“But we are detaining monsieur, uncle; we are taking his time, perhaps!”
“Oh! by no means, mademoiselle; I was just going back to Saint-Mandé.”
“We are going back there too; we will go together. As I was saying, it was inLes Plaideurs. In the third act, you know, some little dogs are brought on. Dugazon had said to me: ‘Will you undertake to provide somelittle dogs?’ I already had my plan in my head, so I said: ‘Yes, I will.’ Very good. The performance began and the moment came when the unfortunate orphans are called for. I brought on a large open basket. Guess what came out of it: a dozen mice, which I had concealed inside and which instantly ran about all over the stage, and jumped down into the orchestra; and the men laughed and the women shrieked, for everyone of them thought that she had a mouse under her skirt! I held my sides with laughter! After the play, those ladies said that I was a monster! That affair was worth three conquests to me!”
Monsieur Roquencourt chattered on, and in due time we reached the village. Caroline had held Eugène’s hand all the way, and had talked frequently with my daughter.
“Here is our hermitage,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, stopping in front of a pretty house within two gun shots of Ernest’s. “I trust that you will come to see us, Monsieur Dalbreuse. In the country one must be neighborly,—isn’t that so, niece?”
“If monsieur chooses to give us that pleasure, if he would bring his children to see us, I should be delighted to see them again.—Would you like to come, my dear love?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And you, my little man? you must like sweeties and I always have some.”
Eugène replied with great solemnity that he would like to come to see the sweeties. I thanked her for the children and took my leave, promising to bring them the next day.
So Caroline wished to see me again; her fiery wrath against me was allayed; doubtless it was because the sentiment that had given birth to that wrath had alsovanished. But why had she lost her former playful humor? Upon my word, I was very conceited to think that it had anything to do with me. Might not Mademoiselle Derbin have some heartache, or some secret, with which I was absolutely unconnected? I would have been glad to know if she had seen Madame Blémont again before leaving Mont-d’Or. However, I was not sorry for the meeting. When Ernest was at work, it was impossible to talk with him; and his wife was constantly busy with her children and with her household cares. So I thought that it would be pleasant to go sometimes to Monsieur Roquencourt’s for a chat.
At dinner I informed my hosts of our meeting.
“If they are pleasant people, ask them to come to see us,” said Ernest.
I noticed that his wife did not second that invitation. I had said that Caroline was lovely, and wives sometimes dread the visit of a lovely person; Marguerite was a wife now.
“My friend,” she said, “if they are people with twenty-five thousand francs a year and a carriage, I shall never dare to receive them.”
“Why not, pray, my dear love? I am an author, and genius goes before wealth. Isn’t that so, Henri?”
“It ought to be so, at all events.”
“But, my dear, I am not an author, I have no genius——”
“That doesn’t follow, my dear love; one is often found without the other.”
“At all events, I shall not dare, or I shall not be able—you yourself say that we must not make acquaintances which will entail expense.”
It seemed to me that Marguerite was getting mixed up; I fancied that I could see her making signals to herhusband; but he was trying to compose the concluding lines of a quatrain, and was not listening to Marguerite. I comforted the little woman by telling her that she was under no obligation to receive Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.
“But you will go to see them?” she asked.
“Yes, I don’t see what should prevent me.”
“No, of course not. But you see, according to what I have heard of this young lady, who does not choose to marry, I have an idea that she is a flirt.”
“Even if that were so, so long as her company is agreeable, I do not see that I have anything to fear.”
Madame Ernest said no more; I saw plainly that she was not pleased with her new neighbor, and I could not imagine the reason; I did not propose that that should prevent me from going to see the new arrivals.
The next day I took my children to Monsieur Roquencourt’s house. I found the uncle walking in his garden, with several people from the neighborhood. Rich folk soon become popular; the neighbors vie with one another in becoming intimate with people who own a carriage. Monsieur Roquencourt was telling his new acquaintances about a scene fromMonsieur de Crac; he took my son and daughter by the hand, and offered to show them his garden and to let them taste his peaches. I let them go and went into the house to pay my respects to Caroline. I heard the notes of a piano. A piano! how many things that instrument recalled to my mind! Those chords caused me a sharp pang now. I remembered that Mademoiselle Derbin had told me that she played the piano. I strove to overcome my emotions, and I entered the salon where Caroline was. I listened to her for some time without speaking; I cannot describe my sensations. She stopped at last and I approached her.
“Were you there?” she asked me.
“Yes, I have been listening to you.”
“Didn’t you bring your children?”
“I beg pardon, they are with your uncle.”
“Your children are lovely, and I congratulate you, monsieur, upon having them with you. It is a proof that your wife has forgiven your wrongdoing, since she entrusts to you her dearest treasures. That leads me to think that before long she herself——”
“Did you see her again before leaving Mont-d’Or, mademoiselle?”
“No, monsieur; she left the hotel where we were staying, on the day after you. Don’t you know where she is now?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, I utterly fail to understand your conduct. You seem to love, to be devoted to your children, and you abandon their suffering, unhappy mother! If I had never seen you, and anybody had told me about you, I should have imagined you as hideous physically as morally; but when one knows you, one cannot think that.”
Caroline smiled and I held my peace; that was the best course that I could pursue when that subject was broached. Henriette and Eugène came in from the garden. Caroline ran to them and embraced them and lavished toys and bonbons upon them; then, as I still remained silent, she sat down at the piano again and allowed her fingers to run over the keys for a few moments. Eugène was sitting in a corner, engrossed by his bonbons; Henriette was gazing in admiration at a lovely doll which had just been given her; but I noticed that, at the first sound from the piano, she stopped playing and listened. I listened too, for it seemed to me thatit was Eugénie to whom I was listening; there were the same talent and the same expression. Soon my illusion was intensified, for Mademoiselle Derbin, after a brilliant prelude, began a tune which I recognized: it was Eugénie’s favorite. I was convinced that it was Eugénie who was playing, as in the early days of our married life. I was roused from that illusion by sobs; I looked up and saw that my daughter was sobbing bitterly and that the doll had fallen from her hands. I ran to Henriette, and Caroline did the same.
“What is the matter with you, my dear child?” I asked, taking her in my arms. “Why are you crying?”
“Oh! papa, it was because—because I thought that it was mamma playing!”
Poor child! I pressed her to my heart and I hid in her hair the tears which fell from my eyes.
Caroline was still standing before us, and I heard her say in an undertone:
“You see this child’s tears, and still you do not give her back her mother!”
I came to my senses and comforted my daughter; Caroline overwhelmed her with caresses; but, despite her efforts to detain me, I went away with the children; for I heard Monsieur Roquencourt coming, and at that moment it would have been impossible for me to endure a stranger’s presence.
I paid several visits to my neighbors, but Caroline did not play the piano again when I was there. She lavished caresses and presents upon my children, which they could not refuse; with me she was sad and silent, but she always declared that I went away too soon.
I saw that at Ernest’s house the new neighbors were not liked; that seemed to me very unjust, because they did not know them. They cast disdainful glances uponthe toys that my daughter and Eugène received from Caroline; was it from jealousy, because her own children had not so many, that Madame Ernest cried down the presents that were given to my children? No, I knew Marguerite’s warm heart; it was not susceptible of envy. Why was it then that she showed so much prejudice against Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece?
On going one day to call upon Caroline, I was greatly surprised to meet Monsieur Giraud there. But I soon learned that he had been presented by a neighbor with whom he was passing the day. In the country one friend brings another to call, and Giraud was one of those people who ask nothing better than to be brought. He seemed delighted to see me; one always likes to find acquaintances in a house to which one goes for the first time; it puts one more at ease. When he discovered that I was a welcome guest in the house, that the uncle and niece manifested much regard for me, Giraud redoubled his cordiality toward me. I guessed his motive; he had not come there without a purpose; he must have heard that Mademoiselle Derbin was a marriageable person. A lovely and rich young woman—what a fine chance to negotiate a marriage! He desired to establish friendly communications in the house. He overwhelmed Caroline with compliments, which, I thought, did not touch her at all; but he listened with imperturbable patience while Monsieur Roquencourt recited the rôle of Mascarille; that might obtain him an invitation to come again.
But the neighbor who had brought him expressed a wish to go home. Giraud took his leave regretfully, asking permission to pay his respects to the uncle and niece when he happened to be driving at Saint-Mandé. They made a courteous reply, and he went away enchanted.I went at the same time, for I saw that he wished to speak to me. In fact, we were no sooner outside the house, than he put his arm through mine, slackened his pace, calling to his friend to go ahead, and plunged at once into conversation with me.
“My dear fellow, it seems to me that you are very intimate, received on very friendly terms at Monsieur Roquencourt’s?”
“Why, Monsieur Giraud, I flatter myself that I am well received wherever I go. If it were otherwise——”
“That isn’t what I mean. Bless my soul! I know your merit, my friend, although you no longer live with your wife; but that doesn’t prove anything. Look you, this young Derbin woman is a magnificent match, if what they tell me is true. But I shall make inquiries. Twenty-five thousand francs a year, unencumbered, and expectations from her uncle! and with all the rest, a pretty face, a fine figure, and talents! She plays the piano; does she play anything else?”
“I never asked her.”
“Never mind! she is a most excellent match, and I have just the man that she wants.”
“Indeed! you have——”
“Yes, you know very well that I always have husbands to offer. And so when Dupont, who is ahead of us there, spoke to me about this young lady, I said to him at once: ‘You must take me there.’—He has brought me, and I shall come again. Are they always at home?”
“Except when they go out.”
“But I mean, are they going back to Paris?”
“I have no idea.”
“In that case, I shall come again soon; it is too good a chance not to make haste; somebody else will get ahead of me. Luckily Saint-Mandé isn’t far away, andthere are the omnibuses. But you must help me a little, my dear fellow. Sound the uncle and niece and mention my young man to them.”
“What young man?”
“The one whom I shall propose as a husband; a fine young fellow of twenty-two, an only son, with some money, who wants to buy a drug shop. However, if he doesn’t suit, I have others. The important thing is to find out whether the girl has any previous attachment.—Do you know whether she has?”
“By what right, Monsieur Giraud, should I ask that young lady such a question?”
“Bah! one can always find that out, without asking; however, never mind, help me a little inside the house; and I will try to have Dupont help too. I must overtake him now. My friend, sound the young lady, I beg you. You can offer a very good-looking fellow, with a hundred thousand francs, and two handsome inheritances in prospect. By the way, if she doesn’t like the idea of a drug shop, which is very likely when she has twenty-five thousand francs a year, he will buy a solicitor’s practice—that will suit her better; or, if necessary, he won’t buy anything at all.—Hallo! I say, Dupont, here I am!—The deuce! he is quite capable of dining without me.”
Giraud left me. I could not help laughing at his mania for marrying everybody; I had an idea that it was his only business, and that in addition to ordering the wedding banquet, he obtained a commission from the husband.
If he relied upon me to speak to Mademoiselle Derbin, he would be disappointed in his expectations. Fancy my speaking in favor of a person whom I did not know! Indeed, I did not see that it was so necessary for people to marry at all.
Three days had passed since that meeting. I had forgotten Giraud, and I am inclined to think that they thought little about him at Monsieur Roquencourt’s.
I had gone out for a moment without my children; I did not intend to see Caroline, but she was at the window when I passed; she saw me and beckoned to me to come in. Her uncle was in the garden and she was alone in the salon. Since our parting at Mont-d’Or, for some reason or other I was always embarrassed when I was alone with her.
For some time we did not speak. That is what often happens when two people have a great many things to say to each other. Caroline was sitting at her piano, but she did not play.
“Why do I never hear you play now?” I asked.
“Because it depresses you, and I do not see the sense of causing you pain.”
“There are memories which are painful and sweet at the same time. I would like to hear once more that tune which you played the last time.”
“And which made your daughter cry? Poor child! how dearly I love her!”
Caroline turned to the piano and played Eugénie’s favorite piece. I abandoned myself to the charm of listening and to the illusion of my memories. My heart was swollen with tears, and yet I enjoyed it. Caroline turned often to look at me, but I did not see her.
Suddenly a great uproar roused us from that situation, which had much charm for us both. The doorbell rang violently. Soon we heard several voices and the barking of a dog.
“What a nuisance!” cried Caroline; “one cannot be left in peace here a moment; my uncle receives all his neighbors! I absolutely must lose my temper with him.”
The noise kept increasing, and it seemed to me that I heard familiar voices. At last they came toward the salon, and lo! Giraud entered, with his wife, his daughter, one of his sons, and a tall young man dressed as if for a ball, who dared not move for fear of disarranging the knot of his cravat or rumpling his shirt collar.
Caroline watched the entrance of all those people with wide-open eyes. Giraud came forward with an offhand air and introduced his wife, saying:
“Mademoiselle, I have the honor to offer my respects, and to introduce my wife. Wife, this is mademoiselle, the niece of Monsieur Roquencourt, from whom I received such a cordial welcome last Sunday, and who urged me to call again when I was driving in this direction. These are my eldest son and my daughter. Bow to the lady, my children. Monsieur is one of our intimate friends; he was in our party and I took the liberty of introducing him.—Good-day, my dear Blémont; delighted to find you here again!”
Caroline bestowed a decidedly cool salutation upon the party; she contented herself with pointing to chairs. The Giraud family seated themselves; the young dandy took his seat on the edge of a couch, and Giraud at once continued:
“But where is our dear uncle, the amiable Monsieur Roquencourt? Bless my soul! how I did enjoy hearing him recite the part of Mascarille inL’Etourdi! and Monsieur de Crac! Ah! how good he was! I made my wife laugh heartily by telling her about it.—Didn’t I, my love?”
“Yes, my dear.—But, mon Dieu! what does Azor mean by searching under all the chairs like that? Come here, Azor.—Monsieur Mouillé, just give him a kick, if you please, to make him keep still.”
Monsieur Mouillé—that was the dandified young man’s name—rose and tried to catch the dog. Being unable to do it, he gave him a kick, which made Azor fly from the salon yelping just as Monsieur Roquencourt entered. Everybody rose once more. Once more Monsieur Giraud introduced his family and his young man, adding:
“Monsieur Mouillé does not come to the country often; he has so much business to attend to since he inherited from his uncle the merchant, who left him a hundred and fifty thousand francs and a buggy.—Was it a buggy or a tilbury that your uncle had?”
“It was a jolting affair,” replied Monsieur Mouillé, without turning his neck.
Giraud made a wry face and continued;
“Yes—in short, a carriage. That is very well for a young man of twenty-three. But when I told him that we were going to pay a visit to such agreeable people, he no longer hesitated to accompany us. Wife, this is Monsieur Roquencourt, who, as I was saying just now, used to act so well! Dieu! how you did make me laugh when you recited Mascarille!”
Monsieur Roquencourt seemed at first rather surprised to find so large a party, brought by a man whom he had seen but once; but the instant that the subject of acting was mentioned, his features dilated, his eyes gleamed, and he exclaimed:
“Yes, pardieu! I should say that I have acted! and before Dugazon, Larive and many others!”
“That is what I told my wife and Monsieur Mouillé, that you acted before Dugazon. My dear, monsieur acted before Dugazon!”
“Mascarille is a fine part, very long; but, although I was very good in it, especially when I said:‘VivatMascarillus, fourbum imperator——’”
“Ah! charming! delightful! isn’t it, wife? What did I tell you?Fourbum imperator!—Stop your noise, children!”
“I had other parts that I preferred. First of all, Figaro. Ah! Figaro! the costume is so pretty, and it was so becoming to me!”
“Yes, the costume must have been very becoming to you. Monsieur Mouillé, didn’t you disguise yourself as Figaro once, to go to a magnificent ball given by a contractor?”
“No, monsieur, I went as Pinçon, inJe fais mes Farces.”
“Oh! that is different.”
“To return to my costume,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “it was white and cherry, and made of silk throughout. I believe I have it yet.”
“White and cherry; and you have it yet! Ah! if you would put it on, how kind it would be of you!”
Caroline, who had not uttered a word during this whole conversation, now leaned over to me and whispered:
“Have these people come here with the purpose of making fun of my uncle?”
“No, there is another motive, which I will tell you.”
Monsieur Roquencourt looked at Giraud a moment, but replied good-naturedly:
“Oh, no! I can’t wear that costume again. It was twenty-five years ago when I wore it, and since that time I have taken on flesh, a great deal of flesh!”
“Yes, it is true, in twenty-five years one does change, one does grow fat.—Monsieur Mouillé, it seems to me that you have grown since last year.”
“Three lines,” replied Monsieur Mouillé with a bow.
“Three lines! the deuce! You will make a fine man! Mademoiselle has a fine figure too, one of those gracefuland slender figures which make it impossible for a small man to offer her his arm.”
It was Caroline to whom this complimentary speech was addressed. She glanced at me with an impatient gesture, but Giraud, who thought that he had done the most graceful thing in the world in praising fine figures, had not thought of Monsieur Roquencourt, who was very short. The uncle stepped forward into the centre of the circle and said:
“Monsieur, you are greatly mistaken when you say that a man of medium height should not offer his arm to a tall woman; Mademoiselle Contat was by no means short, and she certainly found me a most satisfactory escort.”
“Oh, Monsieur Roquencourt! Why, that is not what I said, or what I meant to say! The devil! let us understand each other. Little man! deuce take it! why, everybody knows that the heroes, the Alexanders, the Fredericks, the Napoléons, were all men of short stature. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Mouillé?—Wife, for heaven’s sake, make your daughter stop her noise.”
“And on the stage, monsieur, it is much better to be short than tall, for the stage makes everyone appear taller.”
“That is what I have said twenty times to my wife,—the stage makes people taller; and you know something about it, Monsieur Roquencourt.”
“Yes, indeed I do. A tall man cannot play Figaro, or Mascarille, or Scapin.—Ah! how quick and active I was as Scapin! I had my portrait painted in the character.”
“Your portrait as Scapin! Was it exhibited in the Salon?”
“They wanted to paint me as Monsieur de Crac too.”
“Monsieur de Crac! My wife is still laughing because I repeated some scenes to her, after you. Ah! Monsieur Roquencourt! if you would only be good enough—Monsieur Mouillé has never seen Monsieur de Crac,—Have you, Monsieur Mouillé?”
“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man, “I think that I have seen it acted at Bobino’s.”
“Ha! ha! at Bobino’s, eh?” cried Monsieur Roquencourt. “Pardieu! that must have been fine! A difficult rôle like that! In the first place, you must be careful about the accent:[2]
“Dé façon qué dé loin sur lé pauvre animalLé perdreau, sans mentir, semblait être à chéval,Et fût resté longtemps dans la même posture,Si mon chien n’avait pris cavalier et monture.Eh donc, que dites-vous?”
“Dé façon qué dé loin sur lé pauvre animalLé perdreau, sans mentir, semblait être à chéval,Et fût resté longtemps dans la même posture,Si mon chien n’avait pris cavalier et monture.Eh donc, que dites-vous?”
[2]That is, the Gascon accent.
[2]That is, the Gascon accent.
During this declamation, Giraud stamped on the floor and pretended to writhe with pleasure on his chair; Madame Giraud was occupied solely in keeping her children quiet, and Monsieur Mouillé did not stir.
“Ah! bravo! bravo!” cried Giraud. “I say, wife, you never heard such acting as that, did you?—Monsieur Mouillé, you should consider yourself very fortunate to have come to Saint-Mandé with us! very fortunate in every respect, indeed, for there is everything here that can seduce and fascinate!—Oh! Monsieur Roquencourt, something else—just a fragment or two.”
“I wonder if this sort of thing is going to last long,” Caroline whispered to me. I smiled but said nothing. Monsieur Roquencourt did not wait to be asked twice. He stepped forward again to the centre of the salon:
“Here is a passage from the scene in which he is asked about his son; and it is his son himself who questions him, unrecognized by him.”
“Ah, yes! I see.—Wife, somebody asks him about his son. Attention, Monsieur Mouillé! And it is his son himself. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand at all,” replied the young man.
“Yes, you do; yes, you do.—Hush! be quiet, children!”
“.... Il sert contré lé Russe;Mais il sert tout dé bon. Ah! lé feu roi dé Prusse,Savait l’apprécier; et lé grand Frédéric,En fait d’opinion, valait tout un public.Il admirait mon fils—J’en ai——”
“.... Il sert contré lé Russe;Mais il sert tout dé bon. Ah! lé feu roi dé Prusse,Savait l’apprécier; et lé grand Frédéric,En fait d’opinion, valait tout un public.Il admirait mon fils—J’en ai——”
Monsieur Roquencourt was interrupted in his declamation by the cook, who rushed into the room, exclaiming:
“Mon Dieu! what on earth is this dog that’s just come here, mademoiselle? He came into my kitchen and jumped at everything there is there; he ate at one gulp the remains of the chicken that was on the table, and he’s just carried off the leg of mutton that was for your dinner.”
“Oh! it’s because he’s thirsty!” cried Giraud; “give him some water; he was very hot, give him some water, if you please, and then he will fawn all over you.”
“Monsieur,” said Caroline, rising and walking forward, with a very decided air, toward Giraud, “I am very sorry, but you really must give your dog water somewhere else; my uncle should remember that we have to go out this morning, we have very little time, and we cannot have the pleasure of detaining you any longer.”
As she said this, Caroline gave her uncle a glance which he understood very clearly, and he faltered:
“Yes—yes, I believe that we have to go out.”
Giraud seemed thunderstruck; he looked at his wife, who looked at Monsieur Mouillé, who looked at his trousers to see if they were creased.
However, the family rose; the dandified young man followed their example, and Giraud bowed low, saying:
“As you have an engagement, of course we do not desire to detain you; another time I trust that we shall be more fortunate, and that we may form a connection of which the fortunate result—Monsieur Mouillé, present your respects to mademoiselle. Bow, children.—Monsieur Roquencourt, we shall not forget your great amiability.—Azor! here, Azor! Azor! Oh! he will certainly come.—Au revoir, my dear Blémont.”
The family backed out of the room, bowing, and Giraud whispered in my ear:
“Has she a previous attachment? If this young man doesn’t suit her, I have others to offer. Write me what she has said to you.”
They left the salon at last, and they succeeded in finding Azor, who rushed out of the house with a mutton bone in his teeth.
When the visitors had gone, Caroline said to the maid and the gardener:
“If those people ever show their faces here again, don’t forget to say that we are not at home. Really, their impertinence is beyond bounds.”
“Never fear, mademoiselle,” said the cook; “I don’t want to see the masters again any more than the dog. I’ve got my dinner to prepare all over again now.”
“It’s my uncle’s fault; he invites everybody he sees; so long as they talk of the theatre and acting to him, that’s enough for him; he would declaim before chimney sweeps!”
“You go too far, niece; did I go in search of this gentleman, and tell him to bring his wife and children and dog? He thinks that I act well, and I see nothing extraordinary in that; many other people besides him have thought the same. But as to declaiming before chimney sweeps! However, chimney sweeps may have a very keen perception; the common people aren’t such bad judges as you seem to think, and Dugazon told me several times that at free performances the applause never came except when it was deserved. But you have no appreciation of acting, and before you it would be useless to have talent.”
Monsieur Roquencourt was offended; he left us and went to his room. I also attempted to leave, but Caroline detained me, saying:
“Just a moment, if you please. You know this Monsieur Giraud, who seemed determined to plant himself here with his whole family and his friends too. He spoke to you in an undertone. You told me that you would tell me the purpose of his visit; will you be kind enough to do so, monsieur?”
I sat down again beside Caroline, and I could not help smiling as I said to her:
“Mademoiselle, this Monsieur Giraud has a mania, or a vocation for arranging marriages. When he learned that you were still unattached, he at once conceived the plan of finding a husband for you.”
“The impertinent fellow! Why should he mix himself up in the matter?”
“As he is convinced that everybody must always come to that at last, he displays the most incredible perseverance in his schemes. He had already requested me to speak to you in favor of the young man whom he brought here to-day.”
“What! that great booby?”
“He was an aspirant for your hand, yes, mademoiselle; and, despite the unflattering welcome that you bestowed upon Giraud and his protégé, I should not be at all surprised if he returned to the charge again soon, with a newparti.”
“I assure you, monsieur, that I shall not receive him again. What you have told me makes the man more intolerable to me. The idea of attempting to arrange a marriage for me! Can one imagine such a thing?”
Caroline’s face had become serious. She lowered her eyes and seemed to be lost in thought; after a moment she continued:
“Marry! oh, no! I shall never marry. For a moment I thought that it was possible. It was a delightful dream that I had, but it was only a dream. I deceived myself cruelly!”
Those words distressed me greatly, and yet, could I be sure that they were addressed to me? I could not try to ascertain; but in spite of myself, I moved nearer to Caroline, who had dropped her head sadly upon her breast, and I took her hand, which I had never done before; but she seemed so depressed that I longed to comfort her. I did not know what to say to her. I dared not ask her the reason of her determination. We sat a long while thus without speaking; my hand gently pressed hers, but that did not comfort her, for tears poured from her eyes. Then I put my arm about her waist; I felt her heart beat beneath my fingers. I almost breathed her breath.
Suddenly she pushed me away, moved her chair away from mine and exclaimed:
“Ah! I did not believe that I was so weak; but at all events I will not be wicked; no, I will not add to thegrief of a woman whom I pity, whose happiness I would like to restore. And since I am unable to conceal my feelings from you, we must meet henceforth only in company, only before strangers; yes, I swear to you that this is the last tête-à-tête that we shall have.”
Having said this, she hurried from the salon, and I left the house, realizing that we should in truth do well to avoid each other.
After my last tête-à-tête with Caroline I went less frequently to her house, and never went there without my children. The season was advancing; we were to stay in the country but a short time, and I took them to walk with me in the woods every day. Sometimes Madame Ernest went with us; I noticed that she was more friendly with me, that she was in better spirits since I had ceased to pass so much time at Monsieur Roquencourt’s. I concluded that she must have something against her neighbors. But as she was as kind and attentive as always to me and my children, and as her husband’s affection for me showed no diminution, I asked them for nothing more.
I often noticed that Madame Ernest seemed to want to speak to me. I could read faces well enough to feel sure that she had something to say to me. But if that was so, what prevented her? When I was lost in thought,I saw her scrutinize me furtively, then look at my children; but she either said nothing or talked about things which could not interest me.
One afternoon we all went into the forest of Vincennes together. I led Henriette and Eugène by the hand, and Madame Ernest led her little son and daughter. Night was approaching. As we entered a shaded path, Eugène cried:
“Oh! I’m afraid of the spectre here!”
“Of the spectre?” I said, taking him in my arms. “Who has told you anything about a spectre, my dear?”
“The nurse,” cried Madame Ernest’s little girl; “she says there’s a spectre in our house, and that she’s seen it in the garden.”
“Your nurse is a silly creature, and so are you, mademoiselle,” said her mother hastily; “I shall forbid her to talk to you about such things.”
“Oh! I have heard about it too,” said Henriette, “and the nurse declared that she has seen, or heard, the spectre near the little summer-house.”
“Mon Dieu! what idiots those people are! And how can you repeat such things, Henriette—such a sensible girl as you are?”
Madame Ernest seemed very much irritated that there had been any talk of spectres. I began to laugh.
“Why, really,” I said, “it almost seems as if you took the thing seriously. Do you imagine that I am going to run off as fast as I can because these children say that there’s a spectre in your house?”
“No, of course not; but don’t you agree with me that it’s wrong to make children timid by talking to them about such things?”
“That is the very reason why it is better to laugh with them than to be angry. I am very sure that you arenot afraid of the spectre, Henriette, because you understand that there are no such things.”
“Oh! papa, I don’t know whether there are any such things, but I’m a little bit afraid too. And the other night I woke up and thought I saw something white going out of my room. Oh! I wanted to shriek; but I just put my head under the bedclothes.”
“But, my dear love, you ought to find out first of all what you’re afraid of. What is a spectre? Tell me.”
“It is—I don’t know, papa.”
“Oh! I know,” cried little Ernest, “a spectre is a ghost.”
“Indeed! and what is a ghost?”
“A spectre.”
“Bravo! you are quite capable of explaining the Apocalypse!”
“A spectre,” cried the little girl in her turn, “is a devil with a red tail and green horns, that comes at night and pulls naughty little children’s toes.”
That definition made Marguerite and me laugh; but I agreed that she would do well to scold the nurse for telling the children such tales. Young imaginations should never be terrified and darkened. The time when things cease to look rose-colored to us comes quickly enough.
We returned to the house talking of spectres. I kissed my children, who went off to bed; then I walked in the garden. It was a magnificent evening and seemed to me to invite one to breathe the cool, moist air. I soon found myself near the summer-house, which was not occupied. The moon was shining on that part of the garden; but its light always inclines one to melancholy. As I glanced at the clumps of trees about me, I remembered the spectre of which we had been talking, and although I am not abeliever in ghosts, I realized that, by assisting one’s imagination a little, it was easy to see behind that foliage ghostly figures which moved with the faintest breeze.
I seated myself on a bench by the summer-house. The night was so soft and still that I did not think of returning to the house. The image of Caroline, the memory of Eugénie, presented themselves before my mind in turn. I sighed as I reflected that I must fly from the first because she loved me, and forget the other because she did not love me. But she was the mother of my children. They had spoken of her again that day, and had asked me if she would come home soon. I did not know what reply to make. Ernest and his wife never mentioned Eugénie, and their silence surprised and disquieted me. Not a word of her—nothing to tell me where she was, what she was doing, or if she were still alive. She was so changed, so ill, at Mont-d’Or! I would have liked to hear from her. I could not love her, but she would never be indifferent to me.
In these reflections I forgot the time. A sound quite near me caused me to raise my head. It was like a faint sigh. I saw nobody, so I stood up. It seemed to me that I could distinguish, through the leaves, something white running toward the other end of the garden. I remembered the spectre. My curiosity was aroused; I walked to the path where I thought that I had seen something; but I found nothing, and I decided to go to my room; for it was late and everybody else had already retired, no doubt.
I certainly did not believe in ghosts; but I recalled Madame Ernest’s impatience when the children mentioned the subject, and I suspected that there was some mystery at the bottom of it all. I determined to solve it, for something told me that I was interested in it.
I went to bed, but I could not sleep. Tormented by my thoughts, I decided to rise again, and I was about to open my window when it seemed to me that I heard a noise at the end of the corridor, in my children’s room. I opened my door very softly. At that instant a sort of white shadow came out of the other room. I confess that my heart fluttered slightly at first. I was on the point of rushing toward that mysterious being; but I restrained myself and waited silently, without moving a hair, to see what was the meaning of it all.
After closing the door of the children’s chamber, the shade stopped and picked up a lantern; then it walked slowly toward me. It was a woman; I could see that.—But I recognized her: it was Eugénie!
She walked very softly, apparently afraid of making a sound. Her white dress, and the long muslin veil that was thrown back from her head, gave her a sort of ethereal, unsubstantial aspect at a distance. I had no doubt that she was the spectre that had frightened the nurse and children.
Poor Eugénie! her face was almost as pale as her clothes. What a sad expression in her eyes! what prostration in her whole person!—She stopped; she was standing at the head of the stairs. She turned her face toward the room she had just left, then looked in my direction. I trembled lest she should see me; but no, I had no light and my room was very dark. She made up her mind at last to go downstairs; I ran to my window and saw the little lantern pass rapidly through the garden and disappear near the summer-house.
So it was Eugénie who occupied that building, which was always carefully closed; Ernest and Marguerite had given it to her so that she could readily go to the house to see her children. So she was there—very near me—had been there a long while perhaps, and I had no suspicion of it. What was her object, her hope? Was it because of her children only that she had concealed herself there?—But Ernest and his wife knew perfectly well that I would not prevent her from seeing them.
I determined to learn the motive of Eugénie’s conduct, and the plans of Marguerite and her husband. To that end, I must be careful not to let them suspect that I had seen the pretended spectre; and I must try to learn something more the next night.
The intervening time seemed terribly long to me. During the day, I involuntarily walked toward the summer-house several times; but everything was closed as usual. I noticed that the door, which was on the side of the building toward the forest, was very conveniently situated for anyone to go in and out of the garden unseen.
The night came at last. I kissed my children and they were taken to their room. When I supposed that they were asleep, I bade my hosts good-night and withdrew to my room, on the pretext that I had a violent headache; but I had no sooner entered the room than I stole forth again softly, without a light, and went to that occupied by my children. The key was in the door; I went in, and sat down by my daughter’s bed to wait until somebody should come; both she and her brother were sleeping quietly.
At last, some time after everybody was in bed, I heard stealthy steps outside. I instantly left my chair and hid behind the long window curtains. I was hardly out of sight when the door was softly opened, and Eugénie entered the chamber, carrying her little lantern, which she carefully placed at the foot of her son’s cradle.
She threw her veil back over her shoulders, and, stealing forward on tiptoe, leaned over Henriette’s bedand kissed her without waking her; she did the same with Eugène, then sat down facing the children and gazed long at them as they lay sleeping.
I dared not move; I hardly breathed; but Eugénie was almost facing me; I could see her face and count her sighs. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, which were filled with tears, and I heard broken sentences come from her lips.
“Poor children! What an unhappy wretch I am! But I must deprive myself of your caresses—you will never call me mother again. And he—he will never more call me his Eugénie!—Oh! cruelly am I punished!”
Her sobs redoubled, and I had to summon all my courage to refrain from flying to her, wiping away her tears and pressing her to my heart as of old.
We remained in those respective positions for a long while. At last Eugénie rose and seemed to be on the point of taking leave of her children, when someone softly opened the door. Eugénie started back in alarm; but she was reassured when she recognized Marguerite. The latter carefully closed the door, then seated herself by Eugénie’s side; and although they spoke in low tones, I did not lose a word of their conversation.
“My husband is working; I did not feel like sleeping, and I thought that I should find you here; so I came as quietly as possible. However, there’s no light in Monsieur Blémont’s room, and I fancy that he has long been asleep.—Well! still crying! You are making yourself worse—you are very foolish.”
“Oh! madame, tears and regrets are my lot henceforth. I cannot expect any other existence.”
“Who knows? you must not lose hope; if your husband could read the depths of your heart, I believe that he would forgive you.”
“No, madame, for he would always remember my sin; nothing would make my motives less blameworthy in his eyes. And yet, although I am very guilty, I am less so perhaps than he thinks. You have understood me, for women can understand one another. But a man! he sees only the crime, without looking to see what might have driven a woman to forget her duties. And yet, heaven is my witness that, if I had loved him less, I should never have become guilty. If he should hear me say that, he would smile with pity, with contempt; but you—you know that it is true.”
Eugénie laid her head on Marguerite’s shoulder, and sobbed more bitterly than ever. For some minutes they said nothing. At last Eugénie continued:
“I know that my jealousy did not justify me in becoming guilty; but, my God! as if I knew what I was doing! I believed that I was forgotten, deceived, betrayed, by a husband whom I adored. I had but one desire—to repay a part of what he had made me suffer. ‘Play the flirt,’ I was told, ‘and you will bring your husband back to your arms; men soon become cold to a woman whom no one seems to desire to possess.’—I believed that; or, rather, I believed that Henri had never loved me; and then I tried to cease loving him. You know, madame, how jealous I was of you. That ball at which you were—at which he danced with you—oh! that ball fairly drove me mad. Before that, my jealousy had banished peace from our household. Alas! it was never to return! I plunged into the whirlpool of society; not that I was happy there; but I tried to forget, and I was pleased to see that he was distressed by my conduct.
“Fatal blindness! I preferred his anger to his indifference! When I had once sinned, I cannot attempt totell you what took place within me; I tried to deceive myself as to the enormity of my sin; I lived in a never-ending whirl of dissipation, afraid to reflect, doing my utmost to put Henri in the wrong, to convince myself that he had betrayed me a hundred times, and, for all that, realizing perfectly that I had destroyed my own peace of mind forever. When my husband learned the truth, I did not stoop to try to obtain forgiveness by tears. No, I preferred to try to deceive myself still.—Great heaven! what must he have thought of my heart on reading the two letters that I wrote him! A woman who detested him would not have written differently. But, as if I were not already guilty enough, I tried still to make him believe that I felt no repentance for what I had done. I continued to go into society. ‘He will know it,’ I said to myself; ‘he will think that I am happy without him;’ and that thought strengthened me to hold myself in check in the midst of the crowd and to affect a gayety which was so far from my heart. But I knew nothing of his duel and his illness. Those two things, which I learned at almost the same time, made it impossible for me to put any further constraint on myself; it seemed to me that a bandage fell from my eyes. The thought that I might have caused his death terrified me. From that moment the world became hateful to me! I realized the depth of my wrongdoing; when I knew you and heard what you said, I found that I had suspected Henri unjustly, that he really loved me when I believed that he was unfaithful to me. He loved me, and it was by my own fault that I lost his love! Oh! madame, that thought is killing me—and you expect me to cease weeping!”
“But why shouldn’t you consent to let us mention you to him, to let us try to move him?”
“Oh, no! that is impossible; somebody else has tried it already, and to no purpose, as I have told you. That young woman, Mademoiselle Caroline Derbin, whom he met, I believe, at Mont-d’Or,—that young woman, who thought that he was a bachelor at first, learned, I don’t know how, that he was my husband; then, believing that it was he who had abandoned me, she begged him, implored him, to return to me. I was near them, without their knowing it, in the courtyard of the inn; I overheard all their conversation. He was kind enough also to allow himself to be blamed for wrongs of which he was not guilty; he did not try to disabuse her with regard to me. But, when she begged him to return to me, I heard him say: ‘We are parted forever!’—Ah! those cruel words echoed in the depths of my heart, and I cannot understand why they did not kill me, although I had lost all hope of obtaining forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to prove that his answer to Mademoiselle Derbin represents his opinion to-day. I told you how he had changed to his son, poor little Eugène, whom he would hardly look at when he first came here; now he seems as fond of him as of his daughter.”
“Oh! since I first sinned, I have known but one moment’s happiness—that was when I learned that he no longer refused to take his son in his arms! Poor child! because your mother was guilty, could your father treat you as a stranger all your life? But I solemnly swear that I was without reproach when my son was born, and Henri can safely take him in his arms!”
What I had heard caused me such intense pleasure that I cannot describe it; I had to lean against the window; for joy often takes away all our strength. Luckily Marguerite continued the conversation; they did not hear the movement that I was unable to restrain.
“What makes me hope that Monsieur Blémont may yet forgive you, madame, is the pains that he has taken to conceal your wrongdoing. Nobody knows anything about it; he alone has incurred all the blame.”
“Oh! he has done that for the honor of his name, for his children; but do not infer from that that he will forgive me. Henri loved me too dearly—and I wrecked his life! No, I entreat you again, never speak to him about me! Let him forget me—but let him love his children! Is not that all that I can ask? Thanks to your kindness—to your compassion for me—I can at least see him. Hidden in the summer-house which you have given me, I can look into the garden through a hole in the shutters. Henri often walks there; sometimes I hear his voice, I see him with his children.—Then—oh! madame, such joy and such agony as I feel!—Had I not a place between my children and him?—And I can never occupy it again!”
“Poor Eugénie! Calm yourself, for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh, yes! I must restrain my sobs, for I don’t want to disturb my children’s sleep. I can kiss them every night; that is my sole consolation; but they do not call me their mother any more. Oh! madame, it is ghastly never to hear that name!”
“You could come to see them if you chose. You could send for them to come to you. Monsieur Blémont has never had any idea of depriving you of their caresses.”
“No, I am no longer worthy of them. Besides, they will grow up. What can you reply to children who ask you why you do not live with their father? It is much better that they should not see me; that they should forget their mother!”
After another interval, filled only by Eugénie’s subdued moans, she continued:
“Alas! my heart is torn by still another pang. You have guessed it—you who can read my heart so well, who are so kind to me, and whom I misunderstood and blamed for so long!”
“Hush!” said Marguerite, embracing her; “haven’t I forbidden you to mention that again? But I have some good news for you: for some days Monsieur Blémont has been to see Mademoiselle Derbin much less frequently; he passes less time with her.”
“He goes there less? Is it possible? Oh! I no longer have any right to be jealous, madame, I know; I have no claim to his heart; and yet I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that he loves another. And this Caroline is so lovely; and then she loves him—I am perfectly sure of that.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Oh! women are never mistaken about such things, you know. I discovered it at Mont-d’Or; I was certain of it when I overheard their conversation on the evening that he left. To be sure, she begged him to come back to me; but her voice trembled, she could hardly restrain her tears. In short, she spoke to him as one speaks to a person whom one loves, even when one is trying to pretend to hate him. Poor Caroline! she had thought that he was free and a bachelor. She had abandoned herself without fear to the pleasure of loving him.”
“Very well; but now when she knows perfectly well that he is married, and above all, when she thinks that it was he who deserted you, why does she bring her uncle here to Saint-Mandé, and settle down within two steps of us? Why does she invite Monsieur Blémont to come to see her? Is that the way for a woman to act with a man whom she is determined not to love, whom she istrying to forget? I confess that that has not given me a very favorable opinion of that young lady, and Monsieur Blémont must have noticed more than once that I don’t like her, although I don’t know her.”
“What can you expect? She still loves him—she longed to see him again. But if only he might not love her! Since I have seen him every day, since, thanks to you, I have been living so near him, I have indulged in illusions; I have fancied sometimes that I still reigned in his heart; and the awakening is very bitter!—No, I am nothing more than a stranger now; I can never recover the place that I once filled in his heart. Others must have his love.”
“Why forbid us to speak to him of you sometimes?”
“Oh! never, never, I implore you! My children speak of me to him; I often hear them ask about their mother. If he is deaf to their voices, do you think that he will be moved by yours? Wait until he himself—but he will never ask what has become of me!”
“I cannot believe that he has entirely forgotten you.—But it is late; you must go; it is time for you to be in bed.”
Marguerite took the light, while Eugénie went to look at her children and kiss them once more. But Marguerite led her away and they both left the room, closing the door with great caution.
I listened to their footsteps for a few seconds, until I could no longer hear them. Then I left my hiding-place, and I too kissed my children, but with a keener delight than usual; and, taking equal precautions to make no noise, I returned to my room. The conversation that I had overheard was engraved on my memory, and my course was already resolved upon, my plan of action formed.
On the day following that night which was to change my destiny, I wrote to Pettermann to come to Saint-Mandé to receive some commissions to which I wished him to attend. My faithful German speedily appeared; but he seemed to me to act with some constraint, and when he stood in front of me he did not speak.
“Well, Pettermann, what is there new?” I asked him. “I can see that you have something to tell me; why don’t you speak?”
“Yes, monsieur, yes, I have something to tell you, but I don’t know how to put it.”
“Explain yourself!”
“You see, I’m afraid that you’ll think I’m an idiot; when I say one thing and do another.—Faith, prout!—but never mind! Monsieur knows well enough that men are not phœnixes! Here goes! Monsieur knows that I am married?”
“Yes.”
“And that I left my wife because we didn’t agree. She beat me and didn’t want me to drink; I wanted to drink and not to be beaten.”
“Well, Pettermann?”
“Well, monsieur, a few days ago I met my wife, and she spoke to me; she was as sweet as honey—in short, we melted toward each other. She asked me if I still got drunk; I told her that it only happened once a month;she said: ‘Nobody can find fault with once a month.’—In short, monsieur—you see—I’ve promised to take my wife back. But what makes me miserable is that then I shall have to leave you; and I’m afraid monsieur is angry with me too.”
“No, Pettermann, no; take back your wife. Far from reproaching you, I approve your resolution. What is your wife doing now?”
“She’s a concierge, monsieur, in a fine house within ten yards of the one where we live.”
“Well! it is possible that you may remain with me.”
“Ah! ten thousand prouts! how I should like that!”
“Is there a pleasant apartment to let in your wife’s house?”
“Two magnificent ones—partly decorated; one on the second, one on the third; with wood-shed and cellar; plenty of mirrors. I know everything there is in the house.”
“Hire the apartment on the second floor for me. Is it empty now?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You will have my furniture moved there. Go to my upholsterer—here is his address. He will look over the apartment and do whatever he considers necessary, so that there may be nothing lacking. Everything must be finished and all ready for our reception in four days at the latest; for then—I am going to tell you something in confidence, Pettermann—then I am going to take back my wife too.”
“Your wife? Why, is monsieur married?”
“Yes, my friend; and like you, I have not always agreed with my wife, although the causes of disagreement were not at all the same.”
“Oh! I imagine not.”
“But to-day I realize that I have done wrong, and I hope to find happiness once more with my wife and my children.”
“Faith! it pleases me to know that, monsieur. As monsieur does the same thing that I do, my mind is at rest. And I shall still be in monsieur’s service?”
“Yes, my friend. You understand me, do you not? See that everything is ready in four days.”
“It shall be ready.”
“But until then not a word—no indiscretion!”
“I am as dumb as a dead man.”
Pettermann returned to Paris.
I felt more content with myself, better satisfied; and yet—I may confess it to myself—I had no love for Eugénie—no. But perhaps it was for the very reason that I had no love for her that it was possible for me to return to her. I saw in her the mother of my children, and I did not wish to condemn her to never-ending misery. We should never be to each other as we had been—that was impossible. I would treat her with consideration and affection, and time would do the rest. I should have to cease entirely to see Caroline. Ah! that was not the least of the sacrifices I should have made to my children. But, since everything was decided, since my resolution was irrevocable, I determined to go to see her on the next day for the last time, and to tell her that I was going back to my wife. She would think that I was influenced by her advice, her entreaties; I would not undeceive her.
I returned to the salon where all the others were assembled. I determined to forget myself, to be cheerful and merry. I played with the children, I kissed Madame Ernest, and I laughed with her husband.
“What’s the matter with him to-day?” Ernest and his wife asked each other; “how happy he seems!”
“I am happy.”
“What has happened to make you so cheerful?”
“I have had news that pleased me.”
“From whom?”
“Oh! you shall know later.”
The husband and wife exchanged glances; but I felt sure that they did not guess my purpose, and I continued at once:
“What is going on to-day? I feel strongly inclined to amuse myself.”
“Why, we might go to the ball,” said Ernest; “to-day is the last Saint-Mandé ball, and they say that it will be very fine.”
“I haven’t been to one of them since I have been living here; I should not be sorry to see it. We will go. Do you agree?”
“Oh! I don’t go to balls,” said Marguerite; “I don’t care for them; I prefer to stay with the children. You two may go. But don’t speak to any women; for there are women at all these balls in the suburbs of Paris.”
We promised to be good; and immediately after dinner Ernest and I started for the place where the local balls were held. As the weather was superb, there were in addition to the people from Saint-Mandé and from Vincennes, many Parisians, who desired to enjoy one more rural festivity. Numerous carriages were standing on the outskirts of the crowd.
“The deuce! this will be magnificent!” said Ernest. “I’ll bet that we shall find more than one actress here; the princesses of the wings delight in open air balls.”
“You know that you promised your wife to be good.”
“Oh! my friend, we always promise, and we keep our promise if we can!—Come, my dear Blémont, the music is striking up.”
In fact, the dancing had begun. There was a great crowd; many pretty dresses, some peasants, a few bourgeoises, and a large number of kept women. It is the same at all open air balls.
We had not walked ten steps when I heard my name called; I turned and saw Bélan, with his wife and his mother-in-law on his arm, apparently very proud to escort his superb Armide. He honored me with a gracious nod; then, after finding seats for the ladies, he came to me and led me away from the dancing.
“Well, my dear Blémont, as you see, everything is arranged and I have returned to the fold. I was a lost lamb, as my mother-in-law says; but everything is forgotten and I have once more become reconciled with my wife.”
“That is what I supposed when I saw you just now. But I confess that it rather surprised me. After taking your affairs into court, after having your name published in the newspapers——”
“What difference does that make? What do the newspapers prove? Besides, as the court decided that I was mistaken, that I wasn’t a cuckold, I can’t claim to know more than the judges.”
“If I remember aright, you talked in a very different tone at Mont-d’Or; you proposed to appeal from the judgment against you.”
“Do you think that I said that? It’s possible. It is true that I was excited then—anger, you know, and jealousy—a man often says foolish things. I am more reasonable now. On my return from Mont-d’Or her relations came to me; they told me that Armide was inclined to forgive me. At that, I said: ‘Let us forget all our disagreements.’—All my friends tell me that I have done well to take back my wife.”
“I am far from blaming you; but if I had been in your place, I would have made less noise about it.”
“Oh! I like to make a noise—to make people talk about me. As soon as I go anywhere nowadays, I hear people whispering when they look at me. They say: ‘That’s Monsieur Ferdinand Bélan,’ as they might say: ‘That is Voltaire, or Frederick the Great.’ I confess it doesn’t displease me. But au revoir, my dear fellow; the ladies await me, and I like dancing with Armide.”
I had no desire to detain Bélan. What a strange man! And yet not so strange after all; we meet with such characters not infrequently. But I did not enjoy his society at all.—He had caused me to lose sight of Ernest, and I set out to find him again.
I returned to the place where they were dancing. Ernest was performing with a lady from Saint-Mandé. As I did not care to dance, I was looking about for a seat, when my eyes met those of a young woman who beckoned to me. It was Caroline, sitting with her uncle, and she offered me a chair beside her. I hesitated, for before long I must cease to enjoy her society; but that would be the last time before bidding her adieu forever. To refuse would have been discourteous. So I stepped forward and took the proffered seat by her side.
“It took you a long while to decide,” she said with a smile, “although we are not alone here.”
I made no reply; I dared not even look at her; for I found her eyes very dangerous since coquetry had ceased to shine in them. Luckily her uncle put an end to my embarrassment.
“You do not dance, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
“No, monsieur; I don’t care for dancing now.”
“I used to be very fond of it myself; in fact, I was a very good dancer. I remember that, inAmphitryon,when I played Sosie—A very nice rôle, that of Sosie! Dugazon made me rehearse it very carefully.—You know the famous scene of the lantern. Dugazon used to leap over the lantern and cut all sorts of capers; but I proposed to do differently. I placed the lantern—look, like this chair, at about this distance. Then I ran forward, making a pirouette as I ran, and I executed a very neatentrechatas I landed on the other side. It was very difficult. Look—I’ll just turn the chair over so that I can show you better.”
“What, uncle! are you going to jump over chairs now?”
“No, my dear, no, I don’t intend to jump; but I was explaining to Monsieur Dalbreuse what I did as Sosie; and I flatter myself that no actor at the Français ever jumped higher than I did.”
Luckily for Monsieur Roquencourt, one of his Saint-Mandé neighbors came to bid him good-evening, and seated himself in the chair that he was about to take. That saved Monsieur Roquencourt the trouble of showing me how he jumped, and he entered into conversation with the newcomer.
“You are not dancing?” I said to Caroline.
“Oh, no! I shouldn’t care to dance here, except with somebody whom I know very well. Besides, I am like you, I no longer care for dancing. I don’t intend to go to any balls this winter—or into society at all. All the things that I used to enjoy so much bore me terribly now. I shall stay at home—alone—with my thoughts. To be able to think at one’s leisure is such a great satisfaction sometimes!”
She looked at me, then we both lowered our eyes and relapsed into silence. Meanwhile Monsieur Roquencourt was almost quarrelling with his neighbor.
“I tell you, monsieur, that Dugazon never played Moncade inL’École des Bourgeois!”
“I beg your pardon, but I saw him.”
“You are mistaken—it was Fleury.”
“No, it was Dugazon.”
“But it is impossible; the part wasn’t in his line. It is as if you should say that you had seen me play Hamlet or Œdipe; it is absolutely the same thing.”
“I don’t know what you have played, but I saw Dugazon play the Marquis de Moncade.”
“Oh! that is enough to make a man jump to the ceiling!”
But the little uncle could not jump to the ceiling, as we were under the trees; so he contented himself with falling backward with his chair; which made me afraid that he proposed to play Sosie again. Caroline and I could not help smiling. That diverted our thoughts for a moment. Suddenly Mademoiselle Derbin, who was watching the dancing again, said to her uncle:
“Ah! there is my lace-mender; how finely she is arrayed! She hasn’t a bad style; really one would think that she was a lady of fashion. Look, Monsieur Dalbreuse—that woman in a lilac hat is she.”
I looked at the person she pointed out to me, and I felt a shock of terror, as if I had seen a serpent.
It was Lucile—Lucile, whom I had not seen since the fatal day. Her presence seemed to revive all the agony that I had felt then. I cannot describe the pain that the sight of her caused me.
My features must have expressed very clearly what I felt, for Caroline instantly said to me:
“Mon Dieu! what is the matter? You must know that woman.”
“Yes, I—that is to say, long ago, but not now.”
“What did she ever do to you that the sight of her should upset you to this extent?”
“Nothing; but for some unknown reason, when I looked at her, I remembered—Sometimes one cannot account for one’s sensations.”
At that moment the quadrille came to an end. Lucile and her partner came in our direction. Great heaven! she sat down a few feet away; she saw me and gazed fixedly at me. I could not endure that woman’s presence, her eyes; I rose abruptly, forced my way through the throng, left the ball, and did not stop until I reached a place where I was alone.
So I was destined never to be happy, never to lose the memory of my sufferings! When I had decided to forgive Eugénie, to give my children a mother, the sight of that Lucile must needs recall everything that I wanted to forget. How she stared at me! She seemed to enjoy the torture, the shame that her presence caused me. Malice gleamed in her eyes.—Ah! I had hoped that I never should see Lucile again!
I threw myself down on the turf and tried to be calm. After all, my chance meeting with that woman would make no change in my plans. I would learn to control myself better in the future; but I would travel a hundred leagues, if necessary, to avoid meeting Lucile.
I lay in that spot nearly half an hour. At last, feeling more tranquil, I rose; but I could not decide whether I would return to the ball. Ernest was waiting for me, no doubt. I walked a few steps, then stopped, for I did not want to see Lucile again. While I was hesitating, a woman came toward me from the direction of the dance. She was almost running. I waited anxiously.—Ah! it was Caroline.
She joined me and hung upon my arm, saying: