Cherami sauntered through the Bois, where, by reason of the season and the early hour, he met very few people. He had just lighted his second cigar, when, as he turned from one path into another, he saw a man coming toward him, very well dressed, walking very rapidly, and turning from time to time, to look behind him and on both sides, as if he feared that he was followed. When he saw Cherami walking in his direction, he stopped, and seemed undecided as to what he should do, being evidently inclined to retrace his steps. But, meanwhile, our smoker was drawing nearer, and ere long the two men stood face to face and looked at each other. Thereupon each of the two uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Pardieu! I am not mistaken. It is Monsieur Auguste Monléard whom I have the honor of saluting?"
"And you are the gentleman with whom I fought at Belleville?"
"Himself—at your service, for anything in my power!—Arthur Cherami."
"Ah, yes! I had forgotten your name."
"This is very early for you to be in the Bois de Boulogne. I say early, although it is after half-past twelve; but in winter people seldom come for a turn in the Bois until between three o'clock and five."
"True, very true; but how about yourself?"
"Oh! I breakfasted at Passy, with certain excellent people, whose society is not over and above diverting:and, faith! after breakfast I came here for a smoke. How does it happen that you are not on horseback?"
"Why, because it suited me to come on foot, I presume."
"That was well deserved—excuse my curiosity. For my part, if I still owned a horse, I certainly wouldn't be on foot. You see, I am very fond of horses! I used to have some fine ones: that was my passion!"
While Cherami was speaking, Auguste continued to glance uneasily from side to side; he was even paler than usual, and his face wore a grave and gloomy expression.
"Do you happen to have a meeting on hand for to-day?" continued Cherami, flicking the ashes from his cigar. "If that's the case, and you need a second, you know, my dear monsieur, that I am entirely at your service, and that I should be enchanted to oblige you in any way."
"No, no, I have no duel this morning," Auguste replied; then, gazing fixedly at the person before him, he added, in a minute or two: "And yet, monsieur, you can, none the less, do me a very great favor."
"I can? Then, speak! I am entirely at your service. I have nothing to do."
"Yes, it was a lucky chance that led to my meeting you here. I left Paris this morning, rather suddenly, and I forgot to write to a certain person; but it's very important that I should."
"You want me to carry a letter to someone?"
"Monsieur Cherami, this is a matter of the utmost gravity; I apply to you, because I think I have judged you accurately. You are a man capable of understanding me."
"The deuce! the deuce! but you have a serious way of talking! It is plain that this is no joking matter."
"Are you still disposed to do me a favor?"
"More so than ever."
"Very well; then be good enough to come with me. There must be a café somewhere about here; a restaurant where I can write a letter?"
"Yes, we have only to turn back a little way, and we shall find what we want."
"Let us go. Have you breakfasted?"
"Why, yes; as I told you just now, I breakfasted at Passy. But that won't interfere with my taking something more. The air is sharp, and walking assists in rapid digestion."
They turned back; Auguste walked so fast that Cherami, despite his long legs, had difficulty in following him; he tried to continue the conversation, but his companion seemed absorbed by his thoughts, and did not answer.
"There's something wrong with that man," said Arthur to himself, as he lighted another cigar. "I don't know what it is, but that long face of his doesn't indicate a man who is trying to make up his mind what sauce to order for his lobster. However, it's his business. He has confidence in me, and I'll not betray him, for he's a good fellow. I am only sorry that I stuffed myself with eggs and pie at Aunt Duponceau's, for I should have breakfasted much better with him, that's sure. But every man isn't a sorcerer."
They found a café-restaurant, and were shown to a private room.
"Order whatever you choose," said Auguste to Cherami; "I have breakfasted."
"You too? In that case, it was hardly worth while to come here."
"I beg your pardon; I am going to write, I must write, two letters; then I will leave you. So, eat at your leisure; you have no occasion to hurry."
"Very good.—Waiter! Let me see, what can I take—something light, to give me an appetite? Ah! I have it. Bring me a good slice of pâté de foie gras, and a bottle of very old Beaune; we will toy with that, and then we'll see."
Cherami was duly served. Meanwhile, Auguste had seated himself at another table and was writing.
Madame Duponceau's breakfast did not interfere with Cherami's enjoyment of the foie gras, which he watered with frequent draughts of Beaune, saying to his neighbor from time to time:
"Pray drink a glass of this wine; it's old and very good; there won't be any left in a moment; however, we can remedy that by ordering another.—Waiter, bring me some kind of cheese and a second bottle of this Beaune."
Auguste had ceased to write; he sealed the two letters and handed them to Cherami.
"Will you kindly take these letters, my dear monsieur? one is for my wife, Madame Monléard; the address is written on it."
"By the way, how is your good wife?"
"Very well; but allow me to finish. This other letter, without address, is for you."
"For me?"
"Yes; and you must give me your word of honor not to read it until half an hour after I have left you."
"Half an hour after you have left me?"
"Yes; will you promise?"
"If it will oblige you, I promise."
"Thanks; I rely upon your word."
"You may safely do so; I haven't thirty-six words in serious matters; but the other letter?"
"When you have read what I have written to you, you will see what I ask you to do; and I am confident that you will carry out my intentions."
"I have told you that I am entirely at your service."
"Here is my purse, for I shall not come back here. You will find enough inside to pay for whatever you may have ordered."
"Very good; I will pay, and I will put the change in the purse. It's a very pretty little thing—very dainty, and in excellent taste."
"If you like it, pray keep it in memory of—our acquaintance."
"You are really too kind. I don't stand on ceremony, myself, so I accept it."
"And now—pour me a glass of wine, so that I may drink with you."
"Ah! now you're talking!"
Cherami filled two glasses; Auguste took one of them with a firm hand, touched it to the one held by the ex-beau, muttered a few unintelligible words, and swallowed the wine at a single gulp.
"Sapristi! how fast you go! one has no time to follow you. I toss champagne off like that sometimes, but it's a miserable way to drink, as a rule. I like better to sip. Shall we have another glass, so that I may drink your health?"
"No, I haven't time. Adieu, monsieur; I rely on your promise. You will not read that letter for half an hour."
"You have my word! Are you going so soon?"
"I must."
"When shall I see you again?"
"Impossible to say. Adieu, monsieur!"
"Au revoir, rather!"
Auguste took his hat, shook hands with Cherami, pointed again to the two letters on the table, and rushed from the room.
Cherami balanced himself on the hind legs of his chair, drank another glass of wine, and ordered cigars, saying:
"As I have to stay here another half-hour, I may as well employ my time to advantage.—Waiter! coffee, brandy, and kirsch. By the way, see what time it is now by your sundials, and tell me exactly."
The waiter brought what had been ordered, and said:
"The clock in the hall has just struck two, monsieur."
"Very good; when it strikes the half-hour, you are to come and tell me; do you hear?"
"Yes, monsieur; I shall not fail. Does monsieur wish anything else?"
"No; these decanters of brandy and kirsch will help me kill time. If I want you, I'll ring.—This has been a most extraordinary day!" said Cherami to himself, as he lighted a fresh cigar. "I hardly suspected, this morning, when I was pacing the boulevards to get up an appetite, that I should breakfast at Passy, and then breakfast a second time in the Bois de Boulogne. This Monsieur Auguste Monléard is concealing some scheme or other which is not of a cheerful nature. Those two letters he left with me—one of which is for myself—there's a mystery about the whole business! This purse he gave me is a very dainty affair; let's see what there is in it. A hundred-franc note! Damnation! I have my cue! I shall have enough to pay for my breakfast.—What are these other papers? Broker's memorandums: 'boughtby order of M. Monléard; sold by order of M. Monléard.'—These are of no importance, and there's nothing else. Can it be that our young capitalist has been unlucky in speculation, and has vamosed, as they say?—It's very possible. Well! I shall know all about it before long; at least ten minutes must have passed. Let's take a drink of kirsch. That little scamp of a Narcisse has nicked my switch all up. Children are very nice—when they're well brought up.—I can't keep my eyes off that letter. Time never dragged so with me! Suppose I ask for my bill—that's a good idea.—Waiter!"
"Did monsieur call?"
"Yes; bring me my check. Add three more kirsches—I shall drink them before I go—and, when you come back, tell me what time it is."
"Yes, monsieur."
The waiter returned with the bill, which he handed to Cherami, saying:
"It's a quarter past two, monsieur."
"Only a quarter! Sacrebleu! you make a mistake; it isn't possible that it's only a quarter past!"
"I give you my word, monsieur, that that's all it is by the clock in the hall. If you will come and look for yourself——"
"All right! Let's see the footing! seventeen francs fifty. Here, change this note for me, and, when you bring back the change, look at the clock a little more carefully."
"Why, monsieur, I can't look at it any different way from——"
"Go, boy, and don't argue. I don't like arguers."
"Such is life!" mused Cherami, resorting to the kirsch once more; "when you're with a woman who pleasesyou, when you're playing an exciting game of cards, time doesn't walk; it flies:hora vita simul!At other times, it crawls like a tortoise; and yet, the time is sure to come when we find that it has moved altogether too fast! That simply proves that men are never satisfied with the present. Ah! what a pretty, old fairy tale that is ofNourjahad and Cheredin, which impressed me so when I read it—in my youth. Monsieur Nourjahad is a young, handsome, and wealthy Mussulman, who lacks nothing to make him happy, and, of course, he isn't satisfied; he complains because time doesn't go fast enough to suit him, because he is to marry his cousin at twenty-five, and to reign over a great kingdom when he is thirty. Cheredin is an old dervish, something of a sorcerer; he hears Nourjahad railing at destiny, and says to him: 'I can grant you the power to make time pass as swiftly as you wish; but, beware! it is very dangerous. You will shorten your life, if you do not moderate your desires.'—The young man is overjoyed, he accepts, and promises to use in moderation the power which is bestowed on him. But, fiddle-de-dee! When shall we ever see a man resist the desire of possessing at once what he ought not to have until later? Nourjahad desires to be twenty-five years old, in order to marry his cousin; then thirty, in order to be sultan. Soon he desires to be a father, then to see his child grown up; then, being at war with his neighbors, he wants the decisive battle to come at once. In a word, that devil of a Nourjahad goes so fast, in the satisfaction of his desires, that he finds that he has grown thirty years older in a month; thereupon he curses the power that was placed in his hands, and Cheredin observes: 'My good friend, that is what all men would do, if they were enabled to make time movefaster.'—And, touching Nourjahad with his wand, he restores his youth, and advises him to keep it as long as possible.—That is a very sensible preachment; but if, instead of making time move faster, one could make it go backward, ah! then we should look twice before doing it. A man goes through some such infernal quarter-hours in the course of his life, that he wouldn't like to repeat them."
The waiter appeared, panting for breath, and cried:
"I beg your pardon, monsieur, for being so long, but we didn't have the change for a hundred francs here, and I had to go a long way to get it. Lord! what a nuisance change is! Count it, monsieur."
"And the time? Sacrebleu! tell me what time it is, will you?"
"Oh! I didn't think to look, monsieur."
"Then go and look now, villain! beast!"
"Look first and see if the change is right."
"I don't care a damn about my change. The time, you rascal, the time, at once!"
Cherami pushed the waiter out of the room and impatiently awaited his return, muttering again:
"Ah! how well I understand Nourjahad's feeling!"
"Monsieur, it has struck the half-hour; it's three minutes past," cried the waiter.
"At last! that's very lucky! Off with you, then!"
"But is monsieur's change all right? I want to be sure."
"What's that? yes, blackguard, it's all right; here are two francs for you; and now, clear out!"
"Shall I come back and tell monsieur the time again?"
Cherami half rose from his seat; only half, but the waiter understood, and fled.
The two letters were on the table; having thrown away the end of his cigar, Cherami took the one which was for himself, saying:
"It's very strange; I really feel a sort of emotion. Come, no nonsense; let's see what there is inside!"
He opened the letter and read:
"'My dear Monsieur:—When you read these words, I shall be dead—— '
"Dead!" cried Cherami, striking the table violently with his clenched fist. "Nonsense! it isn't possible; I must have read it wrong! but, no; that's what it says: 'I shall be dead.' Let's go on:
"'I had a very respectable little fortune, but it wasn't enough for me; I speculated on the Bourse, and I had bad luck; I married, hoping that a woman's love would change the course of my ideas, and that an attractive home would satisfy my ambition. Unluckily, I was mistaken. The person whom I married has one of those emotionless hearts with which it is impossible to give play to one's feelings; after a week of wedlock, I found that she had not the slightest love for me, but that she desired to cut a figure in society, and to eclipse all other women. Thereupon I speculated more wildly than ever, in order to gratify my vanity, if nothing more. Ten days ago, I gave a great party, to try to disguise my condition. I still hoped to extricate myself; I risked all that I had! I lost, and I am ruined!—and, as I haven't your philosophy, as I could not determine to live in poverty after having tasted the pleasures of luxury, I am going to blow out my brains. Be good enough to call upon mywife and prepare her gently for the news; I do not think, however, that her heart will suffer most.
"'I ask your pardon for the trouble I cause you, but I have formed this judgment of you: that you are a man and will keep the promise you made me. Receive my last adieu.
"'AUGUSTEMONLÉARD.'"
For a few moments after reading this letter, Cherami was speechless with dismay. He even put his hand to his eyes to wipe away a tear; then muttered:
"What! that handsome young dandy who sat there just now! But, sacrebleu! perhaps it's not too late yet!"
Springing to his feet, he seized his hat and cane, put the letters in his pocket, and left the room. Below, he inquired which direction his late companion had taken; they told him, and he hastened away toward the loneliest part of the Bois. But he soon saw a crowd of people, and, marching toward them, some gendarmes who had been sent for, and who plunged at once into the underbrush.
"What has happened?" he inquired of a peasant woman who passed him; "what are those gendarmes here for?"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, because someone has killed himself in the woods—a young man—very well dressed, too, I give you my word. I can't understand why people who are rich enough to dress like that should do such things! That little boy there found him."
"It's all over then; he's dead?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur.—And his nice new overcoat!"
"In that case," said Cherami to himself, "I have only to execute the commission he intrusted to me."
As he returned to Paris, Cherami's reflections took this turn:
"Well, here's something that changes the state of affairs very materially. That young Fanny's a widow—she's free—her husband is dead. I trust that Gustave won't say now that it was I who killed him! At all events, I have the letter he wrote me, and I will keep it carefully; otherwise, people would be quite capable of believing that I shot him in a duel; but, after all, that young woman, whom Gustave still adores—and who is the cause of his going away from Paris because he's afraid of meeting her—that Fanny for whom he has a passion such as we seldom see nowadays; I might say, such as we never see!—However, since she is a widow now, and since she greeted Gustave so kindly the last time he met her—for I remember that he told me she even urged him to call—now, then, orergo, as we used to say at school, since that young woman did not look upon Gustave with an unfavorable eye when she was married, it seems to me that she should look upon him even more favorably now that she's a widow. She gave poor Monléard the preference, because he offered her everything that attracts a woman. To-day, when she is ruined, it seems to me that she would be very glad to fall in with my young friend, who gives me the impression of occupying a very satisfactory position in life.I really believe that the thing can be arranged—not instantly, because we must give the little woman time to weep over her husband; but I foresee that hereafter Gustave's love and constancy will be rewarded. Ah! I like to think of that; for then Gustave will cease to travel, he will stay in Paris; and a man is very glad to have such friends as he is, always at hand. What a pity that he isn't here now! I would have lost no time in telling him the great news. Oh! but I will find out where he is, I will find him. Meanwhile, I must think about performing my mission to the young wife, with all proper precautions. It isn't precisely an agreeable errand; but if one did only agreeable things, it would become monotonous."
Fanny was in her boudoir, trying on some morning caps, and leaving her mirror from time to time to go to look at the last bulletin from the Bourse, which was on her toilet table, when her maid appeared and told her that a gentleman desired to speak to her.
"A gentleman! What gentleman? Do you know him? Did he give his name?"
"No, madame; I have never seen him here."
"Are you sure that he wants to see me, not Monsieur Monléard?"
"It is certainly you, madame; and he says that it's on very important business."
"Is the man respectable? Does he look like a gentleman?"
"Why, yes, madame."
"Then show him into the salon; I will go down."
She hastily finished her toilet, saying to herself:
"Monsieur Vauflers has probably sent some friend of his to tell me what he has done on the Bourse. It's after four o'clock; yes, it must be that."
Cherami, being ushered into the salon, scrutinized the furniture, muttering:
"It's not bad, it's verychic!I used to have such quarters myself. It's more comfortable than the Widow Louchard's lodgings. But one has his ups and downs all the same, even in such surroundings."
Fanny appeared at last; she bowed to her visitor, who seemed to her to have "a funny look"; for such is the fashionable method of describing what one does not know how to describe; then she pointed to a chair, and said:
"You wish to speak to me, monsieur? about some business at the Bourse, I presume?"
Cherami was embarrassed at the sight of the young woman. He realized that his mission was more difficult to execute than he had thought; however, he sat down, stammering:
"Madame—it is—it is on the subject——"
"Of to-day's market, is it not?"
"No, not to-day's, madame; but it was the Bourse which caused—which brought about the event—the calamity——"
"Be kind enough, monsieur, to explain yourself more clearly, for I do not understand you at all."
Cherami bit his lips, seeking the best method of preparing the young woman for what he had to tell her; and after reflecting for a considerable time, he cried:
"Madame, I came to tell you that your husband is dead!"
Fanny started from her seat, gazed at the man before her, and rejoined, with a shrug of her shoulders:
"If this is a joke, monsieur, allow me to inform you that it is in execrable taste."
"Therefore I should not have the hardihood to indulge in it, madame. I did not come here with any purpose of joking; what I say to you, I say in all seriousness."
"But I saw my husband at breakfast this forenoon, monsieur. He was not ill, not even indisposed. What, in heaven's name, can have happened to him?"
"Nothing has happened to him; he himself thought it best to put an end to his own life; and he blew out his brains in the Bois de Boulogne, about half-past two o'clock."
Fanny changed color, but did not lose courage.
"No, monsieur; it's not possible," she rejoined; "there is some mistake, it cannot be my husband. Why should Auguste kill himself—young, rich, and happy as he was?"
"It would seem, madame, that he was much less happy than you like to think. And as to being rich, he was so no longer, for he had ruined himself utterly on the Bourse; he was penniless, and he lacked the courage to endure these hard blows of fortune."
"Ruined!" cried the young woman, springing to her feet. "What do you say, monsieur? Ruined! why, then I am ruined, too! Then I have nothing! Why, that would be too terrible; it would be ghastly!"
"Poor Auguste was right," thought Cherami, observing Fanny's despair; "it isn't his death that grieves his wife most."
"But, monsieur, how do you know—how did you learn of this event? And even if my husband is dead, how do you know that he was ruined?"
"Be good enough to listen a moment, madame. This noon, after breakfasting at Passy with some worthy people,—who must be expecting me to dinner at this moment, by the way, but I shall not go,—I had gone to smoke acigar in the Bois de Boulogne, where there were very few people, the cold being so intense. There I met your husband; we were acquainted, he had seen me on a certain occasion—in short, he knew what sort of man I am. He came to me and asked me if I would do him an important service; as you may imagine, madame, I placed myself at his disposal. We went to a café, where he wrote two letters. One was for me, which he made me promise not to open until half an hour after he had left me; then he went away. I waited the half-hour, then opened the letter. He told me therein of his deplorable determination, and of the reasons which had led him to it; then he requested me to take the other letter—to its address."
"For whom was that other letter?"
"For you, madame. Here it is."
Fanny took in a trembling hand the letter which Cherami handed her, and read in an altered voice:
"'I thought, madame, that by marrying you I ensured the happiness of both; I was mistaken; I needed a loving wife to calm and allay the vivacity of my passions; I found in you simply a woman who adored money and pleasure above all else.'"
At that, Fanny paused, and read the remainder of the letter to herself:
"I make no reproaches, madame; a woman cannot recast her nature, especially at your age. Feeling is a gift of nature, as selfishness is a vice of the heart; I judged you ill; it was my fault, not yours. Being unable to enjoy the domestic happiness of which I had dreamed, I tried to replace it by all the enjoyments arising fromvanity; I have failed, and I have lost all that I possessed. You, too, are interested in the Bourse; take my advice, madame, and do not speculate."
Again Fanny paused, to heave a tremendous sigh, then read on:
"But, madame, do not fear that I leave you burdened with debts; I have met all my obligations; I have paid everything, and my name will remain without blemish, at all events. You can bear it without a blush."
The young woman made a slight movement of the shoulders, which seemed to indicate that she was not overjoyed because her husband had paid all his debts; she even muttered between her teeth:
"That's a valuable thing for him to leave me—his name! and nothing with it! Ah! there's something more written here."
"I have not touched yourdot; you will find it intact in the notary's hands. With what you obtain from the sale of our furniture, which is very handsome, and our horses and carriages, you will have enough to live in a modest way. Adieu, Fanny; be happy! I cannot be happy again in this world, and that is why I leave it; adieu!"
The last paragraph seemed to have soothed Fanny's despair in some measure; however, she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and held it so for some time. Cherami, who had watched her closely while she read her husband's letter, said to himself at that proceeding:
"Oh! it's of no use for you to put your handkerchief to your eyes; I'll bet that you're not crying; and yet—a young husband—to lose him like that, and after hardly six months of married life! There are some women who would have fainted; but she's a strong one!"
Thereupon he rose and took up his hat, saying:
"Madame, I have carried out the melancholy commission which your husband intrusted to me. As I imagine that my presence is no longer necessary, I will retire."
Fanny hastily uncovered her face.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she said; "but as you were kind enough to carry out Monsieur Monléard's last wishes, may I hope that you will show yourself equally obliging to his widow?"
"I will do whatever you bid me, madame, too happy to be able to be of some service to you as well as to him."
"Thanks a thousand times, monsieur! You know now the position in which I stand. It seems to you, perhaps, that I have taken very coolly the calamity which has come upon me?"
"Madame, I do not presume to pass judgment upon your feelings."
"But put yourself in my place, monsieur; do you think that I can take as a proof of affection what my husband has done?"
"Dame!a proof of affection!" said Cherami to himself, scratching his nose.—"But, madame, if he feared that he should no longer be able to make you happy, if that thought made him lose his head——"
"At Monsieur Monléard's age, monsieur, a man should have strength of mind, courage. People lose their fortunes every day; but when a man is intelligent and persevering, he makes another."
"It may be that that's not so easy as you seem to think, madame. I, too, had a very neat fortune once; I ran through it; which, to my mind, is much better than gambling it away; it leaves sweeter-smelling memories; but I have never been able to get rich again."
"Monsieur Monléard finds fault with me; he says now that I care for nothing but pleasure; but, when he sought my hand, monsieur, why did he fascinate me by the prospect of a life of luxury and fêtes, of splendid equipages and magnificent gowns? in short, of all the things which will always make a girl's heart beat fast? He married me from caprice, and when that caprice was gratified he was sorry he had married. Oh! I saw that more than once, and that is why, monsieur, I bear up so bravely under the news you have brought me."
"You had no need to tell me all this, madame; but I do not see——"
"I beg your pardon! this is what I ask you to do. In my present position, you can easily understand that I must see my father and sister; but I do not wish to go to them, or to be compelled to tell them of this fatal event."
"I understand, madame: you wish me to undertake to tell them of what has happened?"
"Oh! monsieur, if it would not be too great an abuse of your good-nature."
"I will go to your father's house, madame. Mon Dieu! while I am in the way of doing errands, it won't cost me any more."
"Ah! monsieur, how kind you are! how grateful I am to you!"
"I have always been at the service of the ladies. Monsieur Gerbault's address, if you please?"
"Ah! you know my father's name?"
"Yes, madame. Indeed, there are many things that I know; but I won't tell you them at this moment."
"Here is my father's address."
"Very good; I will go there at once, madame. If I can be of any further use to you, command me; Arthur Cherami, Hôtel du Bel-Air, Rue de l'Orillon, Belleville—but prepay your letters. I present my respects, madame."
"I am a sort of dead man's messenger just now," said Cherami to himself, as he went away; "but, after all, I couldn't refuse that young woman; she's so pretty, and she's no fool; far from it! Ah! I can understand how she bewitched Gustave. Never mind; for my part, I prefer a weak woman to a strong one."
Monsieur Gerbault was at home, and with his daughter, when Cherami made his appearance. Fanny's father, who had never seen his visitor, offered him a chair, and waited for him to explain the object of his visit. But Adolphine, as soon as he entered the room, recognized Cherami as the person who had dined with Gustave on the day of her sister's wedding; and Cherami, on his side, bestowed a graceful salutation upon the young lady, as upon a person whom he had met before.
"Do you know my daughter Adolphine, monsieur?" inquired Monsieur Gerbault, in surprise.
"Yes, monsieur; I had the pleasure of seeing mademoiselle on the day of your other daughter's wedding. I dined at Deffieux's that day, with someone who is not a stranger to you."
"Monsieur is a friend of Gustave," interposed Adolphine, hastily. Monsieur Gerbault frowned slightly, for he remembered being told that it was with a friend of Gustave that his son-in-law had fought a duel on the day after his wedding; however, he confined himself to saying, in rather a sharp tone:
"I am waiting for monsieur to be good enough to let us know the object of his visit."
The decidedly unamiable manner in which Monsieur Gerbault said these words began to irritate Cherami, who threw himself back in his chair, crying:
"Faith! my dear monsieur, if you think I came here to amuse myself, you're most miserably mistaken; my errand isn't a very agreeable one, at best."
"Monsieur, I beg you to——"
"Ah! but, you see, you assumed an air which—look you! that air of yours doesn't suit me at all, and if you were not this charming young lady's father, I'd have demanded satisfaction before this."
"Oh! monsieur, for heaven's sake!" exclaimed Adolphine, clasping her hands; "father didn't mean to offend you."
"Your father looked like a bulldog, mademoiselle, when you said that I was a friend of Gustave. Why was that? am I a friend to be despised, I pray to know? Friends like me, always ready to risk their lives in order to prove their devotion, don't grow on every bush, I begyou to believe. But here I am losing my temper, and I am wrong. I will tell you in a word what brings me here; it's no use to put on gloves. I come to inform you of the death of a young man of your acquaintance."
"O mon Dieu! Gustave is dead!" shrieked Adolphine, and fell back unconscious, while a ghastly pallor overspread her features.
"My child! my child! what is it, in God's name?" cried Monsieur Gerbault, trying to revive Adolphine; but she did not open her eyes.
Madeleine was summoned, and brought salts and vinegar. They carried the girl to an open window, while Cherami exclaimed:
"No, no; it isn't Gustave who's dead.—Poor girl! on my word, I was far from anticipating this. And it's because she thought Gustave was dead that she fainted. Well! well! well! Ah! the color's coming back a little; it will amount to nothing. See! she's opening her eyes; I will bring her back to life entirely."
He stooped over Adolphine, who was gazing listlessly about, and said:
"Let me set your mind at rest, mademoiselle; it's not Gustave who is dead; I wasn't talking aboutCastor."
"Is that true, monsieur?" she cried eagerly.
"I swear it by your head—and I wouldn't for the world endanger such a charming head!"
"Pray explain yourself then, monsieur!" said Monsieur Gerbault; "of whose death did you come to tell us?"
"Of your son-in-law, Auguste Monléard's; he died about two o'clock to-day, in the Bois de Boulogne."
At that, it was Monsieur Gerbault's turn to fly into a rage, and he strode toward Cherami, saying:
"Ah! you have killed him this time, shameless villain, and you come in person to announce his death! And you are not ashamed of your victory! One duel was not enough; you were bent on having his life!"
"Ta! ta! ta! now it's papa's turn. Deuce take it! where did I ever get fathers and uncles of this breed?—No, monsieur; I didn't kill your son-in-law; he killed himself; and, to speak frankly, it would have been much better for him to have met his death in the duel we fought; for it would have been a more honorable end. However, I will show you the proofs of what I state; for you are quite capable of not believing me: I expected as much; but you will have to surrender to the evidence."
Cherami handed Monsieur Gerbault the letter Auguste had written him, then told him all that we know already: what had happened in the Bois de Boulogne, and his visit to Fanny. During his narrative, Adolphine wept profusely, murmuring:
"Poor Auguste! Oh, dear! how my sister must suffer!"
The news of the suicide affected Monsieur Gerbault deeply, although officious friends had already told him that Monléard was speculating heavily, and in such wise as to risk his fortune. He attempted, thereupon, to apologize to Cherami for the suspicions he had conceived; but Cherami offered his hand, saying:
"Put it there, and let's say no more about it. You are quick, so am I; besides, when one learns of such an entirely unforeseen catastrophe, one has the right to get a little bewildered. Now that I have performed all the commissions that were intrusted to me, you have no further need of me, and I will go. Adieu, Papa Gerbault! Mademoiselle, your servant!"
As Adolphine accompanied him to the door, he seized the opportunity to ask her in an undertone:
"Do you know where Gustave is?"
"No, monsieur; but, I think, in Germany."
"I will unearth him, never fear; I have my cue!"
A fortnight after her husband's death, Fanny was installed in small and unpretentious apartments in the upper part of Faubourg Poissonnière. With her dowry of twenty thousand francs, the proceeds of the sale of her furniture, horses, and carriages, and the sum which she had made by speculating in railway and other shares, the young widow had an income of about twenty-five hundred francs. That was very little, when compared with the handsome fortune she had enjoyed for a moment, but it was enough to enable a woman who was a skilful manager to live comfortably. Monsieur Gerbault had suggested to the young widow that she should come to live with him and her sister, as she had done before her marriage, but Fanny had refused; she preferred to remain free; and then, too, in all probability, she cherished some hopes for the future, and as she looked at her reflection in her mirror,—for she had retained enough of her furniture to furnish her new abode handsomely,—the pretty creature said to herself that plenty of aspirants to the honor of putting an end to her widowhood would surely come forward; and that, by livingalone, she would be more at liberty and better able to choose.
As for the deceased, his suicide had been the sensation of the Bourse and of society for a week; a fortnight later, it was rarely mentioned, and at the end of a month everybody had forgotten it.
But, no: there was one person who often thought of him, to deplore his melancholy end, to regret that fortune had been so cruel to that young man, who, for his part, had treated fortune too cavalierly when she smiled on him. That person was not his widow, but her sister Adolphine. The poor child had at first felt terribly ashamed because she had betrayed the deep interest she felt in Gustave; but she was unable to control the emotion which had seized her when she thought that Cherami had come to inform her of his death. Later, when she knew the truth, she had wept a long while over Auguste's death; then she had hurried to her sister, to comfort her, to mingle her own tears with hers; but she had found Fanny much more engrossed by her pecuniary affairs than by the loss of her husband. Finally, as the young widow found that her sister came to see her every day, and that she persisted in talking about Auguste and shedding abundant tears to his memory, she said to her one day:
"My dear girl, if your purpose in coming here is to divert my thoughts, you go about it very awkwardly. Monsieur Monléard is dead, because he preferred it so; he left me, because he chose to, without troubling himself overmuch as to what was to become of me; frankly, it was hardly worth while to marry me, just to act like this after only six months. He was responsible for my refusing a young man who, as it turns out, would havemade me much happier—that poor Gustave, who loved me so dearly! For he really did love me, did Gustave, and, according to what you told me the other day, he is doing very well indeed now. Ten thousand francs a year, he earns, I believe?"
Adolphine wiped her eyes and swallowed her tears, as she replied in a faltering voice:
"Yes—I think so."
"What! you think so? So you're not sure of it now?"
"Why, yes; he told me so himself."
"Very good! with ten thousand francs one can live comfortably enough. One can't have such a stable as I had with Monsieur Monléard; but it's better never to have a carriage than to have to give it up. In fact, I don't see why I should cry my eyes out for the dead man. In the first place, I despise men who kill themselves; everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but that's mine. A man should be able to endure the blows of destiny. Do you know where Gustave is now?"
"No, I don't; he intended to leave Paris again."
"That's strange. Formerly, he always told you where he was going; and now that I ask you, you don't know anything about him."
"He said something about Germany, that's all I know."
"On his uncle's business, I suppose?"
"I think so."
"Well, people don't travel forever; he'll return some time, poor Gustave! and we shall meet again. Ah! he had changed tremendously for the better when he came back from Spain; he had acquired ease of manner and refinement, hadn't he?"
"I didn't notice."
"Oh! how angry you make me!—It seems to me, however, that it's more interesting to talk about the living than the dead."
"Everybody isn't consoled as quickly as you."
"Do you propose to give me a lecture?"
"No, sister; I meant simply that anyone was very fortunate to have such a temperament as yours."
"My dear Adolphine, I have been a widow two months now, and I know a little something of the world. When you have had as much experience as I have, you will realize that you should be able to find consolation for anything."
"I don't think I shall ever be as philosophical as you."
Whenever the two sisters met, Fanny did not fail to lead the conversation to the subject of Gustave. That subject, although intensely interesting to Adolphine, was very painful to her when Fanny introduced it; but, being accustomed by long practice to conceal the secrets of her heart, to confine therein a sentiment which she dared not avow to anyone, Fanny's younger sister contrived to listen with apparent indifference to the project which Auguste's widow already had in contemplation.
One day, while talking with Adolphine, Fanny suddenly asked:
"By the way, do you know who that man was whom Monsieur Monléard employed to inform me of his death? I never saw him at the house, and yet Auguste must have been intimately acquainted with him to intrust him with such a commission."
"That was Monsieur Cherami."
"Yes, that's the name he gave me when he left his address and offered me his services. He has a most original aspect, that individual. But who is Monsieur Cherami,anyway? When I asked him to go to tell you, he seemed to know father's name."
"Indeed! he probably learned it from Gustave."
"Does the man know Gustave too? For heaven's sake, does he know everybody? Was it through Gustave that he knew my husband, also?"
"Why, yes, in a certain sense; for——"
"For what? Do go on, Adolphine; I don't know what's the matter with you nowadays, but I have to tear the words out of your mouth."
"I thought you knew about it at the time. Your husband fought a duel the day after your wedding."
"I know all about that; with a fellow who called out, when I left the ball that night: 'There goes the faithless Fanny!'—Mon Dieu! I remember it as well as if it were yesterday. But what connection——"
"The man who made that remark when he saw you leaving the ball was Monsieur Cherami."
"That man? nonsense! Do you mean to say that it was he whom my husband fought with?"
"Yes, it really was."
"Ha! ha! ha! that is too funny!"
"What! you laugh?"
"Why shouldn't I laugh, pray? Ah! how little idea men have of what they want, and how richly they deserve, as a general rule, that we should make sport of their mighty wrath! Think of it! Monsieur Monléard fights a duel with Monsieur Cherami, and, a few weeks later, selects him as the confidant of his last wishes! You see that men don't know what they are doing, and that these lords of creation, who assume to deem themselves much more reasonable than we, are infinitely less so."
"There may have been other reasons that we don't know about."
"Oh! you will always take sides with the men!"
"Why accuse those who are no longer able to defend themselves?"
"Oh! that is a superb retort; but, I may ask, why give the dead credit for qualities which they had not when they were alive? I have heard that done a hundred times in society. There was some artist or author, of whom they said things much too bad for hanging: he was ill-natured, envious; he decried his fellows, he had neither talent, nor style, nor imagination. But, let him die—the same people all sang the palinode: the deceased was a most delightful man, kind-hearted, obliging to his fellow artists, full of talent, gifted with a marvellous imagination. How many times I have heard all that! and I used to shrug my shoulders in pitying contempt, thinking: 'For heaven's sake, messieurs, do at least try to remember to-day what you said yesterday!'—But I would like right well to know why this Monsieur Cherami called me 'the faithless Fanny.' Do you know, Adolphine, you, who know so many things without seeming to?"
Adolphine blushed, as she replied:
"That gentleman dined with Gustave at the restaurant where you gave your wedding supper and ball. Gustave, in all probability, told him of his love and his disappointment; and then Monsieur Grandcourt, Gustave's uncle, came there after his nephew and took him away. Monsieur Cherami stayed at the restaurant, and it seems that he was a little tipsy."
"And in his devotion to his friend, he reproached me for my perfidy! Ah! that was very well done! To fightto avenge one's friend is a deed worthy of the knights of old. When I see Monsieur Cherami again, I will offer him my compliments."
"Do you mean that you bear him no ill-will for calling you faithless?"
"Oh! not the least in the world! If women lost their tempers every time they were called faithless, they would spend most of their time in anger."
While interviews of this sort were constantly taking place between the two sisters, both of whom were engrossed by the same thought, although one was compelled to stifle her sighs, while the other made no secret of her hopes, a certain person was taking much pains to bring back to them the subject which interested them so deeply. The reader will have guessed that we refer to Cherami.
After Auguste's death, the ex-Beau Arthur had reflected thus:
"I must wait until a few weeks have passed; it wouldn't be decent for my lovelorn Gustave to return at once and throw himself at the pretty widow's feet;non est hic locus; it isn't always best to take active steps; in order that they may succeed, they must be taken at the opportune moment. I still have some débris of the five hundred francs my dear friend loaned me, and I have the change of the hundred-franc note which poorMonléard left me to pay for the breakfast, which cost only seventeen francs fifty. With that, and with a passably pretty switch, and a passably decent costume, one can enjoy this paltry life of ours to some slight extent. Gad! at this moment I should be very glad to meet those two grisettes whom I saw one day at an omnibus office at Porte Saint-Martin. Parbleu! the same day I made the acquaintance of Gustave. They were both pretty—one was a brunette, the other a blonde—one plump and one thin—a morsel for an attorney; and, judging from appearances, one bright and one stupid. Their names were Laurette and Lucie, and they were feather-girls on Rue Saint-Denis. I have never met them since. Par la sambleu! it's my fault, I'm a jackass! I had only to go into all the feather-shops on Rue Saint-Denis—to tell the truth, I haven't always been in a position to play the gallant with young ladies—to invite them to the play and to supper, and I can't do anything less than that by way of renewing the acquaintance. But, now that I'm in funds, what prevents me from looking them up? That idea smiles upon me. It reminds me of happy days.—My mind is made up: before I begin my search for Gustave, I will go in quest of Laurette and Lucie; this very evening, after dinner, I will try my hand at hunting the feather-girls."
Cherami dined, and acquitted himself of the task like one who had not breakfasted twice. Then, his head being a little heated by the fumes of a bottle of old Pommard, he betook himself to Rue Saint-Denis, looking to right and left in quest of feather-shops. He did not go far without discovering one. He opened the door and entered with a haughty air, scrutinizing all the young women in the establishment.
The forewoman eyed the individual who had struck an attitudeà laSpartacus in the centre of the shop, where he stared at one after another without speaking, and said to him:
"Will monsieur kindly tell us what he would like?"
Cherami, having taken time enough to examine all the shopgirls, of whom there were ten or twelve, replied in a drawling tone:
"A thousand pardons, madame; I did come in here in search of something; there is no doubt of that; but I don't see what I want; no, I don't see it."
"If monsieur will tell me what he desires, I can tell him at once whether he will find it here."
"Very good, madame; I am looking for children's caps—for a little boy of five."
All the girls in the shop laughed aloud; but the forewoman assumed a sour expression as she rejoined:
"Did monsieur take this for a hat-shop?"
"Have I made a mistake? Oh! I beg your pardon; I am distressed; it was all these feathers that misled me; they put so many feathers on hats nowadays. Accept my apologies, madame; your humble servant."
Having executed a graceful bow, Cherami left the shop, saying to himself:
"That's one; I did that very well; it wasn't a bit bad. My two young friends are not there. Let's try another."
A little farther on, he saw another establishment for the sale of flowers and feathers. He entered as before, and struck the same attitude.
"We are waiting for monsieur to say what he wants," said an old woman.
"Mon Dieu! madame," said Cherami, examining the girls, of whom there were not so many as in the firstshop, "I would like—I wanted a coat, either blue or black, but made in the latest style, and, above all things, becoming to me. I don't care for the price, but I am particular about being well dressed."
"You are not in a tailor's shop, monsieur!" retorted the old woman superciliously, while the workgirls exchanged glances and laughed till they cried.
But the old woman bade them be silent, and added:
"Apparently you didn't look to see what we keep here, monsieur?"
"What! am I not in a shop of outfitters for both sexes?"
"No, monsieur; we sell only flowers and feathers."
"Oh! a thousand pardons, madame; but your shop has a sort of resemblance to the Magasin du Prophète. It isn't so brightly lighted, I agree; but these flowers, these wreaths—it's all so pretty! and, in Paris, outfitters' shops look like stage decorations.—Accept my apologies, madame."
"Two!" said Cherami, when he was in the street once more. "My pretty grisettes are not there either. Patience! we shall find them at last. Ah! I see another feather-shop; they fairly swarm in this street. Forward!"
In the third shop, Cherami asked for shirts, while passing in review the workgirls and apprentices, without finding those whom he sought. He succeeded, as before, in making the young women laugh and in obtaining a tart response from the mistress of the place.
In the fourth shop, after staring about for some time, Cherami exclaimed:
"I don't see any; this is very strange; I don't see any, and yet I was certain that I saw several in the window."
"Will monsieur kindly tell us what he desires?" said the forewoman.
"I want to buy a Bayonne ham, madame; the best you have."
This time the laughter was general, and the mistress shared the merriment of her workgirls; so that Cherami had an opportunity to examine them at his leisure. At last, when the hilarity had subsided somewhat, the forewoman, still smiling, said to him:
"We don't sell hams here, monsieur; pray, what sort of a place did you take this for?"
"Oh! a thousand pardons, madame; isn't this a provision shop?"
"No, monsieur; it's a flower and feather shop."
"Ah! I am a miserable wretch! But let me tell you what misled me: it was the birds that I saw in the window. I said to myself: 'That's game; therefore, they sell provisions.'"
"Those are birds-of-paradise that you saw, monsieur; they're used to put on ladies' hats, but not to eat."
"Birds-of-paradise! Pardon me, but they are in paradise, in very truth, since they live under the same roof with such charming ladies! I renew my apologies, and beg you to accept my respects."
Cherami left the fourth shop, saying to himself:
"They are not there either; I shan't have my cue this evening. This is enough for to-day; but I am well pleased with the effect I produced in that last place: they all laughed, even the mistress herself laughed like a madwoman! It was very amusing to see the gayety on all those female faces—and all because I asked for a ham! After all, a ham was more absurd than a coat, shirts, or children's caps! Well, to-morrow I must ask for something even more absurd. Oh! I shall think up something; I'm never at a loss. Meanwhile, let's go and have a gameof pool at the usual place. When my pocket is well lined, I play superbly, I handle my cue magnificently. I am sure of winning, according to the proverb: 'Water keeps flowing to the river.'"
The next day, after dinner, Cherami returned to Rue Saint-Denis, saying to himself:
"I know how far I went yesterday, and where I must begin to-day. I have something very amusing to ask for. How I'll make them laugh! Oh! I propose that not even the forewomen shall succeed in keeping a serious face. They will fancy they're at the Palais-Royal when Grassot playsLa Garde-Malade, orLe Vieux Loup de Mer."
But, since the preceding night, certain things had happened in Rue Saint-Denis which our grisette-hunter could not divine.
In a quarter so wholly given over to business, there are brokers and under-clerks who go about almost every morning inquiring as to the course of prices, articles most in demand, etc.; this is commonly calledfaire la place. Now, when one of these brokers entered a certain feather-shop, the girls asked him laughingly:
"Have you brought us some children's caps? we had a call for some last night."
"Caps? you are joking!"
"No, indeed!"
And thereupon they told him about their customer of the night before. The story made the broker laugh, and that was the end of it. But at another shop they told him about a man who had wanted to buy a coat.
"This is a strange thing!" he exclaimed; "over yonder, somebody asked for a child's cap. Can it be the same man?"
At that, the proprietor's interest was aroused.
"I must go to see my confrères, and find out whether they also saw this person."
"That is right," said the broker; "we must go to the bottom of this; for it seems to me as if someone had made up his mind to play a practical joke on you. I'll go with you."
They soon learned that Cherami had visited four shops; but they also satisfied themselves that he had been to no more. The dealers in feathers took counsel together, and those who had not received a call from the jocose gentleman said to one another:
"Perhaps the fellow will begin again to-morrow night; we must prepare to give him a warm reception."
The tradesmen, at whose establishments he had asked for caps, a coat, shirts, and a ham, said to their confrères:
"Allow us to come to your shops to-night and wait for this man, so that we can have our share in the reception you propose to give him."
Everything being agreed upon, in the evening they divided up into groups and waited impatiently for the party of the night before to appear.
Our hunter of feather-makers entered Rue Saint-Denis, far from suspecting all that had been plotted against him; he waved his switch about, looked to right and left, then said to himself:
"I went in there—and there. I recognize the shops perfectly. Ah! there's my number three. There's only one more—the fourth—there it is; yes, I recognize the forewoman, who had a very amiable expression, laughing as she did with all the rest of them. Now, I will go into the next one I see, and we'll have a little laugh. Oh! the question I am going to ask will be so laughable! the girls will fairly howl. I won't even answer for it that I cankeep a serious face myself.—Ah! there's a feather-shop. A fine place—forward!"
Cherami made but one bound to the shop he had discovered; he entered, struck a graceful attitude, and ogled the workgirls, not noticing several young men who had stepped behind the doors when he entered.
The forewoman looked at him in a strange way, but asked him, none the less, in a polite tone, what he wanted.
Cherami replied, with a winning smile:
"What do I want? Mon Dieu! fair lady, a very simple thing. I would like—I like to think that you keep them—I would like a broomstick."
"Certainly we keep them, monsieur," the forewoman instantly answered. "How lucky! we have just laid in a stock. You couldn't go to a better place."
While Cherami listened in utter amazement to this reply, which he was very far from expecting, the young men, who had, as it happened, provided themselves with broomsticks, came forth from their hiding-place and fell upon him at close quarters, crying:
"Ah! you want broomsticks, do you? well! you shall have 'em!—to teach you to go into shops as you did last night, to make sport of honest tradesmen! Take that, and that! how do you like broomsticks?"
Cherami, who was unprepared for this attack, tried to parry the blows with his switch, but the switch was no match for the weapons of his opponents; so he thought of nothing but making his escape.
"I will wait for you in the street, messieurs," he cried; "I challenge you all, one at a time."
But they made no reply; they simply pushed him into the street and closed the door on him. Somewhatashamed of the result of his jest, our friend, who had received a too well-aimed blow from a broomstick over his left eye, walked away, holding his handkerchief to the wound, and saying to himself:
"What a damnable idea that was of mine, to ask for a broomstick! This time, I have my cue!"