After that long and painful night I shut myself up in my study and tried to distract my thoughts in business. It was not ten o’clock when Bélan appeared; nothing could have been more disagreeable to me at that moment than his presence. He threw himself into an armchair, and said:
“This time, my dear fellow, it is impossible for me to doubt it; I am a cuckold!”
At that exordium I sprang from my chair and began to pace the floor, exclaiming testily:
“Morbleu! monsieur, you have been saying that so long that it would be very strange if you weren’t.”
Bélan stared at me and muttered:
“If that’s the kind of advice you give me!—Indeed! so that’s your opinion, is it?”
“I have no opinion or advice to give you. There are times when a man should look to nobody for advice buthimself. What I can’t conceive is that a man should go about proclaiming his shame as you do.”
“Proclaiming! what does that mean, I pray to know? Because I come to confide my troubles to a friend, you call it proclaiming my shame! Look you! I don’t care to be a cuckold myself; every man has his own way of looking at things. I know very well that there are some husbands to whom it doesn’t make any difference, who let their wives go about with their lovers and seem to pay no attention to it.”
I had listened to Bélan impatiently; at that moment I could contain myself no longer; I jumped at him, seized him by the collar, and shook him violently, crying:
“Did you come here to say that for my benefit, monsieur? Do you mean to insult me and to include me among those obliging husbands to whom you refer? Morbleu! Monsieur Bélan, I am in no mood to endure any impertinence on that subject.”
The poor little man had submitted to be shaken, being totally unable to defend himself, he was so dazed by my action. At last he cried out, gazing at me in dismay:
“Blémont, my friend, what on earth is the matter with you? You certainly are ill; you are not yourself!”
I relaxed my hold, and, ashamed of my outbreak of wrath, I threw myself in a chair and faltered:
“Yes—yes—I am not well. I thought that you meant to insult me—but——”
“I, mean to insult an old friend, when I came to confide my domestic unhappiness to him. You cause me grief, Blémont, you affect me. However, if you really think that I intended to jest about your—In the first place, I didn’t know that there was any excuse for jesting about you. However, if you want satisfaction, you know that I am not a fellow to retreat, I have furnishedmy proofs. I avoided the artilleryman, it is true, but one doesn’t fight with a stranger; with a friend it’s a very different matter.”
I gave Bélan my hand, saying:
“I tell you again, I don’t know what got into me. You and I fight! No, no, my dear Bélan, let us forget it all.”
Bélan shook my hand warmly.
“Let’s forget it, so I say, and shake hands. Yes, my dear fellow, I think that we may shake hands—most cordially. I will leave you, as you are preoccupied and engrossed by—er—disagreeable thoughts.—Perfidious Armide! Traitorous Armide! Pope was quite right!—Have you read Pope, my friend?”
“I—I don’t know. I think so.”
“If I had read him sooner, I should have looked twice before marrying. Do you remember what he says of women?”
“No.”
“Well, he says that every woman has a dissolute heart. What do you think of that?”
“I think that it is not polite.”
“But I fear that it is true. For instance, Armide has a dissolute heart; your wife also has a——”
“For God’s sake, Bélan, let us drop that subject!”
“Yes, I will tell you about my new discoveries some other time. Oh! these women! how sly they are! But you know that as well as I. Au revoir, my dear fellow.”
He did well to leave me; I was on the point of jumping at his throat again. Was it possible that I could not listen to a word about betrayed husbands, or unfaithful wives, without flying into a passion? I felt that I must keep a tight hold upon myself, that I must be cool and sensible; but I must also know the truth concerning the liaison between Eugénie and Monsieur Dulac.
Eugénie and I no longer spoke to each other except to make bitter, sneering remarks; most of the time we said nothing. Notwithstanding all that, I went everywhere with my wife; I would not allow her to go out without me. But in society I had that depressed, pensive manner which prevents one from being agreeable; for we met Monsieur Dulac at almost every party which we attended. If I played cards, I was inattentive to the game, because I was constantly looking about for my wife, to see if he was speaking to her, if he was with her. If she was playing, I sat by her side, to make sure that no one else should take that place. If she danced, and it happened to be with Monsieur Dulac, I compelled her to leave the ball abruptly and she dared not resist, for she could read in my eyes that I would make a scene before the whole assemblage. I am sure that I was universally esteemed a morose, ill-tempered, jealous bear, and that people said of Eugénie: “Poor little woman! her husband makes her very unhappy! he’s a tyrant! he’s a miserable fellow!”—Yes, people undoubtedly said such things of me; for the world almost always judges by appearances.
Only when caressing my daughter did I enjoy a moment’s happiness. Dear child! if I had been deprived of your caresses, what would have been left for me on earth? Her brother was still too young to understand me; but she seemed to read my unhappiness in my eyes, and to try to divert me from my sorrow by her soft words.
One morning, fatigued by a sleepless night, and even more by my thoughts, I dressed, and, contrary to my usual custom—which was to remain in my study until ten o’clock, I left the house before eight.
Chance—destiny, perhaps—led me to walk in the direction of Boulevard du Temple. At first I thought of going to see my mother; but I reflected that it was muchtoo early, as she seldom rose before ten o’clock. I concluded that it would be better to call on my friends on Rue du Temple; it was more than six months since I had seen them. So I walked to Ernest’s house, where I was told that he had moved, and that he now lived on Boulevard Saint-Martin.
I was about to go thither, when a woman in a cap and morning jacket, with a bowl of milk in her hand, nodded to me as she passed.
I turned; it was Lucile. I had not seen her since the day that my wife surprised us together on the Terrasse des Feuillants. She had turned and stopped; she was smiling at me. As I no longer feared that my wife was watching me, I walked back to bid Lucile good-morning.
“We don’t meet at the Tuileries this time.”
“No—that was a long while ago!—Do you think that I have changed?”
“Why, no; you are still charming.”
“Oh! how gallant monsieur is to-day! For my part, I must confess that you look thinner and paler. Marriage hasn’t been a great success with you, I should say.”
“Perhaps not. Do you live hereabout now?”
“Yes, on Rue Basse-du-Temple, and I came out to get my milk. What would you have? I am getting economical, I don’t keep a maid now! Will you come to breakfast with me? I will give you some coffee.”
“No, I can’t; I must go home.”
“Are you still afraid of being scolded, or followed, by your wife?”
“Oh, no! I assure you.”
“I believe you! She has something else to do than follow you!—Ha! ha! ha! poor Henri!”
When Lucile laughed I felt the blood rushing to my face; but I determined to restrain myself.
“Why do you laugh, Lucile? I don’t see how you can know it, even if my wife has many things to do.”
“I know more about it than you, perhaps. I am better informed than you imagine.”
“In the first place, you don’t know my wife.”
“I don’t know her! I saw her once on the Terrasse des Feuillants, and once is enough for me to recognize a person; I give you my word that I have recognized her perfectly since, and that I am not mistaken.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that your wife plays her little games like other people. Parbleu! I suppose you thought that you were a privileged mortal, didn’t you? No, monsieur, she has given you horns to wear, and she has done it very neatly too.”
I strove to conceal the torture I felt and answered:
“You enjoy saying spiteful things to me; that is your habit; but you would be sorely embarrassed to prove your slanderous remarks about my wife.”
“Slanderous! No, monsieur, there is no slander about it. Your wife looked to me like a drab the first time I saw her; but I wouldn’t have said anything about her if I hadn’t been sure of my facts. I can’t say that I am sorry that your wife has lovers; I should lie if I said that; but still it wasn’t I who told her to give you your horns—she didn’t need my advice for that.”
“This is too much, Lucile! You must prove what you have told me, and prove it instantly.”
“Oh! what a hurry you are in, monsieur! I never hurry, myself. If you want me to answer you, you must come to my room first of all; I must have my coffee, I am hungry.”
Lucile walked toward her house; I followed her, saying to myself every minute:
“I must restrain myself, I must be a man; and if she has told me the truth, I must still try to act with prudence.”
Lucile entered a house with a passageway at the side, near Rue de Crussol. She went up to the third floor, opened her door, and ushered me into a modestly furnished, but neat and well-kept room. She went to the fireplace, blew up her fire and prepared to boil her coffee. I seized her arm and stopped her.
“Will you leave me to suffer any longer, Lucile? I implore you, tell me all that you know about my wife!”
She looked at me; she seemed distressed.
“Mon Dieu! what a state you are in, Henri! If I had known it would have such an effect on you, I wouldn’t have told you. How stupid it is to feel badly over such a small matter! Your wife goes her way and you go yours—isn’t that the custom? You have mighty little philosophy!”
“I shall have enough when I am certain of my fate. Once more—speak!”
“Well, come to the window. Look: do you see that little low door over there?”
“Yes.”
“That is the rear entrance of a restaurant, a café, where there are private rooms—one of those assignation houses, you know.”
“I understand you.”
“If you go in this way, you are not seen, for you don’t go into the café at all. You go right upstairs; a bell calls a waiter, who opens a private room for you. Oh! it’s very convenient. I used to go there often.”
“Well?”
“Well! your wife goes there to meet her lover.”
“My wife! It is false!”
“Oh! I recognized her perfectly, although she generally comes in a cab and gets out a few steps away. She is always hidden by a broad-brimmed hat and wrapped in a shawl; but first of all I noticed her manner; I watched her. It amuses me to watch the lovers who go there. I haven’t anything to do, and it serves to pass the time! Yes, I am sure that it’s she. She hasn’t been there once only, but at least ten times.”
“What time does she come?”
“Usually it is only quarter-past, or half-past seven when she arrives, and she stays about an hour.”
“What a lie! my wife never gets up before nine o’clock.”
“So you think, my dear man! You imagine that she’s asleep.—What if I should tell you that she is over there now?”
“Now?”
“Yes; I saw her go in half an hour before I met you. Stay at the window; you will see a cab come that they will have sent for; madame will get in, and the gentleman will go away five minutes later. I know the whole programme.”
“What sort of looking man is he?”
“A young man, tall and dark. He’s very good-looking indeed; I must do your wife that justice.”
I took my hat and strode toward the door. Lucile ran in front of me.
“Where are you going?”
“To make sure that it’s they.”
“You are going to make a row! Can you think of such a thing?”
“No, you don’t know me. When I am certain of my misfortune, I shall be calm; but I propose to see them. Let me go, Lucile; I insist.”
“Very well! on condition that I go with you. I know the house, and I will show you the way, be your guide. But you promise——”
“It’s all right! come.”
Lucile put on her bonnet and threw a shawl over her shoulders. We went downstairs and soon stood before the house opposite. We opened a small wooden gate which rang a bell; then we ascended a short flight of stairs. Lucile took my hand and walked before me. My heart beat so violently that I was obliged to stop to recover my breath.
We arrived in a courtyard, where an attendant was waiting for us under a porch; he went upstairs before us. When we reached the landing, I stopped him:
“You have a gentleman and lady here?”
The waiter looked at me, uncertain whether he should reply. I put twenty francs in his hand and repeated my question, describing the two persons.
“Oh! I know who you mean, monsieur. In fact we don’t usually have anybody but them at this time of day. They’re there—on the front.”
“Give us a room next to theirs.”
The waiter opened the door of a large room. How was I to see them? If there were only a partition between us! but it was a solid wall. No matter! I would at least see her go out. The waiter received orders to notify me when they sent for a cab.
What a situation! to be so near one’s wife when she is in the arms of a lover! I was tempted to break down the door. But no, no, I determined to control myself, for my children’s sake. But suppose it were not she? I went close to the wall and listened. I heard sounds, but could distinguish nothing. Lucile softly opened the door leading into the hall, and said, pointing to the next door:
“You can hear better there.”
I walked to the door with the greatest caution and put my ear against it. Yes, I could hear very distinctly; they were kissing. And I made out these words:
“I must go now. I want to be in my room before monsieur leaves his study.”
It was she, it was certainly she in that room! that voice went to my heart, it caused a revolution in my whole being.
I returned to Lucile. I do not know what had taken place within me, or what expression my face wore; but Lucile threw herself at my feet, weeping, and faltered:
“Forgive me! oh! forgive me! Great heaven! if I had only known! How sorry I am for what I’ve done!”
I made no reply; I could not speak. The bell rang in the next room and I listened.
The waiter answered the bell and they sent for a cab. I recognized Dulac’s voice then. I tore my hair, but I restrained myself. The waiter came to me and told me when the cab was at the door; whereupon I left the room and waited at the foot of the stairs.
She came down at last; I heard the rustling of her dress. She had reached the last stair when I abruptly stepped in front of her and grasped her arm. Eugénie raised her eyes, and, terror-stricken, fell without a sound on the stairs.
I lifted her up, and put her, or rather, threw her into the cab; I gave the address to the driver, then I walked rapidly away as if I could not fly fast enough from that house where I had acquired proofs of my shame.
I walked a long time; thoroughly tired out, I stopped at last. I was in the country, in a lane bordered by hedges. I saw no houses; I had no idea where I was; but what did it matter? I sat down on the ground at the foot of a leafless tree; for nature was still dead, and there was no greenery about me.
I was alone; I rested my head on my hands and abandoned myself to my grief, to my despair. Why not confess? I shed tears, yes, I wept; but no one could see me, and it seemed to me that weeping afforded me some relief.
It was not her love alone that I regretted; it was the destruction of all my happiness, of all my future. My happiness! for some time past, it had ceased to exist; but I still flattered myself that it might live again; I still hoped for those pleasant days of confidence and love which had followed our wedding. But all was lost, and it was impossible that happiness should ever be born again for me. Impossible! ah! that is a cruel word; I could not believe that Eugénie had meant to condemn me to everlasting sorrow.
And yet there are many husbands who forgive or close their eyes to the infidelity of their wives. They themselves deceive their wives, and they think it quite natural that they should do likewise.
Ah! even if I had deceived Eugénie a thousand times, I could never have borne the thought of being deceived. If only, on yielding to their weakness, they did not cease to love us! But the new sentiment kills the old one. In proportion as they grow to love another, we become less lovable in their eyes, and ere long their hearts are entirely absorbed by their new passion.
I was resolved never to see her again; we must part, but without scandal, without noise. I had children, and it was for their sake that I determined to dissemble my unhappiness; it was for their sake that I had controlled myself that morning.
I might have struck Dulac, and a duel would have followed; but, after the remarks that had already been made, everybody would have divined the cause, the motive of the duel. I determined to find some other way of satisfying my thirst for vengeance, without publishing my dishonor before the eyes of the world.
I rose. There were moments when the rush of my thoughts distracted me from my misfortune and gave me new courage; but the next moment the arguments lost their force and I remembered all that I had lost. I saw myself alone on earth, when I had thought that the woman whom I adored loved me; I saw all my plans destroyed, all my dreams unfulfilled. Thereupon my heart broke, and my eyes filled with tears. I was like a person trying to climb out of an abyss, but constantly falling back to the bottom after every effort.
I walked on. I saw houses before me and a servant told me that I was at Montreuil. I looked at my watch: it was only noon. Great heaven! how the time would drag now!
I went into a sort of restaurant; I was not hungry, but I wanted to find some way of shortening the day; Idid not wish to return to Paris so early. It seemed to me that everybody would read my misfortune in my face; but I dreaded especially the returning to my house. I hoped, however, that I should not find her there. Her property would enable her to live comfortably; let her go, but let her leave me my children; I must have them; I believed that I had the right to take them away from their mother. In any event, it would be no great deprivation to her; she did not know how to love her children; in truth, she did not deserve that I should regret her.
I tried to eat, but it was impossible for me to swallow. I paid, and left the inn. I walked on, and then looked at my watch again; the time stood still. However, it was necessary for me to return to Paris sooner or later. I arrived there at three o’clock.
If she were still at my house, I felt that I could not endure her presence; I therefore determined to ascertain before going in.
It gave me a pang to see those boulevards again, and a still greater pang to see my home. I looked up at our windows. She used to sit there sometimes, watching for me, and smiling at me. Why was she not there now? Oh! if it only might all prove to be a dream, how happy I should be, what a relief it would be to me! but no, it was only too true, I no longer had a wife! there was no Eugénie for me! What had I done to her that she should make me so wretched?
Fool that I was! I was weeping again, although I was in the midst of Paris, amid that throng of people who would laugh at me if they knew the cause of my grief.
I must be a man, at least in the presence of other people.
I entered the house and accosted my concierge.
“Is madame at home?”
“No, monsieur, madame went away about ten o’clock, in a cab, with bundles and boxes, and with mademoiselle her daughter.”
“My daughter? She took my daughter?”
“Yes, monsieur; it looked to me as if madame were going into the country. Didn’t monsieur know it?”
I was no longer listening to the concierge. I went upstairs and rang violently. The maid admitted me; the poor girl began to tremble when she saw me.
“Your mistress has gone away?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame said that she was going into the country. In fact, when madame returned from the bath she looked very ill.”
“From the bath?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame went out very early to go to the bath.”
“Does she go often to the bath?”
“Why, yes, monsieur, quite often lately.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“Madame—told me not to.”
“Oho! Well?”
“At first, madame shut herself up in her bedroom for a long time; then she called me and told me to pack up, and to make haste; then she told me to go and call a cab; she had the bundles taken down, and then she went away with her daughter, saying: ‘Give this letter to monsieur.’”
“A letter! where is it?”
“I put it on your desk, monsieur.”
I rushed to my study. There was the letter. What could she have to write to me? I broke the seal and looked for the marks of tears upon it, but there were none. She had left me, left me forever, without evenshedding a tear! My heart sickened. Ah! if heaven were just, I thought, the day would come when I should make her shed as bitter tears as I had shed. I read the letter.
“Monsieur, I have deceived you. I might perhaps deny it still, but I prefer to be more honest than you were with me. I am guilty, I know it; but except for your example, I never should have been. And, although in the eyes of the law, I am a greater culprit than you, I do not consider myself so. I realize that we can no longer live together. Indeed, I think that it will be a blessing to us both to part. I shall keep my daughter, and you your son. My fortune will suffice for me, and I shall never need to have recourse to yours. Adieu, monsieur, pray believe that I sincerely wish you happiness.“EUGÉNIE.”
“Monsieur, I have deceived you. I might perhaps deny it still, but I prefer to be more honest than you were with me. I am guilty, I know it; but except for your example, I never should have been. And, although in the eyes of the law, I am a greater culprit than you, I do not consider myself so. I realize that we can no longer live together. Indeed, I think that it will be a blessing to us both to part. I shall keep my daughter, and you your son. My fortune will suffice for me, and I shall never need to have recourse to yours. Adieu, monsieur, pray believe that I sincerely wish you happiness.
“EUGÉNIE.”
What a letter! not a word of regret, not a syllable of repentance! Well, so much the better; that gave me courage. But my daughter, my Henriette; so I must live without seeing and embracing her every day! What inhumanity! Eugénie knew how dearly I loved my daughter, and she had taken her away. It was not from maternal affection; no, she did not know what it was to love her children. So that it was simply to make me more unhappy. Henriette, dear child, you would no longer come and climb on my knees every morning; I could no longer pass my hand through your fair hair and hold your head against my breast; and, ceasing to see me, perhaps you will cease to love me.
I threw myself into a chair, and laid my head on my desk; I do not know how long I stayed in that position.
I heard the maid; the poor girl was standing behind my chair and had been talking to me for a long time, for all that I knew.
“What do you want?”
“Will not monsieur dine? It is after six o’clock; that is why I ventured—I was afraid that monsieur was ill.”
“No, thanks, I will not dine. But what did my daughter say when she went away? What did she do, poor child?”
“Oh! she wanted to carry her doll, monsieur, but her mother would not let her; she told her that she would buy her another one.”
“Is that all?”
“Then Mamzelle Henriette said: ‘Why don’t we wait for papa before we go to ride?’”
“Dear child, she thought of me!”
Those words did me good. I came to my senses. Eugénie had not said where she was going, but I could learn through her banker. I simply must know, and then we would see if she would refuse to give me back my daughter. I cast my weakness behind me and thought only of avenging myself on Dulac. I knew where he would be that evening. I was to take madame there. But suppose that she had written to him, suppose she had informed him of what had taken place? But no, her first thought had been to fly.
I asked the maid if madame had written any other letters; she did not know. Ah! if Dulac should escape me that evening! It was nearly seven o’clock, so I dressed to go out. To go into society! to pretend to be calm, to smile, when my heart was torn! But it would not be for long, I hoped.
I put a large sum of money in my pocket. It was still too early to go to an evening party, so I walked aboutmy apartment. “Accursed apartment,” I said to myself, “where I began by being unhappy, you will not see me much longer!”
At last the clock struck eight; I left the house. The reception was at the house of the lady where the magic lantern had been exhibited. It was there that I had first had any enlightenment concerning my misfortune; it was just that I should be revenged there.
Some guests had arrived; but very few, and he was not among them. People asked me about madame; I said that she was not feeling well, and I took my place at a card table.
Whenever the door of the salon opened, I turned with an involuntary shudder. He did not come.
Bélan and Giraud arrived, and came to me to say good-evening; I pretended to be very intent upon the game, in order not to have to enter into conversation with them; but Bélan succeeded in coming close enough to me to whisper in my ear:
“My friend, I am not; everything has been explained to my perfect satisfaction. I will come some morning and tell you about it.”
I contented myself with shaking his hand; a little convulsively, no doubt, for he withdrew his, saying:
“I am deeply touched by the pleasure which it gives you.”
At last he appeared! he entered the salon and looked about; I divined whom he was looking for. He came toward me. Good! he knew nothing! He had the assurance to inquire for my wife’s health, and why she had not come. I restrained myself, I said a few vague words in reply, and I walked away from him.
I waited until he took his place at the écarté table, which he did at last. I bet against him. At the seconddeal, when we lost two points, I declared that our adversary had not cut the cards; I spoke as if I thought the cards had been stacked. The others looked at one another in amazement, and said nothing. Monsieur Dulac became thoughtful and distraught; he proposed to throw the hand out, but I refused.
We lost. I instantly took the vacant seat. I trebled my stake, so that the bettors should not bet on me; then I held my cards so that nobody could see them. I discarded my aces in order to lose. I demanded my revenge, and although it is customary to leave the table when one loses, I did not rise, and I doubled my stake again, indulging in more epigrams on my adversary’s good luck.
Monsieur Dulac showed great patience; he seemed ill at ease, but he said nothing. I lost again; I assumed the air of a determined gambler and increased my stake again. Again I lost; thereupon I rose and threw my cards in my adversary’s face.
It was impossible to take that peacefully. Dulac rose in his turn and asked me if I had intended to insult him. I laughed in his face and made no reply. Others tried to adjust the affair by representing to him that I was a bad loser and that my losses had irritated me. I saw plainly that everybody thought me in the wrong. Dulac said nothing, nor did I. I had done enough in public amply to explain a subsequent duel.
After a few moments I walked up to Dulac and said to him in an undertone:
“I shall await you to-morrow, at seven o’clock, with a friend, at the entrance to the forest of Vincennes; do not fail to be there, and be sure that this affair cannot be adjusted.”
He bowed in assent; I walked about the salon once or twice, then disappeared.
I required a second; my choice was already made; our real friends are never so numerous as to cause us embarrassment.
I went to see Ernest at his new home. They had gone out, they were at the theatre with their children. But they kept a servant now. I decided to wait for them, for I felt that I must see Ernest that evening.
The certainty of vengeance near at hand, or of an end of my troubles, calmed my passions a little. I reflected on my situation. I was going to fight. If I killed my opponent, that would not give me back my happiness. If he killed me, my children would be delivered over to the tender mercies of a mother who did not love them; so that even that duel could not have a satisfactory result. Was it really necessary? Yes, because I abhorred Dulac now. And yet he had only played the part of a young man, he had done only what I myself had done when I had been a bachelor. My wife was much the guiltier, and her I could not punish.
I had nothing to write, in case I should be killed; for my children would inherit all my property. I prayed that they might always remain in ignorance of their mother’s sin.
How much misery may result from an instant’s weakness! If a woman could ever calculate it, would she be guilty? But did I myself calculate it before my marriage? No; we must have passions and torments and excitement. A pure and tranquil happiness would bore us, and yet there are some people who know that happiness; there are privileged beings; and there are some too who have no passions, who love as they eat, or drink, or sleep. Having no knowledge of veritable love, they do not suffer its torments; perhaps they are the happier for it.
After five years and a few months of married life, and a love marriage, too! She seemed to love me so dearly! was it not real love at that time? If not, what constrained her to tell me so and to marry me? Her mother did only as she wished. The woman who is forced to give her hand to a man whom she does not love is much less guilty when she betrays her faith. But to manifest so much love for me, and—But no, I must forget all that.
Ernest and his wife returned from the play, and were told that a gentleman was waiting for them in their salon. They came in and exclaimed in surprise when they saw me:
“Why, it is Blémont!”
“It is Monsieur Henri! How long it is since we have seen you! how do you happen to come so late?”
“I wanted to see you; I have a favor to ask of Ernest.”
They both looked at me and both came toward me simultaneously.
“What’s the matter, pray? What has happened to you?”
“How pale he is, and how distressed!”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Oh! yes, my friend, something is wrong; is your wife sick? or your children?”
“I no longer have a wife, I have no children with me; I am alone now.”
“What do you say?” cried Marguerite; “your wife?”
“She has deceived me, betrayed me; she is no longer with me.”
They did not say a word; they seemed thunderstruck. I rose and continued in a firmer voice:
“Yes, she has deceived me, that same Eugénie, whom I loved so dearly; you know how dearly, you who were the confidants of my love. It was only this morning thatI obtained proofs of her perfidy. I am not used to suffering as yet; I shall get used to it perhaps; but I swear, I will do my utmost to forget a woman who is not worthy of me. I have been unfortunate in love; I shall at least find some relief in friendship.”
Ernest and Marguerite threw themselves into my arms; Marguerite wept and Ernest pressed my hand affectionately. At last I released myself from their embrace.
“It is late, my friends; forgive me for coming thus to disturb your happiness. Good-night, my little neighbor.—Ernest, a word with you, please.”
He followed me to a window.
“I am to fight to-morrow; you can guess with whom and for what reason. I need not tell you that there is no possible adjustment, although we are supposed to be fighting because of a dispute at cards. Will you be my second?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I shall expect you to-morrow morning, promptly at seven o’clock.”
“I will be on time.”
Marguerite had gone into another room. She returned at that moment and said:
“Don’t you wish to kiss our children before you go?”
At that suggestion, tears came to my eyes; for I reflected that I could not kiss my daughter before going to bed that night.
Marguerite evidently divined my thought.
“Oh! pray forgive me,” she said; “I have pained you. Oh dear! I didn’t mean to.”
I pressed her hand, nodded to Ernest, and hurried from the room.
Once more I was compelled to return to that apartment. It was torture to me. How empty it seemed!and in fact it was empty; no wife, no child about me. It was not Eugénie whom my eyes sought; she had avoided and shunned my presence for a long while. It was my daughter, my little Henriette—she did not avoid me! What a miserable night I passed! not a moment’s sleep. I wondered if she who made me so unhappy was sleeping quietly.
At last the day came, and at six o’clock Ernest was at my house. I took my pistols; a cab was below, and I told the driver to go to Vincennes.
I did not say a word during the drive. Just as we arrived, Ernest said to me:
“If you should fall, my friend, have you nothing to say, no orders to give?”
“No, my dear Ernest, for except you and your wife, no one really cares for me. My son is not old enough to understand the loss he would sustain. My daughter—she would cry perhaps, and that is why nothing must be said to her. Poor child! I do not want to make her shed a tear.”
We arrived, and I saw two men walking to and fro a few gun shots from the château; they were Dulac and his second. We hurried toward them and joined them; they bowed to us; I did not respond to the salute, but strode on toward the woods.
I did not know Dulac’s second; he was not one of our circle; so much the better. I do not know what Dulac had said to him, but I am convinced that he was not deceived as to the motive which had caused me to pick a quarrel with him the night before.
We stopped; the seconds gave us the weapons after examining them; then they measured off the distance.
“Fire, monsieur,” I said to Dulac; “I am the aggressor.”
“No, monsieur,” he replied coldly; “it is for you to fire first, you are the insulted party.”
I did not wait for him to say it again; I fired and missed him. It was his turn; he hesitated.
“Fire,” I said to him; “remember, monsieur, that this affair cannot end thus.”
He fired. I was not hit. Ernest handed me another pistol. I aimed at Dulac again, I pulled the trigger, and he fell.
I am not naturally cruel, but I wished that I had killed him.
I left the wood at once; Ernest followed me, after telling Dulac’s second that he would send somebody to him.
At last, fate had been just; my thirst for vengeance had been satisfied. I should have felt a little relieved, but I did not; it was because I was not avenged on her who had injured me most. I thanked Ernest and left him, promising him to go often to his house. He insisted that I should come that very day to dine with them; but I felt that I must be alone a little longer. I would go when I had learned to endure, or at least to conceal, my sorrow.
I looked for an apartment in Ernest’s neighborhood, far away from that in which I had lived. I hired the first vacant one that I found, then returned home. I went tomy landlord and paid what he demanded to allow me to move at once. At last I was free. I ordered my furniture to be moved instantly.
I dismissed my servant. I had no reason to complain of her, far from it; but she had been in my service during the time that I was determined to forget; I did not want to see her again. At last I was free. I gave her enough to enable her to wait patiently for other employment.
My furniture was taken to my new apartment on Rue Saint-Louis. I installed myself there. I felt better at once, for I breathed more freely there. There is nothing like change, for diseases of the heart as well as for those of the body.
I would have liked to go to see my son, but it was too late to start for Livry that day. I went to Eugénie’s banker to try to find out where she was. I wanted to write to her, I wanted her to give me back my daughter. Two children would be none too many to take the place of all that I had lost.
The banker was a most excellent man. I was careful not to tell him the real cause of my separation from my wife. I gave him to understand that our dispositions and our tastes had changed, and we had both thought it best to adopt that course, which was irrevocable. So that it was not for the purpose of running after my wife that I wanted to know where she was, but simply to write to her on the subject of some business matters which we had not been able to adjust.
He did not know where Eugénie was; she had not written to him; but he promised to send me her address as soon as he knew it.
So I was forced to wait before seeing my daughter. If I had had her with me, it seemed to me that I mightrecover all my courage and be happy again. Yes, I believed that I could be happy again, embracing that sweet child. If only I had her portrait. I had often had an idea of painting her, but business or quarrels with her mother had prevented me from beginning the work. “I will wait a few days,” I thought; “then the original will return to me, and I will not part from her again.”
My regret at not having painted her portrait reminded me of that other which I always carried with me. I determined to shatter it as she had shattered mine long ago.
Eugénie’s portrait was set inside a locket. I took it out, opened it, and in spite of myself, my eyes rested upon that miniature, which reproduced her features so exactly. I do not know how it happened, but my rage faded away. I felt moved, melted. Ah! that was not the woman who had betrayed and abandoned me! that was the woman who had loved me, who had responded so heartily to my passion, whose eyes were always seeking mine! That Eugénie of the old days was a different person from the Eugénie of to-day; why then should I destroy her portrait? I looked about me; I was alone. My lips were once more pressed upon that face. It was a shameful weakness; but I persuaded myself that I saw her once more as she was five years before; and that delusion afforded me a moment’s happiness.
Early the next morning I started for Livry. That road recalled many memories. My son was only eleven months old; but I determined that as soon as it could be done without injuring his health, I would take him away from his nurse, and not go to that place any more.
I reached the peasants’ house. They asked me about my wife as before. I cut their questions short by telling them that she had gone on a long journey. Then I asked for my son. They brought little Eugène to me. I tookhim in my arms and was about to cover him with kisses, when suddenly a new idea, a heartrending thought passed through my mind; my features altered, I put aside the child, who was holding out his arms to me, and replaced him in his nurse’s arms.
That worthy woman utterly failed to understand the change which had taken place in me. She gazed at me and cried:
“Well! what’s the matter? You give me back your son without kissing him! Why, he is a pretty little fellow, poor child!”
“My son!” I said to myself, “my son! he is only eleven months old, and Dulac began coming to the house before Eugénie was enceinte.”
A new suspicion had come to aggravate my suffering. Who could assure me that that was my child? that I was not on the point of embracing the fruit of their guilty intercourse?
At that thought I sprang to my feet.
“Are you sick, monsieur?” the nurse asked me.
I did not answer her, but left the house. I walked about for some time in the fields. I realized that thenceforth I should not be able to think of my son without being haunted by that cruel thought; when I embraced the child, that suspicion would poison my happiness, and would diminish the affection that I should otherwise have had for him. And these women claim that they are no more guilty than we are! Ah! they are always sure when they are mothers; they are not afraid lest they may lavish their caresses on a stranger’s child. That is one great advantage that they have over us. But nature does not do everything; one becomes a father by adopting an innocent little creature; and he who neglects and abandons his children ceases to be a father.
I returned to the nurse’s house, somewhat calmer.
The poor woman was sitting in a corner with the child in her arms; she dared not bring him to me again.
I went to her and kissed the child on the forehead, heaving a profound sigh. I commended him to the peasants’ care, I gave them money, and I returned to Paris more depressed than ever.
I found Ernest at my rooms waiting for me. He had been to my former home, had learned my new address, and had been looking for me everywhere since the morning, to divert me and comfort me.
“What do people say in society?”
That was my first question when I saw him; for I confess that my greatest dread was that people should know that my wife had deceived me, and it was much less on my own account than on hers that I dreaded it.
I did not wish that she should be held guilty in the eyes of society; it was quite enough that she should be guilty to my knowledge; so I begged Ernest to conceal nothing from me.
“Your duel is known,” he said, “but it is attributed to the quarrel you had at the card table. You are generally blamed, and people are sorry for your adversary. Dulac is not dead; indeed, it is thought that he will recover; but he is seriously wounded, and he will be in bed for a long while. I do not know how it happened that Giraud knew of your change of abode, and that you have moved here without your wife. He questioned the concierges, no doubt. He has been about everywhere, telling of it. People are talking; and everyone makes up his own story; the majority think that you made your wife so unhappy that she was obliged to leave you.”
“So much the better; let people think that, and let them put all the blame on me; that is what I want. Onlyyou and your wife know the truth, my dear Ernest; and I am very sure that you will not betray my confidence.”
“No, of course not; although it makes me angry to hear people accuse you and pity your wife. If I were in your place, I am not sure that I should be so generous.”
“But my children, my friend, my daughter!”
“That is so; I didn’t think of them.”
“What do I care for the blame of society? it will see little of me at present!”
“I trust, however, that you are not going to become a misanthrope, but that you will try to amuse yourself, and try to forget a woman who does not deserve your regrets; to act otherwise would be inexcusable weakness.”
“I promise to try to follow your advice.”
“To begin with, you must come home to dinner with me.”
I could not refuse Ernest, although solitude was all that I now desired. I went home with him. His companion overwhelmed me with attentions and friendliness; their children came to caress and to play with me. During dinner they did all that they could to divert my thoughts. I was touched by their friendship, but the sight of their domestic happiness, of that happy family, was not adapted to alleviate my pain; on the contrary, it increased it twofold. For I too had a wife and children! Ah! such pictures were not what I wanted to see; they broke my heart. What I wanted was a crowd, uproar, noisy amusements; I needed to be bewildered, not moved.
I left my good friends early. Three days later I received a letter from Eugénie’s banker; he informed me that she was temporarily at Aubonne, near Montmorency. So I knew where my daughter was, and that did me good; it always seems that we are less distant frompeople when we know where they are. I remembered that an old kinswoman of Eugénie’s mother lived at Aubonne; she was probably living with her. I did not know whether she would remain there, but I determined to write to her at once.
I sat down at my desk. I did not know how to begin, for it was the first time that I had ever written to Eugénie. We had never been separated. I did not propose to indulge in any reproaches in regard to her conduct. What good would it do? One should never complain, except when one is willing to forgive. I would go straight to the point, without beating about the bush.
“Madame, you have taken my daughter away; I wish, I insist, that she should remain with me. Keep your son; you can give him that name; but ought I too to call him my son? Take that child, and give me back my daughter. It will be no deprivation to you; besides, I will allow her to go to see her mother whenever you wish. I trust, madame, that I shall not be obliged to write to you a second time.”
I signed this letter and sent it at once to the post; I was impatient to have a reply.
I could no longer attend to business, so I abandoned my profession. I had enough to live on, now that I no longer proposed to keep house or to receive company. But what should I do to employ the time, which is so long when one suffers? I would return to my brushes; yes, I would cultivate once more that consoling art; I would give myself up to it entirely, and it would make my time pass happily. That idea pleased me; it seemed to me like returning to my bachelor life. But for my children, I would have left France and have travelled forsome time; but my daughter was still too young for me to subject her to changes of climate which might injure her health.
Two days had not passed when I received a letter from Aubonne; it was Eugénie’s reply. I trembled as I opened it.