“I have learned, monsieur, that you wished to leave this hotel last night. Let not my presence cause you to leave a place where you seem to be enjoying yourself; I swear to you, monsieur, that you will not meet me again; I shall not leave my room again, and if my strength had allowed, I should have gone away instantly. I have left your daughter with Madame Firmin. She and her husband consented to undertake to act as parents to your children. I think that you will approve of my having left your Henriette with them; however, you will be at liberty to dispose of your daughter as you choose; I give her back to you, I no longer desire to retain anything except my tears and my remorse.”
“I have learned, monsieur, that you wished to leave this hotel last night. Let not my presence cause you to leave a place where you seem to be enjoying yourself; I swear to you, monsieur, that you will not meet me again; I shall not leave my room again, and if my strength had allowed, I should have gone away instantly. I have left your daughter with Madame Firmin. She and her husband consented to undertake to act as parents to your children. I think that you will approve of my having left your Henriette with them; however, you will be at liberty to dispose of your daughter as you choose; I give her back to you, I no longer desire to retain anything except my tears and my remorse.”
How weak we are! I was incensed with her when I opened the note, and when I had read it I was deeply moved, completely upset! That letter was still wet with her tears. What a difference between it and the one with which she answered mine two years before! If she had written thus to me then—I did not know what I would have done. She gave me back my daughter, she had left her with Marguerite; how did it happen that she had entrusted her daughter to her? What change had taken place in her in two years? I was utterly at sea; but I wasdelighted to know that my little Henriette was with my loyal friends.
As for the memorandum book, I could not understand with what purpose she had sent it to me. Did she hope to force me to love her again, did she hope to obtain forgiveness by restoring that portrait to me? Oh, no! I had loved her too dearly to forgive her. Why had Ernest given her that souvenir? I determined to send it back to her.
I took the book in my hands and turned it over and over, as if to make sure that it was really mine; finally I opened it, to see if the painting had faded much in two years.
What did I see? The portrait of Eugénie was no longer there, but the portrait of my daughter, of my Henriette! Dear child! Yes, it was really she; there was her smile, there were her eyes. It seemed to me as if I had her before me! I kissed my child’s image. “Dear book,” I thought, “you shall never leave me again now; for although a child may tire of seeing her father, a father always takes pleasure in gazing at his child’s features.”—Ah! how grateful I was to Eugénie for sending me that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake that duty better than her daughter?
I desired to know who had placed those things on my mantel. I rang and Pettermann appeared, still rubbing his eyes.
“Pettermann, you were drunk yesterday?”
“Yes, monsieur, it was my day.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Why, not very long. I had a downright good one yesterday. Prout!”
“I know it, for I saw you and spoke to you.”
“Faith, I didn’t see you or hear you, monsieur.”
“Then you haven’t told anybody in the inn that I intended to go away last night?”
“Go away last night?”
“And it wasn’t you who placed this memorandum book and this note on my mantel this morning?”
“No, monsieur, I haven’t been into your room since yesterday morning.”
“Pettermann, send me the little maid-servant, whose name I believe is Marie,—a stout, short girl.”
“Oh! I know, monsieur, she is the one who brought me my breakfast yesterday.”
The maid appeared. She denied having brought the note and the book; but she confessed that she had said that morning, before the other servants, that I had wanted to go away in the night.
What did it matter by whom Eugénie had sent me those things? I was no longer angry with her for doing it; but as I did not wish to compel her to keep her room, I would go away. And yet, if I should go at once, she would think that I could not endure to be near her, and I did not want to convey that idea to her, as a reward for the presents she had made me. I did not know what course to pursue.
I had ordered breakfast served in my room, and was about to sit down, when Monsieur Roquencourt appeared.
“Good-morning, Monsieur Dalbreuse.”
“Monsieur, accept my respects. What happy circumstance affords me the honor of this early visit?”
“My dear friend, my niece has sent me to ask you to come to breakfast with us and to drink a cup of tea. She hurried me, she hurried me so! Luckily, I dress very fast. When one has acted in theatricals, one is so accustomed to change one’s costume! By the way, my dear Monsieur Dalbreuse, what is this that my niece tells me?You attempted to go away last night, to leave us without even bidding us good-bye?”
“It is true, monsieur, that——”
“The idea of skipping scenes like that! of running away! I don’t understand that anyone is pursuing you, like Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. Ha! ha! ha! how I have made people laugh playing that devilish Pourceaugnac! It is a terribly hard part; many people have acted it, but the man whom I rank above all others in it is Baptiste Cadet. Ah! such admirable fooling, monsieur! For Pourceaugnac is not stupid, he’s a fool, but a well-bred fool; he shouldn’t be made an idiot with no manners. Baptiste Cadet grasped perfectly all those delicate shades of character, and——”
“But, monsieur, if mademoiselle your niece is waiting for us——”
“Yes, you are right, she is waiting for us. I warn you that she is terribly angry with you. That’s why she wants you to come to breakfast with us. She said that you were a horrid man. Ha! ha!”
I followed Monsieur Roquencourt. So Caroline proposed to scold me because I had intended to go away; had she a right to do it? To my mind, she had not.
Mademoiselle Derbin was sitting down and drinking tea; she honored me with a slight nod; I saw plainly enough that she was angry, but that she did not mean to appear so.
Monsieur Roquencourt took my hand and presented me to his niece with a comical expression on his face.
“‘Bourguignon, here is Lisette; Lisette, here is Bourguignon.’”
“What does all this mean, uncle?” said Caroline testily. “What are you talking about, with your Bourguignons and your Lisettes?”
“What! what does that mean? Do you mean to say that you never sawLes Jeux de l’Amour et du Hasard?”
“Did you bring monsieur here to act? I thought that it was to breakfast with us.—Pray sit down, monsieur; my uncle is unendurable with his theatricals!”
“In other words, you are cross this morning; that’s the real fact.”
“I, cross? Upon my word! why should I be cross? What reason have I for being cross?”
“I tell you that you are. However, I warned Monsieur Dalbreuse; I said to him: ‘My niece is mortally offended with you!’”
“Really, uncle, I don’t know what is the matter with you to-day. Did I tell you to say anything like that? Why should I be offended with monsieur? Because he intended to go away last night without even bidding us adieu? But after all, is not monsieur his own master? We are nothing more than mere acquaintances of his; people with whom he is content to amuse himself when it does not put him out, but of whom he ceases to think as soon as he has left them.”
“Oh! I trust you don’t think that, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, monsieur, I do think it; in fact I am convinced of it; if you had looked upon us in any other light, if you had had ever so little regard for us, you would not have wanted to leave us thus, and we should not be indebted solely to the drunkenness of your servant for the pleasure of seeing you again to-day.”
“Mademoiselle, an unexpected circumstance sometimes forces us to part from those persons who are most attractive to us.”
“Yes, to be sure, when there are other persons whom we are in a hurry to see, and for whom we forget even the simplest rules of courtesy.”
“My dear fellow, I warned you—she is very angry with you.”
“Mon Dieu! how disagreeable you are to-day, uncle!”
Monsieur Roquencourt laughed and drank his tea; I did the same. Caroline said nothing more, and did not turn her eyes in my direction. The uncle bore the whole weight of the conversation.
After a few moments, Caroline said to him:
“Have you heard from Madame Blémont this morning, uncle?”
“No, not yet.”
“That lady has a most distinguished air; I like her appearance very much.”
“Yes, she has very beautiful eyes; she reminded me of Mademoiselle Contat in——”
“Uncle, would it not be polite for you to go in person to ask how she passed the night?”
“I! why my dear girl, that lady is all alone; would she care to receive a visit from a man?”
“Oh! you have reached the age, uncle, when visits from you are of no consequence.”
“What do you say, niece? Do you know that I am still quite capable of making conquests? And if I chose——”
“But I am sure that you do not choose, my dear uncle. Go up to that lady’s room, I beg you.”
“I will go, but I will not answer for the consequences.”
When her uncle had left us, Caroline turned to me, and said in a tone which denoted a depth of feeling that I had not supposed her to possess:
“Why were you going away so suddenly and without seeing me? Tell me why, I beg you.”
“Urgent business summoned me to Paris.”
“I do not believe that; you had no letter yesterday. What had I done to you to cause such an abrupt departure? Had I said anything which hurt you? I am sometimes so foolish, so thoughtless——”
“No, mademoiselle, far from it. I am overwhelmed by your kindness, your indulgence.”
“My kindness! my indulgence! anyone would think that you were talking to your tutor! But why were you going, then?”
“I cannot tell you, mademoiselle.”
“Aha! so monsieur has secrets. All right! I prefer to have you tell me that. But my portrait—did you intend to carry that away?”
“No, mademoiselle, I should have had it delivered to you.”
“You would have sent it to me! but it is not finished; there is a great deal still to be done on it.”
At that moment the uncle returned and said:
“The lady is not visible yet. I expected as much. But she is greatly touched by our thoughtfulness and feels a little better this morning.”
“I am glad of that. I will go to see her.—By the way, uncle, when do we return to Paris?”
“When! upon my soul! that is a sensible question! I do exactly as she wishes, and she pretends to wait upon my desires. Ha! ha! that’s a good joke!”
“Well, it seems to me that we might pass another week here. And if Monsieur Dalbreuse’s business were not so urgent, we would invite him to accept a seat in our carriage, and take him to Paris with us.—Well, monsieur, will you tell us what you think of my uncle’s proposition?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; for although my niece always arranges everything to suit her own whim, I must needspretend to have done it. However, be sure that I shall be most delighted to have you for a travelling companion.”
I did not know what to say, what to decide upon; it seemed to me that I ought to go, and yet it would be most agreeable to me to remain. A week soon passes. I should not come into contact with Madame Blémont, since she would remain in her room, and she herself had entreated me not to go away.
While I made these reflections, Caroline came to my side. At last she tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“Whenever you are ready, monsieur,—we are waiting for your reply.”
“Oh, excuse me, mademoiselle; I was thinking——”
“Will you return to Paris with us?”
“I am afraid of incommoding you. I have someone with me.”
“Your German? There is a seat behind the carriage.”
“Very well, I accept, mademoiselle.”
“Ah! that is very kind of you!”
Once more Mademoiselle Derbin was in a charming humor. She arranged a drive for the day, intending to visit some points of view in the neighborhood of which someone had told her. We must be ready in an hour; she left us to attend to her toilette; we were to have no sitting for the portrait that day.
Caroline was a spoiled child; that was evident from her wilful manner, from her fits of impatience when her whims were not gratified; but she was so attractive, so fascinating when she chose to be agreeable, that it was really difficult to resist her. I believed that she had an affectionate, susceptible heart, a little inclined to enthusiasm perhaps. The interest that she manifested in me troubled me sometimes; I dreaded lest she should be in love with me. I dreaded it, because that love could notmake her happy; but in the depths of my heart I should have been flattered, yes, enchanted; for our self-esteem is always more readily listened to than our reason.
To divert my mind from such ideas, I gazed at my daughter’s portrait, I asked her pardon for not returning to her at once; but I knew that she was with Ernest and his wife, and I was certain that she was well and that they often talked to her about me.
The hour for our drive arrived and I joined Mademoiselle Derbin and her uncle. Caroline wore a lovely costume; her great dark eyes shone with a deeper light than usual; they expressed pleasure and satisfaction.
“Do you think that I look well in this dress, monsieur?” she asked.
“I think that you always look well, mademoiselle.”
“Is that true? Do you mean what you say?”
“To be sure I do. Besides, I am only the echo of the whole world.”
“I do not like to have you an echo; I don’t ask you what other people say; that is entirely indifferent to me.”
We were just about starting when Caroline exclaimed:
“By the way, suppose I should invite Madame Blémont to go with us?”
“You know very well that she is ill, mademoiselle; she will refuse.”
“A drive cannot fail to do her good. I am going to ask her.”
“You are taking useless trouble, mademoiselle.”
“We will see about that, monsieur.”
She paid no heed to me and left us. But I was not alarmed; Eugénie certainly would not accept.
Monsieur Roquencourt came up to me and, pointing to his waistcoat, which was made of white silk, with colored flowers, and cut after the style of Louis XV, said to me:
“What do you think of this waistcoat?”
“It is very original.”
“I wore it in the part of Monsieur de Crac.”
“I can well imagine that it must be very effective on the stage.”
“All the ladies raved over it; but I played Monsieur de Crac very nicely too. In the first place, I talk Gascon as well as if I were a native of Toulouse, and Dugazon gave me a few lessons for that part. My first lines were admirable:
“‘Enfants, pétits laquais qué jé né logé pas,Jé suis content; allez, je paîrai vos papas.On né mé vit jamais prodigué dé louanges,Mais ils ont rabattu commé des pétits anges.’”
“‘Enfants, pétits laquais qué jé né logé pas,Jé suis content; allez, je paîrai vos papas.On né mé vit jamais prodigué dé louanges,Mais ils ont rabattu commé des pétits anges.’”
Monsieur Roquencourt might have recited the whole play if he pleased, for I was not listening to him; I was awaiting Mademoiselle Derbin’s return most impatiently. At last she appeared, and, as I hoped, alone; there was an expression of something more than annoyance on her face.
“Let us go, messieurs,” she said; “Monsieur Dalbreuse predicted that my trouble would be thrown away; Madame Blémont refuses to come with us.”
We entered the carriage and began our drive. I was most anxious to know what those ladies had said to each other, but I dared not question Caroline. She saved me the trouble, for she said, gazing earnestly at me:
“Monsieur Dalbreuse, do you know Madame Blémont?”
“I, know that lady? Why,—no, mademoiselle.”
“You act as if you weren’t quite sure.”
“I beg your pardon, but why did you ask me that question?”
“Because she did nothing but talk about you all the time I was with her; asking me if I had known you long, if we had ever met anywhere before. That struck me as rather strange. When I told her that we intended to return to Paris together, she made a wry face. Ha! ha! it is very amusing.—And you say that you never met her in Paris?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Then you apparently made a conquest of her last night; isn’t that so, uncle?”
“My dear girl, what would there be so extraordinary in that? I myself made ten conquests in the part of Figaro. To be sure, my cherry and white costume was very elegant.”
“It seems that Monsieur Dalbreuse does not need to be dressed as Figaro in order to fascinate the ladies. I confess that this particular one does not attract me so much as she did. I looked closely at her this morning. Great heaven! such thinness! such pallor! She certainly can never have been very pretty.”
I was on the point of contradicting her, but I restrained myself and said nothing.
After a drive of several hours, we returned to the hotel. We noticed much commotion among the people of the house, and a servant informed us that new guests had arrived: two English lords and their ladies, and a gentleman from Paris, who alone made as much fuss as four people.
Caroline went at once to change her dress, in order to outshine the Englishwomen, and perhaps also to turn the heads of the Englishmen and the Parisian.
I returned to my room and reflected upon what Mademoiselle Derbin had told me of her conversation with Madame Blémont. What did my intimacy with Carolineor with any woman matter to Eugénie? Was I not at liberty to dispose of my heart as I chose? But women have so much self-esteem that even when they no longer love you they are vexed to see that you follow their example. Men are much the same too.
I went without apprehension to the evening reception, being fully persuaded that Madame Blémont would not be tempted to appear.
There were many people in the salon. The English party was already there; the two young women were young and pretty and their travelling companions—I did not know whether they were their husbands—paid no attention to them, but were already deep in politics with the Spaniard and some Frenchmen. Several young men were already playing the gallant with the young women. I joined Mademoiselle Derbin, who was almost deserted for the new arrivals, although they were not to be compared with her.
I sat down beside her; I was pleased to see that she was not annoyed at the desertion of her little court.
“So you don’t do like the rest?” she said with a smile; “you don’t go to offer incense to the strangers?”
“I have no inclination to do so; why should one change when one is well off?”
“That often happens, however.”
“Alas, yes! but apparently it may be that one is well off and does not realize it.”
“I trust that I shall never have the experience.”
I do not know how it happened that at that moment Caroline’s hand was under mine. She did not take it away, and we sat thus for a long while, paying no heed to what was taking place in the salon. But the touch of that hand reminded me of Eugénie and of the time when I was paying court to her. Doubtless Caroline had nosuspicion that the pressure of her hand made me think of another woman, and that it was that which made me pensive. But we very often deceive ourselves with respect to the sensations which we arouse. And the thing which flatters our self-esteem would sometimes cause us naught but vexation if we knew its real cause.
Suddenly the door of the salon was noisily opened and someone entered, talking very loud and making a great uproar. I turned, for whenever anyone entered the salon, I felt a thrill of uneasiness.
“This is the gentleman from Paris, no doubt,” said Caroline.
I looked at the newcomer, who was just saluting the company; it was Bélan!
He had already turned in our direction; he bowed to Mademoiselle Derbin, and, in spite of the signals that I made to him, exclaimed when he saw me:
“I am not mistaken! it is Blémont! dear Blémont, whom I have not seen for two years! Ah! my dear friend, embrace me!”
He opened his arms; it seemed to me that I could choke him with great good will. All eyes were turned upon us. I could not conceal my embarrassment, my irritation. Bélan seized me and embraced me in spite of myself, still exclaiming:
“Dear Blémont! how pleasant it is to meet a friend when travelling, isn’t it?”
“Hum! may the devil take——”
“What’s that? He has not yet got over his surprise.”
Caroline, her attention attracted by the name of Blémont, gazed steadfastly at me and said to Bélan:
“Why, are you not mistaken, monsieur? It is Monsieur Dalbreuse whom you are speaking to. Am I not right, monsieur? Pray answer!”
I did not know what to say. Bélan rejoined:
“So his name is Dalbreuse now? Faith, my dear fellow, I never knew you by that name, but I understand—ah! the rascal!—it was when he left his wife that he changed his name, in order to play the bachelor.”
“His wife!” cried Caroline.
“His wife!” several others repeated.
“Monsieur,” I said, with great difficulty restraining my anger, “who requested you to go into details which concern nobody but me?”
“Mon Dieu! I had no idea that it was a secret, my dear Blémont; and then, I have just met your wife in the garden; and now I find you here; so I suppose that it’s all settled, that you have come together again, and——”
“That is enough, monsieur.”
“Your wife in the garden! what! is she your wife?” said Caroline, under her breath.
I lowered my eyes. At that moment I wished that the earth would open and conceal me from every eye; I heard people saying on all sides:
“He is the sick woman’s husband!”
Bélan, observing my embarrassment and the effect his words had produced in the salon, gazed at me with a stupid expression, muttering:
“If you are angry, I am very sorry; but I could not guess! you ought to have warned me. Of course you know what has happened to me? Parbleu! there is no mystery about that; my case was reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux a few days ago. I am—oh! it is all over; I am—I don’t care to say the word before these ladies. But see how unlucky I am! the court has decided that there were no proofs; it condemns me to continue to live with my wife, and insists that I am not a cuckold.—Bless my soul! the word slipped out after all!”
“Cuckold!” repeated several young men with a laugh. “Can it be that monsieur is the Monsieur Ferdinand Bélan of whom the Gazette des Tribunaux had something to say recently?”
“I am the man, messieurs: Julien-Ferdinand Bélan, who sought a divorce from Armide-Constance-Fidèle de Beausire. They have condemned me to keep my wife, but I shall appeal. I am certain that I am a cuckold; my judges were bribed.”
They surrounded Bélan, they examined him, exchanging smiles, and questioning him. The result was that attention was diverted from me. I took advantage of that fact, and without raising my eyes, without noticing Caroline’s condition, I hurried from the salon.
I went up to my room, I sent for Pettermann, and ordered him to make everything ready for our departure. I determined to go away at the earliest possible moment. Ah! how I regretted that I had not followed my plan of the day before! If I had gone then, I should have avoided that scene, and no one would know—But I should never see all those people again. And Caroline—and her uncle—in what aspect should I appear to their eyes? As a villain, a schemer perhaps! people always form a bad opinion of a man who conceals his name. That infernal Bélan! what fatal chance led him where I was?
I went downstairs to pay my bill. I determined to return to Paris by post, and not to stopen route, for fear of other encounters. The landlady was very sorry, she said, at my sudden departure; but I paid her and ordered my horses.
While I was waiting for the post-chaise to be made ready, and the horses to arrive, I paced the courtyard of the hotel in great agitation. I did not wish to go intothe garden, for fear of meeting Madame Blémont, who, Bélan said, was there alone; I did not wish to return to the house either, for I feared to meet someone from the salon. So I sat down on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard. It was dark and I could not be seen from the house. I abandoned myself to my thoughts; there were some persons there whom I regretted to leave, but I tried to console myself by thinking that I was going back to my daughter, and that I should soon see her.
Someone passed me; it was a woman. She stopped, then walked toward me. Had she seen me? Yes, she came to where I was and sat down beside me. It was Caroline! I could not see her features; but from her tremulousness of voice and her hurried breathing, I divined her agitation.
“I was looking for you, monsieur; I wanted to speak with you.”
“And I myself, mademoiselle, was distressed that I was unable to bid you adieu. But I am waiting for the post horses; I am going away.”
“Going away? I suspected as much. You are right, monsieur; indeed, you should have gone away before. I am very sorry that I detained you this morning. Ah! I can understand now why you wished to shun Madame Blémont’s presence! So it is true, monsieur, that you are her husband?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“You are married, and you concealed it from me, and you—oh! your behavior has been shocking! I hate you, I detest you, as much as I esteemed and liked you before. You are married! Why didn’t you tell me so, monsieur?”
“As I had ceased to live with my wife, it seemed to me, mademoiselle, that I was at liberty to——”
“At liberty, yes, of course you were at liberty. What do you care for the distress, the torture you may cause others? Perhaps you laugh at it in secret. I see that there was no mistake in what people said of you. And yet the portrait was not flattering. However, you must have heard it yourself yesterday. Was it the truth, monsieur?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“So you abandoned your wife without cause, without lawful reason?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“And you saw her condition, her suffering—and it did not touch you? you did not throw yourself at her feet and ask her pardon for your wrongdoing?—Oh! you are a monster!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and wept and sobbed. I could do nothing but sigh and hold my peace. At last she continued:
“You must go back to your wife, monsieur; it is your duty. Won’t you do it? Remember what an effect the sight of you had upon her! Poor woman! how far I was from suspecting! And that does not make you repent of your conduct? Mon Dieu! your heart is pitiless! Ah! I had not formed that opinion of you.—But, Monsieur Dalbreuse—that name alone comes to my mind—promise me, swear to me that you will go back to your wife.”
“No, mademoiselle, I cannot make you a promise which I have no intention of keeping. We are parted forever.”
“Forever! In that case, monsieur, I must bid you adieu, and forever also; it would not be proper for me to see again a man who has represented himself to be what he is not. You had not enough confidence in meto tell me.—But, after all, what could he have told me? That he had abandoned his wife and children. Oh, no! such a confidence would have aroused my indignation; it was much better to be agreeable, to try to please me, to conceal the fact that he was bound for life; for that is the way you behaved toward me. And yet, monsieur, if I had loved you, if I had allowed myself to be seduced by these deceitful appearances, would you have made me unhappy too?—Well! why don’t you answer me, monsieur?”
“I believe, mademoiselle, that I have never said a word to you which could lead you to believe that——”
“No, that is true, you have said nothing to me. I am a coquette, a foolish girl. Oh, no! you have never tried to please me.—But you have my portrait, and it seems to me that it is useless, to say the least, for you to keep it: for I trust that we shall never see each other again, monsieur.”
“Here it is, mademoiselle; I intended to send it to you from the first post-office.”
Caroline took, or rather, snatched the portrait from my hands; at that moment a servant called me and Pettermann shouted that the horses were ready.
I rose: Caroline did the same; but at the first step that I took she seized my arm and said to me in an imploring tone:
“Monsieur, I cannot believe that your heart is deaf to the names of husband and father. Perhaps your departure will cause the death of her who came here, I doubt not, in the hope of being reunited to you. Oh! do not disappoint her hope. Give her back a husband, give your children a father. Will all the pleasures of which you are going in search equal those which await you with the wife who adores you? For she does adore you,I am sure, and she will forgive you. Just think that she is here, in yonder garden. She hears you, perhaps. Look, see that white shadow which I can make out near the garden gate.”
In truth, despite the darkness, I fancied that I saw a woman. I instantly disengaged my arm and hurried away from Caroline; I ran across the courtyard and jumped into the carriage which was awaiting me; Pettermann followed me and we drove away.
We made the journey without stopping. The farther I left Eugénie behind, the more relieved I felt. I could not understand how I had ever consented to remain where she was. Mademoiselle Derbin must have had great influence over me to make me forget all my resolutions. Should I ever have reached the point of standing in Madame Blémont’s presence without emotion? Oh, no! that could never be. When she defied me, I was angry; but now that she seemed to be suffering, I was more embarrassed than ever before her.
We arrived in Paris. When we left the chaise, poor Pettermann could not walk, his trousers were stuck to him; despite all his efforts to conceal his suffering, he made wry faces, which would have amused me if I had not been in such haste to reach Ernest’s house. I hired a cab and assisted my companion to enter it; he sat opposite me, exclaiming:
“Prout! this is what one might call travelling fast: two relays more and my rump would have been cooked.”
I was going to see my daughter again, to embrace her at my ease. How slow that driver was! how lazily his horses went! At last we arrived in front of Firmin’s house; I jumped from the cab before Pettermann had succeeded in moving.
Another disappointment: Firmin and his wife were at Saint-Mandé, where they had bought a little house; they passed the whole summer there. So I must go to Saint-Mandé. I procured their address, I returned to the cab, and we started again, to the utter despair of Pettermann, who had risen and could not sit down again.
Luckily, Saint-Mandé is not far from Paris. When we reached the village, I alighted, for I could go more rapidly on foot; I hurried forward and soon spied the house that had been described to me: two floors, gray blinds, an iron gate, and a garden behind; that was the place. I rang, or rather jerked, the bell. A servant came to the door.
“Monsieur Firmin?”
“This is where he lives, monsieur.”
I asked no more questions, but hastened up the first flight of stairs that I saw; I paid no attention to the maid, who called after me: “Monsieur is at work and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”—I was sure that Ernest would forgive me if I interrupted him in the middle of a scene or of a couplet.
I reached the first floor and passed through several rooms; at last I found my author. He opened his mouth to complain of being disturbed; but on recognizing me, he threw down his pen, and rushed to embrace me.
“So you have come back at last, my dear Henri! We have been expecting you every day.”
“Yes, here I am, my friend, and in a terrible hurry to see my daughter.”
“She is here. Your—your wi—Madame Blémont placed her in our charge.”
“I know it.”
“You know it? And I hoped to surprise you! Who told you?”
“Eugénie herself.”
“You have seen her?”
“At Mont-d’Or. I will tell you all about it. But pray tell me where Henriette is.”
“All the children are in the garden with my wife.”
“Come, show me the way. But I beg you, say nothing to her; I want to see if she will recognize me; a child forgets so quickly at her age!”
“My friend, it isn’t the children alone who forget quickly. I am sure your daughter will recognize you.”
We went down into the garden; my heart beat fast with pleasure. At the end of a path I saw Madame Firmin seated on a grassy bank; a little beyond was a patch of turf, on which four children were playing. My eyes sought my daughter only, and I recognized her at once. She had grown, but she had changed very little.
The children were engrossed by their play, and they did not hear us coming. Marguerite caught sight of us, and on recognizing me she started to meet us. I motioned to her to stay where she was and to say nothing. I walked softly to the patch of turf; I crept behind Madame Ernest, to where a lilac bush concealed me from the children. Then I called Henriette aloud.
She raised her head and looked about her in amazement, saying:
“Who called me? It wasn’t you, was it, my dear friend?”
“No,” said Marguerite, “but perhaps it was my husband, for here he is now.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t his voice. It is funny, but it was a voice that I know.”
I called again without showing myself. Henriette seemed startled; her face flushed and she trembled; she looked about in all directions, crying:
“Why, I should think that it was papa’s voice!”
I could hold out no longer; I stepped from behind the bush; Henriette saw me, uttered a shriek, and rushed into my arms, saying again and again:
“Oh! it is my papa! it is my papa!”
“Dear love! how happy it makes me to hold you in my arms again! how could I have delayed my return so long!”
I sat down beside Madame Ernest and took my daughter on my knee.
“So you recognized me, did you?” I asked her.
“Oh, yes, papa; I recognized your voice too.”
“Have you thought of me sometimes?”
“Yes, papa, and I said that you were an awful long time away.”
“My dear love, after this, I won’t leave you any more.”
Ernest’s two children had left their play and had drawn near to look at me. A little boy, about three years old, alone had remained on the grass; he looked at us with a timid air. Suddenly my daughter left my knee and ran to the little boy, took his hand, and led him to me, saying:
“Come, Eugène, and kiss papa.”
I had guessed that it was he. I examined him closely: he had pretty chestnut hair, lovely eyes, a pink and white complexion, and a gentle expression; he looked verymuch like Eugénie; that was all that I could discover in his features.
Doubtless my face had grown stern, for the child seemed to be afraid to come forward. I could not help smiling, however, when he said to me with a comical gravity:
“Good-morning, papa.”
I kissed him on the cheek, but sighed as I did so, with a heavy weight at my heart. Then I put him down and he returned at once to the grass. It seemed that the poor little fellow noticed that I had kissed him against my will.
I took my daughter on my knee again; she jumped about and clapped her hands for joy, saying:
“Now, when mamma comes back, I shall be happy; she will come soon, won’t she, papa? Why didn’t you bring her back? She told me that she was going to get you.”
I turned my eyes away and made no reply. Ernest said to me in an undertone:
“My friend, you forbade us to mention your wife to you; but you must expect now that Henriette will mention her very often. You certainly would not want your daughter to cease to think of her mother?”
“No, of course not; besides, I am more reasonable now than I used to be. I am now curious to learn—Henriette, go and play with your little friends.”
My daughter went back to her brother and Ernest’s children. I sat between Marguerite and Ernest and said to them:
“Tell me what has occurred since I went away, and how it happened that my daughter was placed in your charge.”
“Yes, we will tell you all about it,” said Marguerite. “But first—I say, Ernest, have you told him?”
Ernest smiled but said nothing.
“What is it?” I inquired.
“We are married!” cried Marguerite, jumping up and down on the bench. “It is all settled—three months ago. Ah! I am not afraid of his leaving me now; I am his wife.”
She ran to Ernest, took his head in her hands, and kissed him; he extricated himself, saying:
“Stop! you are rumpling my shirt.”
“You see, Monsieur Henri, he is less agreeable already!—Oh! I only said that in fun.”
“My dear friends, you have done well to be married, since that was your wish. I do not think that you will be any happier than you were, but I hope that you will be as happy. You have pledges of happiness.”
I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest, who said:
“That is enough about ourselves, now let us come to your matters.—When you had gone, I determined to ascertain how Madame Blémont was behaving. But she appeared in society very little; and yet—for you know how just the world is—people pitied her, praised her highly, and blamed you for deserting her. One night she came to a large party where I was. Her costume was as elaborate as ever; but I thought that she had lost color, that she had greatly changed. I fancied that her gayety was forced, and I noticed that she relapsed constantly into a gloomy reverie, from which she emerged with difficulty. You know what sentiments Madame Blémont aroused in my breast. I was the only person in the world who looked at her with a more than severe expression, and I am convinced that she felt that I was the only one to whom you had confided your misfortunes; so that my presence always produced a magical effectupon her; she ceased to talk, and it seemed to me that in my presence she dared not even pretend to be light-hearted.
“Bélan came to that same party with his wife and his mother-in-law. I do not know whether it was from malice or from stupidity, but on seeing me, he said to me:
“‘Well! so poor Blémont was nearly killed! He was knocked down in the Bois de Boulogne by some people riding. I heard about it from a young man who helped to pick him up.’
“Your wife happened to be standing behind us. I glanced at her and found that her eyes were fastened upon mine with an expression which I could not interpret. They seemed to implore me to listen to her. At once I turned my back and left the party. The next morning, at seven o’clock, your wife was at my house.”
“At your house?”
“Imagine my surprise when she entered my study, trembling and hardly able to stand.—‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I am convinced that you know of all my wrongdoing toward Monsieur Blémont; I have read in your eyes the contempt which you feel for me, and it has required much courage for me to venture to call upon you; but what I heard last night has made it impossible for me to enjoy a moment’s rest. Monsieur Blémont was hurt in the Bois de Boulogne by some people on horseback. I remember very well that I passed him; can it be that I was unconsciously the cause of that accident? Have I that crime also to reproach myself with? Can it be that Monsieur Blémont has not recovered? For heaven’s sake, take pity on my anxiety and conceal nothing from me.’
“I told your wife how the accident happened. She could not doubt that she was the original cause of it.She listened to me without a word; she seemed utterly crushed. I felt bound to take advantage of that opportunity to tell her of the repulsion that you felt for your son, of your intention not to see him; and I concluded by handing her the memorandum book which you had left with me and which contained her portrait. When she saw it, a cry of despair escaped her, and she fell unconscious to the floor. Marguerite came and I placed her in her care. She will finish the story now.”
“Mon Dieu! I have little to add,” said Marguerite. “I found the poor woman unconscious; I did what I could for her, but when she came to herself she was in the most horrible state of despair. She desired to die, she tried to end her own life. She called upon you and her children, and gave herself the most odious names. Ah! I am sure that if you had seen her then, you would have had pity on her; for my own part, as I saw that she had an attack of fever, and that her mind wandered at times, I would not let her go home alone, but I went with her; then I sent and asked my husband’s permission to stay with her until she was better, and he consented.”
“Oh! what a kind heart you have, madame! you forgot the way that she treated you.”
“Oh! I forgot that long ago, I promise you. In this world we must forget much, I think, and forgive often. Madame Blémont, in her lucid intervals, looked at me and pressed my hand without speaking. When she was really better, she thanked me for taking care of her, as if what I had done was not the most natural thing in the world; she asked me to forgive her for the evil opinion she had had of me. Oh! I forgave her with all my heart. She confessed that I had always made her very jealous, and I scolded her for suspecting you; I told her that you used to come to my little room solely to talk to us abouther, and she wept as she listened to me. But she wept much harder when she told me about her wrongdoing; and I too shed tears while she was telling her story, for I saw that she had always loved you, and that, except for her insane jealousy, her anger, and the bad advice she received——”
“Well, madame?”
“Well, she told me that she regretted having refused you your daughter, and, notwithstanding the grief it would cause her to part with her, she had decided to comply with your slightest wish. She begged me to take charge of little Henriette until she returned. You can imagine that I consented. She also recommended your son to me—yes, your son, and she repeated the words several times. She told me that she was going to live in retirement, and to turn her back on society forever.”
“And in fact,” said Ernest, “she did abandon altogether the sort of life she had been leading formerly; she lived in the most complete solitude. But I learned a few days ago that she had gone to Mont-d’Or to take the waters, because her physician had prescribed that journey, her health being much impaired.—That is what has happened, my dear Henri. In telling you this story, we have not tried to move you by dwelling upon your wife’s repentance, although we believe it to be sincere. We know that her fault is not one a husband can forget, especially when he loved his wife as you did yours; but, even without forgetting, one sometimes forgives; and there are many guiltier women in the world. We cannot help pitying Madame Blémont, and sighing over the future of your children.”
“My dear friends,” I said, taking a hand of each, “when I went away two years ago, your only wish was that I should forget a guilty wife; you had witnessedmy despair, the tortures of my heart, and then you were perhaps more angry than I with the author of all my woes. To-day, the sight of Eugénie in tears, of her remorse, which I am quite willing to believe is sincere, has moved you, has touched you to the heart. You would like to induce me to forgive her; but do not hope for it. Although two years of absence have partly cicatrized the wounds in my heart, do not believe that it can ever forget the blow which was dealt it. Even if I should forgive her who destroyed my happiness, that happiness would not be revived, her presence would always be painful to me, I could never hold her in my arms without remembering that another also had enjoyed her caresses; such an existence would be a constant torment; I will not condemn myself to it. I cannot give my daughter a mother at that price; I think that I have done enough by maintaining her honor. Let us never return to this subject. As for little Eugène, I will do my duty. If I have not a father’s heart for him, it is because I must have some enlightenment to banish from my heart the suspicions which have found their way thither. Ah! I am greatly to be pitied for not daring to love the child whom I called my son.”
Ernest and Marguerite looked at each other sadly, but could find nothing to reply. I rose, thinking of Pettermann, whom I had left in the cab.
“Your house strikes me as a charming place; can you give me a room here?” I asked Ernest.
“It is all ready, and it has been waiting for you a fortnight.”
“Very good; but I don’t need Pettermann here; have I my apartment in Paris still?”
“Yes, I would not give it up on the last rent day, because I expected you.”
“In that case Pettermann can go there; and I, as you consent, will board with you; I shall go to Paris as little as possible.”
Pettermann was still sitting in the cab which was waiting in front of the house. I told him that he was to return to my apartment in Paris, to take up his quarters there, and to be always ready to bring what I needed to Saint-Mandé. Pettermann bowed, and drove away, saying:
“I am very glad that I didn’t have to get out of the carriage.”
Ernest and Marguerite showed me to the room which they had set apart for me. It looked on the garden, and I found it very much to my liking, especially when they pointed out to me, opposite my room, the room in which Henriette and her brother slept; I was very glad to be able to kiss my daughter as soon as I woke, and without disturbing anyone.
It only remained to show me the property. That was a joy for a landed proprietor, and Ernest and his wife were enchanted to do it. The house was not large, but it was pleasant and convenient. Moreover, Ernest was a genuine poet; he had no ambition; he would have been bored to death in a palace, and he agreed with Socrates. As for Marguerite, she fancied herself in a château, and she was never tired of saying, “our property.” But she would add at once: “When I used to live in my little room under the eaves, I hardly expected that I should have a house of my own some day.”
“A person is worthy of having a house of her own, madame, when it does not make her forget that she once lived under the eaves,” I would rejoin.
Only the garden remained to be inspected. It was quite large, and at the farther end there was an iron gateleading into Vincennes forest. At the end of the wall I saw a small summer house with two windows, one of which looked into the forest; they were both secured by shutters.
“What do you do with this summer-house?” I asked Ernest.
“I expect—I intend it for a study.”
“True, it will be a quiet place for you to work in.”
“But it isn’t arranged for that yet,” said Marguerite; “and as we have spent a great deal of money on our estate already, we shall wait a while before furnishing the summer-house; shan’t we, husband?”
“Yes, wife.”
Ernest smiled as he said that, and so did I, for Madame Ernest emphasized the wordhusband, which she uttered every instant, as if to make up for the time when she dared not say it.
I took my daughter by the hand to walk about the garden. Henriette was seven years old; she was not very large, but her wit and good sense amazed me. All the evening I kept her talking; her answers delighted me, for they denoted no less sense than goodness of heart. I could not tire of looking at her and of listening to her. More than once I had been terribly bored in a fashionable assemblage, but I was very sure that I should never be bored with my daughter.
The days passed quickly at Ernest’s house. Painting, reading, walks with my daughter, occupied the time. In the evening we talked; a few friends and neighbors dropped in, but informally and without dressing; the men in their jackets or blouses, the women in their aprons. That is the proper way to live in the country. Those who carry to the fields the fashion and the etiquette of the city will never know the true pleasures of country life.
I had been a fortnight at Saint-Mandé, and I had not once been tempted to go to Paris. Pettermann brought me all that I desired and did my errands with exactness. I always asked him if anybody had called, although I never expected visitors. In society no one knew that I had returned from my travels. Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece did not know my address in Paris, and even if they had known it, I could not expect a visit from them. Doubtless Caroline had ceased to think of me. She did well. For my part, I confess that I very often thought of her, and sometimes I regretted that I had given her her portrait. But a smile or a word from my daughter banished such ideas.
There was another person of whom I often thought, although Ernest and his wife never mentioned her. I continually saw her, changed and pale as I had seen her at Mont-d’Or; and at night, in the woods or in the garden, I fancied that I still saw sometimes that white spectre, the sight of which had caused me to fly so hurriedly from the hotel at which I was living.
How could I forget Eugénie? Did not my daughter talk to me every day about her mother? Did she not constantly ask me if she would come home soon? I tried in vain to avoid that subject, Henriette recurred to it again and again; I dared not tell her that she made me unhappy by speaking to me of her mother; but could I hope ever to enjoy perfect happiness? Was there not always someone whose presence would prevent me from forgetting the past?
Poor child! it was not his fault that his mother was guilty. That was what I said to myself every day as I looked at him; but in spite of that, I could not conquer my feelings and conceal the depression which his presence caused me. I did not hate him, and I felt that Ishould love him if I dared think that he was my son; but those cruel suspicions hurt me more than the certainty of the worst, for then I could have made up my mind with respect to Eugène, whereas now I did not know what course to pursue.
The poor boy had never seen a smile on my face for him; so that he always held aloof from me, and never came near me except when his sister brought him. Sometimes, as I walked in the garden, I saw Eugène in the distance playing with Ernest’s children. Then I would stop, and, standing behind a hedge, would watch him for a long while. I passed hours in that way. He did not see me and abandoned himself without restraint to the natural gayety of his age, which my presence seemed always to hold in check. He feared me, no doubt, and he would never love me. Often that thought distressed me; at such times I was seized with a wild longing to run to him and to embrace him, to overwhelm him with caresses, for I said to myself: “Suppose he were my son?” but soon the painful thought would return, my heart would turn to ice, and I would hurry away from the child’s neighborhood.
My daughter noticed that I did not caress her brother as I did her; for a child of seven makes her own little observations, and children notice more than we think. Henriette, who considered herself a woman beside her brother, because she was four years older than he, seemed to have taken little Eugène under her protection; she told him what games to play, scolded him, or rewarded him; in short, she played the little mamma with him. But when I called Henriette, I did not call Eugène; when I took her on my knee, I did not take her brother. Having observed all this, she said to me one morning as I had my arms about her:
“Tell me, papa, don’t you love my brother? You never kiss him, you never speak to him; but he is a nice little fellow. He loves you too, my brother does; so why don’t you take him in your arms?”
“My dear love, because we don’t treat a boy as we do a girl.”
“Ah! don’t people kiss little boys?”
“Very seldom.”
“But, papa, Monsieur Ernest kisses his little boy as often as he does his daughter.”
I did not know what to reply; children often embarrass us when we try to conceal things from them. Mademoiselle Henriette, seeing that I did not know what to say to her, exclaimed:
“Oh! if you didn’t love my brother, that would be very naughty!”
To avoid my daughter’s remarks and questions, I determined to kiss her less frequently during the day. However, as I desired to make up to myself for my abstinence, I always went into the children’s chamber when I rose. They were still asleep when I went in. Eugène’s cradle was by a window, and Henriette’s little bed at the other end of the room, surrounded by curtains, which I put aside with great care in order not to wake her. I never went to the cradle, but I left the room softly and noiselessly when I had kissed my daughter.
I had been doing this for several days. Henriette said no more to me about her brother, but glanced furtively at me with a mischievous expression; it seemed that schemes were already brewing in that little head.
One morning I went as usual to the children’s room; I drew the curtains partly aside and kissed my daughter, and I was about to steal away on tiptoe when I heard a burst of laughter behind me; I turned and saw Henriettein her nightgown, crouching behind a chair; she came from her hiding-place, and began to hop and dance about the room, saying:
“I knew that I would make you kiss my brother.”
I looked at her in surprise, then hastily pushed aside the curtains of her bed; it was her brother who was lying there; she had put her little cap on his head, and his face was turned to the wall. He was the one whom I had kissed, as his sister had put him in her place. I was deeply moved. At that moment Eugène’s little voice was heard; he called out without moving or turning:
“Can I move now, sister?”
“Yes, yes, it’s all over,” Henriette replied.
“What? What does he mean by that?” I asked.
“Oh, papa, he wasn’t asleep, he was only making believe; I turned his face to the wall and I said to him: ‘if you move, if you turn your head, papa will know you, and he won’t kiss you.’—He was very good, you see, he didn’t move at all.”
I could hold out no longer; I took Eugène in my arms and covered him with kisses, as well as his sister, crying:
“After this you will both receive the same caresses from me; my heart shall know no difference between you; you shall be alike my children. Ah! it is better to love a stranger than to run the risk of spurning my son from my arms.”
Ernest and his wife very soon noticed the change that had taken place in my manner toward my son, and they seemed overjoyed. I told them what Henriette had done, and that the change was due to her. They lavished caresses upon her, and I did the same, for I owed it to her that I was much happier. Arriving one day from Paris, with books for me and toys for the children, Pettermann remained standing in front of me; it was his custom when he wished to say something to me to wait for me to question him; I had become used to that peculiarity.
“What is there new, Pettermann?”
“Nothing, monsieur, except that I met someone on my way here this morning.”
“Met someone? Does that interest me?”
“Yes, it was some acquaintances of monsieur, some people who were at Mont-d’Or at the same time that we were; that pretty young lady with such a fine figure and the thin, lively, good-natured little man.”
“Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you see them?”
“On the boulevard, as I was on my way to Faubourg-Saint-Antoine.”
“You did not speak first to them, I fancy?”
“Prout! as if I would ever have thought of such a thing! I didn’t even see them! All of a sudden I felt someone tap me lightly on the shoulder; I turned; it was the uncle. He was all out of breath; his niece was some distance behind. He said to me first of all: ‘You walk terribly fast, my friend! Ouf! you made me run.’—I answered: ‘Bless my soul, monsieur, I didn’t know that you were following me.’—Just then his niece joined us. She seems to be as inquisitive as ever, the young woman; you remember, don’t you, monsieur, that she asked me a lot of questions at Mont-d’Or?”
“Well, what did she ask you to-day?”
“First of all, how monsieur was; then as I had a package under my arm, she said: ‘Where are you going with that?’—‘To Saint-Mandé, mademoiselle.’—‘Does Monsieur Dalbreuse live at Saint-Mandé?’—‘Yes, mademoiselle.’—‘And is that bundle for him?’—‘Yes, mademoiselle.’—At that she began to laugh, with a queer expression, and I noticed that the head of a jack-in-the-box was sticking out of the bundle. The uncle asked me: ‘Is Monsieur Dalbreuse running a marionette theatre?’—‘No, monsieur; there are some books in the bundle for my master, but the toys are for the children.’—‘What! has he children with him?’ cried the young woman.—‘Prout!’ I said to myself at that; ‘there seems to be no end to these questions.’—So I took off my hat and saluted them, and told them that I was in a hurry.”
“Is that all, Pettermann?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
So Caroline had not forgotten me, although we had not parted on very good terms. But that was no reason why we should cease to think of each other; so many people part on most excellent terms and forget each other at once! That reminder of Mademoiselle Derbin causedme a pleasant emotion; she had such a strange temperament, a way of thinking that was not like other people’s; and in spite of that, she had all the charm of affability of her sex.
If Pettermann had still been there, I would have asked him whether Mademoiselle Derbin had changed, whether she seemed as bright and cheerful as formerly. I would have asked him—I don’t know what else. But he had gone. He had done well too. What occasion was there for me to think of Caroline? I had determined thenceforth not to love anybody except my children. It was a pity, however, for love is such a pleasant occupation!
It was three days after Pettermann had told me of that meeting. I was walking in Vincennes forest with my children. Eugène had become less timid with me; he smiled at me and kissed me, although he was not yet so unreserved as his sister, who made me do whatever she wished. I held a hand of each of them. I was listening to the chatter of Henriette and her brother’s lisping replies, when my daughter mentioned her mother, and my brow darkened.
“Papa, why doesn’t mamma come back?”
“She is ever so far away, my child. It may be that you won’t see her for a very long time.”
“But I don’t like that. Why don’t we go to fetch her?”
“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know where she is now.”
“Oh dear! suppose she was lost!”
Henriette’s eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugénie had returned, I felt sure that shewould have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugénie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had.
Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last:
“Why, papa, what are you thinking about?”
“About you, my child.”
“I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn’t say anything. And Monsieur Eugène never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He’s a hardhearted little wretch!”
Eugène looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses:
“Papa, tell me about mamma, please.”
I kissed Eugène, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarrassment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette:
“My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.”
“Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!”
“Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?”
“Yes, papa. So I must never speak to you about mamma, eh?”
“At all events, do not ask me questions that I can’t answer.”
“But I can still think about mamma, can’t I?”
“Yes, my dear Henriette; and be very sure that as soon as she returns to Paris, her first thought will be to come to embrace you.”
My daughter said no more. That conversation seemed to have saddened both the poor children. They said nothing more, and I myself sat beside them, lost in thought.
A few moments later a gentleman and lady came toward us. I had not raised my eyes to look at them, but I had heard my own name. It was Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.
They stopped in front of us.
“Yes, my niece was right, it is our dear friend Monsieur Dalbreuse!”
I rose and bowed to the uncle and niece. Caroline’s manner was cold but polite.
I did not recognize that animated and playful countenance which attached so many people to her chariot at Mont-d’Or; she had assumed a much more serious expression. Her glance was almost melancholy; but how well that new manner became her! How great a charm that change gave her in my eyes!
“My niece said a long way off: ‘There is Monsieur Dalbreuse;’ but I admit that I didn’t recognize you; and yet my sight is very good, I have never used spectacles. But who are these lovely children?”
“They are mine.”
“Yours? Oh yes! I remember now—my niece told me that you were married. They are charming; thelittle girl has magnificent eyes, and quite a little manner of her own. We shall make many conquests with those eyes.—And you, my fine fellow. Oh! you will play the handsome Leander with great success some day; you would be amazing with a club-wig.”
While Monsieur Roquencourt was looking at my children, his niece drew near to me and said in an undertone:
“So you have your children with you now?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Then she stooped over Henriette and said:
“Will you give me a kiss, my dear love?”
My daughter made a dignified curtsy, then allowed herself to be embraced. Mademoiselle next took Eugène in her arms and kissed him. I do not know why I took pleasure in watching her do it.
“So you live at Saint-Mandé? We learned that from your servant, whom we happened to meet.”
“Yes, monsieur, I am passing the summer here; I am staying with a friend who was kind enough, with his wife, to take charge of my children while I was travelling.”
“There is one thing that you don’t know, and that is that we have been neighbors of yours since yesterday.”
“What?”
“Yes, I mean it. We have hired a little house, all furnished, at Saint-Mandé and we have installed ourselves there for the rest of the summer. It was an idea that came into my niece’s head. After we met your servant, she said to me: ‘I am not feeling very well, uncle.’—It is true that she has been out of sorts ever since we returned from Mont-d’Or.”
“Dear me, uncle! all this has very little interest for monsieur. What is the use of giving him all these details?”
“Anything that concerns you, mademoiselle, cannot fail to interest me.”
Caroline turned her face away. Her uncle continued:
“Yes, my dear girl, you are not well; it is of no use for you to try to conceal it, for anybody can see it; and this solemn, melancholy expression which has taken the place of your former gayety—for you have lost all your gayety and——”
“Why, you are mistaken, uncle; I am just the same as always.”
“Well, you insisted on coming here for your health—at all events you told me so; and when you insist upon a thing—you know, my dear Dalbreuse, it’s just as it was when she made us go to drive at Mont-d’Or—it has to be done on the instant. And so, inside of twenty-four hours, we came, we saw, and we hired a house! And we must needs take possession of it at once.”
“It was because I was bored to death in Paris; and then I—I did not know this neighborhood——”
“Well, I know it; but I am very fond of it. Dugazon had a country house at Saint-Mandé! I will show it to you when we return. We used to come here to have little supper parties and theatricals, and to enjoy ourselves. I playedL’Avocat Patelin, and Petit-Jean inLes Plaideurs; and by the way, inLes Plaideurs, I played a wicked trick! You know, when——”