profession at last. I have no further need to try to get waistcoats and breeches to make! The deuce take sewing! And then too I am very glad not to have to leave monsieur.”
Pettermann’s delight pleased me. I was very glad to have someone in my service who had not known me during my married life.
On the day following this agreement, Ernest entered my room, ran to me and embraced me.
“Do you know that I have been near death?” I asked him.
“I have just learned it from your concierge. Ungrateful man! not to send us any word! Is that the way that a man should treat his friends?”
“My dear Ernest, when I was in condition to send you word, I was out of danger; then I preferred to wait until I was entirely well, in order that I might come and tell you myself.”
“But what was this accident that happened to you?”
I told Ernest the whole story; I did not conceal from him that I was knocked down because I had gazed too long after Eugénie. Ernest was indignant at my weakness, and he started to scold me.
“My friend,” I said, “you will have no further cause for such reproaches; to prove it, I refuse from this instant to hear my wife mentioned. You will promise never to mention her name again, will you not?”
“Oh! I shall not be the one to break that promise!”
“Besides, I am going to leave you, for a long time perhaps. I am going to travel.”
“Despite my grief at being separated from you, I can only approve this plan. Change of scene will do you good. But are you going alone?”
“No, I have found a faithful companion; that man who left the room when you came in. You did not recognize him, did you? It is that poor journeyman tailor who lived in the attic room near your dear Marguerite, and who used to get into his room by breaking the window.”
“Is it possible? And that man——”
“Did not leave me for one minute while my life was in danger. And yet I was a mere stranger to him. He is to travel with me, he will go wherever I go.”
“I am very glad to know that you will have some devoted friend with you.”
“Here, my friend, take this memorandum book.”
“What shall I do with it?”
“It contains the portrait of the woman whom I used to call my wife. I must not keep it any longer. Later, if you choose, you may give the book to—to her son.”
“Her son? But, Blémont, he is your son too. Are you not going to see him before you go away?”
“No, the sight of him is too painful to me. I have told you all that I thought,—all my torments. I shall never see that child again.”
“My dear Blémont, are you not wrong? Is that child responsible for his mother’s wrongdoing?”
“It is possible that I am unjust; why did she give me a right to be? I entrust you to look after everything that concerns him, and to put him at school when he reaches the proper age. I will give you a letter to my notary, instructing him to supply you with money whenever you need it. Forgive me, my friend, for all the trouble I cause you.”
“Do not speak of trouble. But consider that that child——”
“Not another word about him, I beg you. I propose to try to banish from my memory those persons whom I am forced to banish from my heart. By the way, you must cease to call me Blémont, too; from this moment I lay aside that name and assume the name of Dalbreuse. So that is the name under which you must write to me, Ernest; for I trust that you will write to me, my friend.”
“Yes, to be sure; but I trust that you will not stay away from us a century. There will come a time, my dear Henri, when you will be able to live in Paris and to meet the—the person whom you avoid now, without its producing too serious an effect upon you.”
“I hope so. Meanwhile, I shall go away; I propose to visit Switzerland, the Alps, the Pyrenees, Italy—no, I shall not go to Italy. But I shall stop wherever I find that I enjoy myself. I shall try to paint some lovely views, some attractive landscapes.”
“Above all things, paint some portraits of beautiful women; they will distract you better than anything else. But when are you going? You must wait until you are perfectly well.”
“I flatter myself that in a week I shall not feel my wound; meantime, you will see me often; I am to be allowed to go out to-morrow, and I will go to your house.”
Ernest took his leave and I made arrangements for my journey. Ernest would let my apartment all furnished during my absence, and I left him in full charge of everything. I had but one wish, that was to be far away from Paris; but first I absolutely must see and embrace my daughter.
At last I was able to leave my room. I purchased two horses, for I proposed to travel by short stages as long as it amused me. Then I went to see my mother; I trembled lest she should have learned that I was no longer living with my wife. She did know it, in fact; some kind friends had not failed to inform her that I had separated from Eugénie; but she thought that it was nothing more than a quarrel which had caused the rupture. She proposed her mediation to reconcile us, for she also believed that it was I who was in the wrong; and she preached me a sermon.
I thanked my mother and told her of my approaching departure, which I said was due to important business. She hoped that at my return everything would be forgotten between my wife and myself; I encouraged her in that hope and bade her adieu. I was very certain that she would not go to see my wife, for that would disturb her habits.
I gave to Ernest and his companion all the time that remained before my departure. They were sorry to lose me, and yet they were glad that I was going; it was the same with myself. I urged them to send me news of my daughter; in leaving her I was separating from a part of myself, but if I remained I should not see her any more. I made them swear that when they wrote to me they would never mention Madame Blémont. Finally, one night I embraced Ernest and Marguerite and their children affectionately; I was to start early next morning.
Pettermann had long been ready. He told me that he was an excellent rider. We had a good horse each, and at six o’clock we left Paris. My comrade was very glad to be on the road; he hummed a refrain from theMariage de Figaro, which he had not done since my illness.
I started in the direction of Montmorency, for Aubonne is in that neighborhood, and I proposed to go there to see my daughter. During the past few days I had made inquiries concerning Madame Blémont at her house on Rue d’Antin. In Paris, by the use of money, one may learn whatever one desires. The result of my inquiries was that Madame Blémont was now at Paris, and that her daughter was not with her. So that Henriette was in the country without her mother; I could not hope to find a more favorable moment to see my daughter.
We rode through Montmorency and arrived at Aubonne. Pettermann rode behind without once askingwhere we were going, and his discretion gratified me. When we came in sight of the first houses of Aubonne, I said to him:
“I have business here, Pettermann; I have to see someone who is very dear to me.”
“Whatever you please, monsieur; it looks to be a pleasant place.”
“First of all, you must inquire where Madame Rennebaut lives; she is an old lady who owns a house in this neighborhood.”
“Madame Rennebaut? All right; I will ask the first baker that I see. Perhaps there’s only one in the village, and Madame Rennebaut must necessarily trade with him. Wait here for me, monsieur, I will soon be back.”
I let Pettermann go; I was then on the summit of a hill from which I could see several country houses nearby; I had stopped my horse and my eyes strove to look inside those houses, to find my Henriette; the hope that I should soon see and embrace my child made my heart beat faster.
Pettermann returned.
“Monsieur, I have found out about Madame Rennebaut: she is an old widow lady, very rich and with no children, who keeps a gardener, a cook and a maid.”
“And her house?”
“It is at the other end of the village; if we take this road to the pond, then turn to the left, we shall see the house in front of us. It is a fine house with an iron fence in front of it, and a garden with a terrace, from which there is a splendid view.”
“Let us go on, Pettermann.”
We followed the road that had been pointed out to him. As I knew that Madame Blémont was at Paris, I had no hesitation about calling at Madame Rennebaut’s house; I did not know what Eugénie might have told her, but Iwould ask to see my daughter, and I could not believe that they would deny me that satisfaction.
We had passed the pond and were on a sort of path with the fields on one side, leading to the lovely valley of Montmorency.
I spied the house that had been described to us; I urged my horse, and we were already skirting the garden wall, when I saw a woman walking on the terrace which ran along the wall on that side, leading a little girl by the hand.
I recognized the woman and the little girl at once; and, instantly turning my horse about, I rode into the fields and away from the house as rapidly as we had approached.
I did not stop until several clumps of trees concealed me from the house. Eugénie was there; therefore my informant must have been misled, or perhaps she had returned the night before. However that might be, she was there and I could not go to that house; her presence debarred me; perhaps she would think it was she whom I wished to see. I should be too humiliated if she should have such a thought.
However, I did not wish to go away without embracing my daughter. I did not know what to do. Pettermann had followed me closely, and was right behind me; but he waited and said nothing. I dismounted, and he was about to do the same.
“No,” I said, “remain in the saddle and hold my horse; we shall go away again soon. Wait for me behind these trees.”
I left him and walked toward the house, taking a roundabout way in order to avoid being seen by the persons on the terrace; I was certain that they had not seen me before, for they were not looking in my direction. At last I reached the garden where I had seen them; ahedge concealed me. I saw the edge of the terrace, but I could not look into the garden. There was a walnut tree within a few feet of me; I looked about to see if anyone was observing me, and in a few seconds I was in the tree. From there I could look into the garden easily and had no fear of being seen.
There they were; they were coming in my direction from a path where they had been out of my sight. Henriette ran about playing. Her mother walked slowly, her eyes often on the ground, or gazing listlessly about. Ah! how much lovelier than ever my daughter appeared to me! How happy I was when she turned her head in my direction!
They drew near. The mother sat down on a bench near the corner of the wall. She had a book, but she placed it by her side and did not read. Why did she not read? Of what was she thinking? She did not talk with her daughter; her brow was careworn and her eyes were heavy. Was she already weary of dissipation?
Henriette ran to her and offered her some flowers which she had just plucked. She took her daughter between her knees, gazed at her, and suddenly kissed her several times in a sort of frenzy, then released her and relapsed into a reverie.
Never had she embraced her daughter like that in my presence; was it that she was afraid of pleasing me by allowing me to witness the caresses which she bestowed upon our child?
Nearly an hour passed. She was still there, sitting on the bench, not reading, from time to time glancing at her daughter, who was playing on the terrace. And I gave no thought to the passing of time, to poor Pettermann who was waiting for me; I could not turn my eyes away from that garden.
Suddenly, as she ran toward her mother, Henriette made a false step and fell on her face. I uttered a cry simultaneously with Eugénie. She ran to the child, lifted her up and kissed her; the little one cried a little, but soon became calm and smiled, and I heard her say:
“It isn’t anything, mamma.”
Thereupon Eugénie looked about in every direction. Still holding her daughter in her arms, she walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out upon the road. I heard her say to her daughter:
“It wasn’t you who cried when you fell, was it?”
“No, mamma.”
“Who was it then?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“Is your nurse in the garden?”
“I don’t know.”
“But no; it wasn’t the nurse who cried out in that way.”
Her eyes were still searching; she looked in every direction, and I dared not stir; I was afraid to move a leaf; but in a moment she said:
“Let us go in, Henriette.”
“I’d rather stay in the garden.”
“But if you should fall again——”
“No, I won’t run any more; I will play quietly.”
She walked away, and my daughter remained behind. I wondered if I might take advantage of that moment. But the wall was rather high; how could I get to her? Ah! by mounting my horse, I could do it perhaps.
I climbed down from my tree, and ran back to Pettermann, who was still in the saddle; I mounted my horse and motioned to my companion to follow me. In a moment I was beside the garden wall again. I stood on my horse, reached the top of the wall, jumped, and ina moment was on the terrace, leaving Pettermann staring at me with amazement, but without uttering a word.
I walked a few steps into the garden; I saw my daughter, I ran to her, took her in my arms and covered her with kisses before she had time to recognize me; at last she was able to look at me and she cried joyfully:
“It is papa! my little papa! you have come back, haven’t you? I keep asking mamma every day if you are coming back.”
“Hush, hush, my child; come this way, on the terrace; I don’t want to be seen from the house.”
“Wait; I will go and call mamma.”
“No, no; don’t go; stay with me, don’t leave me; it is so long since I have kissed you, dear child! Do you think of me sometimes?”
“Oh! yes, papa, I longed so for you.”
“You longed to see me? And your mother, what does she say when you ask her about me?”
“She doesn’t say anything; she just says: ‘That will do; don’t mention your papa.’”
“She doesn’t want you to think of me, she wants you to forget me!”
“And yet she talks about you all day.”
“Your mother?”
“Let me go and tell mamma that you are here.”
“No, my dear love, I haven’t time to speak to her now. I must leave you too, for a very long time perhaps.”
“What? are you going away again? Oh! stay with us, papa, don’t go away!”
Poor child! I should have been so glad to stay with her. I sat down on the bench where her mother had sat just before, I took her in my lap and threw my arms about her. For a moment I had an idea of taking her with me, of stealing her from Eugénie; but the dear child couldnot travel with me, and perhaps she would cry for her mother every day in my arms; for a child can do without her father much better than without her who gave birth to her. No, I must leave her with her mother; it was much better that I should be the one to suffer and to be unhappy.
These reflections made my heart ache; I sighed as I held my little Henriette in my arms; she gazed at me, and, seeing that I was sad, she dared not smile. Poor child! and I had thought of taking you with me! No, in my arms you would too often lose that lightness of heart which is the only treasure of your age.
Suddenly I heard a voice calling:
“Henriette, Henriette, aren’t you coming?”
“Here I am, mamma,” cried the child. I sprang to my feet, placed her on the ground, kissed her several times, and ran away.
“Why, papa, wait, here comes mamma.”
Those words gave me wings; I reached the wall, I dropped on the other side, then I ran to Pettermann, leaped on my horse, and shouted:
“Gallop! gallop!”
We both urged our horses and were already far away from Aubonne before I dared to turn, for fear of seeing her on the terrace.
Two years had passed since I left Paris. Accompanied by my faithful Pettermann, I had travelled all over Spain; the memory of Gil Blas made my sojourn there more delightful; I looked for him at the inns, and on the public promenades; and more than once, when a beggar threw his hat at my feet, I looked to see if he were not taking aim at me with a carbine. The scullery maids and the mule drivers reminded me also of Don Quixote and his facetious squire; I would have liked to meet them riding in search of adventures. All honor to the poets who depict their heroes so vividly that one becomes convinced that they have really existed. Gil Blas and Don Quixote are only imaginary characters, and yet we sometimes fancy that we recognize them; we look for them in the country where the author has placed them. They must be very lifelike therefore, those pages of the novelist, since we attribute life to them, and they become engraved in our memories. For my own part, I know that it would be impossible for me to visit the mountains of Scotland without recalling Rob Roy; to visit Mauritius, without talking of Paul and Virginia; and to visit Italy without thinking of Corinne.
I crossed the Pyrenees, but the idea of seeing Switzerland occurred to me, and we left France again. My depression had vanished, I was no longer morose and taciturn as when I left home; Pettermann too had resumedhis habit of singing. We had travelled on horseback for some time; then I sold our steeds and we went through a large part of Andalusia on foot; after that, public conveyances or hired post-chaises carried us to other places. It was by diversifying thus our random journeyings, that I triumphed over the trouble that was consuming me; and it was not an easy matter. In truth, there was still a tinge of bitterness in my smile, and I concluded that that was something of which I could never rid myself.
In the different countries I had visited, I had seen many husbands who were in my position and who worried little about it. Some, jealous through self-esteem, were themselves unfaithful and tyrannized over their wives; others, pretending to be philosophical, treated very badly in private the wives whom in society they seemed to leave entirely at liberty. Many of them closed their eyes, and the great majority believed themselves too shrewd to be betrayed. But I had seen very few who really loved their wives, and who deserved by their attentions and their conduct that those ladies should be true to them.
I had had some love-affairs, but I had not lost my heart. I believed it to be no longer susceptible to love; it had been too cruelly lacerated. My heart was like an invalid with whom I was travelling; it was still weak, and it dreaded violent emotions.
Pettermann gave little thought to the other sex, and I was very glad of it for his sake; but he did not forget the promise I had given him, and he got completely drunk once every month. The rest of the time he drank moderately. I had had no reason to complain of him since he had entered my service. His disposition was equable and cheerful; he sang when he saw that I wasin good humor, he held his peace when I was pensive. But never a question, never an inquisitive word; he did not once mention Aubonne, where he had seen me scale the wall. I had every reason to think that he believed me a bachelor.
During the first year of my absence, I received letters from Ernest quite frequently, and I wrote to him whenever I sojourned for any length of time in one place. Faithful to the promise he had given me, he had abstained from mentioning her whom I hoped to forget entirely. He wrote me about my daughter and little Eugène; he said that my Henriette was as fascinating as ever; he had seen her several times. Did that mean that he had been to her mother’s house? That was something that I did not know. Ah! how I longed to see my daughter again, and to embrace her! It was for her that I had determined to return to Paris; I would hold her in my arms just once, and then I would set out on my travels again; I should have laid in a store of happiness which would last for some time. As for my—as for little Eugène, I could not think of that child without reviving all my suffering. I should have taken such pleasure in loving my son, in dividing my affection between him and his sister! and that happiness I was destined never to enjoy! Poor Eugène! what a melancholy future for him!
The last letters which I had received from Ernest had seemed to me different from the first ones; the style was no longer the same, and I detected embarrassment and reticence in them. In the last of all, I had noticed this sentence:
“There has been a great change here of late, my friend; you would not recognize the person from whom you fled. I dare not say more for fear of breaking my promise andbeing scolded. But come back soon, my dear Henri; your children long to see you and your friends to embrace you.”
My children—he persisted in saying my children. But I had only one. As for the change that he mentioned, what did it matter to me? Did he want to arouse my interest in that woman? No, I could not believe that. I did not mention the subject in my reply.
I was anxious, before returning to Paris, to see Auvergne, that mountainous and picturesque province, the Scotland of France, which those Frenchmen who rave over cliffs and glaciers and precipices would visit oftener if it were not so near them. We admire only what is at a distance; our only ambition is to see Scotland and Italy, and we do not give a thought to Auvergne, Bretagne, and Touraine.
I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and the Puy-de-Dôme. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I would turn to Pettermann and say:
“What do you think of this?”
But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his face; he would shake his head and reply coldly:
“It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn’t come up to the views in Munich.”
Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own country.
As we passed near Mont-d’Or, I determined to go there to taste the waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know what to do with their time.
I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of guests there; many foreigners, especiallyEnglishmen, but many Frenchmen too, notably thosechevaliers d’industrie, men with refined manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go to Mont-d’Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a result of yielding to the passion for play.
I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties. Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pass my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness and amiability which seemed to say: “I am a flirt but I can’t help it; you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never change.”
Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest ademoiselle; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still unmarried,—it was probable that it was her own choice.
She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and attentive to the fair sex; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover, he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.
Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of apetite-maîtresse. One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was enough.
Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent, or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his favorite companion.
“Monsieur Dalbreuse,” he said to me on the day after my arrival at Mont-d’Or, “just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece that she would like to see Mont-d’Or, and crac! we had to start. I remember being at Plombières thirty-five years ago, with the famous Lekain. Did you know Lekain?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain’s presence the part of Crispin, inLes Folies Amoureuses.”
“Ah! you have acted, have you?”
“Because I enjoyed it,—with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to play the upper servants.”
“And your niece?”
“My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a contractor’s country house.We had a pretty little theatre, on my word, and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know Mademoiselle Contat?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Ah! you haven’t seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and such a face! One day—I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that it wasTartufe. No, it wasn’tTartufe.”
Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in no wise regretted. She took her uncle’s arm and said:
“This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me then whether I was mistaken or not.
I went to drive with Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. A pretty calèche was awaiting them at the door. I noticed that the male visitors, as they bowed to Caroline, gazed at me with an envious eye as I took my seat opposite her in the carriage. I could understand that a charming woman of twenty-five, who had her own carriage, was likely to make numerous conquests everywhere. Some were in love with the woman, and others with the carriage. But I, who coveted neither, took my seat with the utmost tranquillity opposite Mademoiselle Derbin, and enjoyed the drive at leisure, because I was not occupied in making eyes at my vis-à-vis.
At times, Mademoiselle Derbin raved over the landscape; then, all of a sudden, she would begin to laugh at the costume of a water-drinker who passed us. Whilelaughing at her remarks, I pretended to be listening attentively to her uncle, who described the effect he had produced playing Mascarille before Molé.
The drive seemed short to me. We returned to the hotel, and in the evening we met again in the salon. I amused myself watching Mademoiselle Derbin. In company she was more coquettish and therefore less agreeable than in private. As I was not paying court to her, I discreetly walked away when I saw a number of adorers coming her way. So that, as a result of that eccentricity which is not uncommon in women, Mademoiselle Derbin seemed to seek my company, and often came to my side.
“You do not dance?” she asked me toward the end of the evening.
“No, I no longer care for dancing.”
“And you do not play cards?”
“They play for very high stakes here. I have an income which is sufficient for my needs; I do not care to endanger it with men who would consider it the most natural thing in the world to rob me of it.”
“You are a wise man!”
“Oh, no!”
“And you have no love-affairs here?”
“Do you think then that one must absolutely have love-affairs when one goes to a watering-place?”
“I don’t say that, but I think you are a most original person.”
“Original? no, I assure you that there are many men like me.”
She left me, after glancing at me with a singular expression. Did she desire to number me among her numerous conquests? It was possible; what she had just said to me might give me a poor idea of her virtue. An unmarried woman who considers it strange that a manhas no love-affairs! And yet, I preferred to think that that was simply due to her original character.
I had been a fortnight at Mont-d’Or, and I had intended to pass only one week there. But I was enjoying myself; the company was agreeable; however, if Caroline and her uncle had not been there, I should have gone away; I was becoming accustomed to their society. There was nothing to do there but converse, so that we were together almost all day. I was not making love to Caroline, but she was very pretty; her black eyes alternated in expression between gentleness and mischief. Although one be not in love, there is always a charm attached to the presence of a pretty woman; it was probably that charm which detained me.
There was not a ball or a concert in the assembly room every day; when there was none, we remained at the hotel, and those guests who were congenial met in the salon in the evening. Some played cards, but the greater number conversed. There were some titled persons, and they were not the most agreeable; but we left them to bore one another in their corner, and we chatted with the clever artist, who always had a store of amusing anecdotes in reserve, or with the lady’s man, who told us of his latest adventures. In that circle, Monsieur Roquencourt was not among those who talked least. If anyone mentioned a city, he had acted there; if anyone mentioned a famous personage, he had known an actor who had mimicked him to perfection, and he would proceed to give us a specimen.
I enjoyed listening; but I talked very little, and in what I did say, I did not mention myself. Caroline, who, for all her frivolous and coquettish air, observed very closely everything that took place in the salon, said to me one day:
“Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody here tells us his or her own experiences; you alone have kept silent thus far. Why is it?”