[E]Luminot uses the wordtémoinwhich means either a second (in a duel) or a witness.
[E]Luminot uses the wordtémoinwhich means either a second (in a duel) or a witness.
“A witness—what for?”
“For my duel.”
“But I can’t be a witness, for I was not here; I didn’t hear the quarrel.”
“That makes no difference; it doesn’t prevent your being a witness.”
“Rely upon him, monsieur,” said Thélénie; “he will be too happy to assist you in this affair.”
Chamoureau made a pitiful face, which indicated that he was not at all happy to serve as second in a duel.
All the guests soon took their leave.
“What a pity that such a beautiful party should end like this!” was the general sentiment. But many personsadded under their breath: “For all that, it appears that their real name is Chamoureau, and not Belleville.”
Thélénie was not sorry to see the close of the festivities and the departure of all her guests. When they were going away, she whispered to Croque:
“Wait for me in the garden, in the left-hand path.”
When everybody had gone, and Chamoureau and his wife were left alone in one of the salons, she said:
“Well, monsieur, what are you doing here?”
“Why, I was waiting for you, my dear love.”
“Waiting for me; why, I should like to know?”
“Why, so that we may retire together.”
“Since when, monsieur, have you needed my company to go to your apartment?”
Chamoureau simpered and balanced himself on one leg as he replied:
“To my apartment—of course not; but to-night, it would be very pleasant to me—it seems to me that after dancing so much—the natural sequence of a party—in short, my dear and loving heart, I would like to go with you to your room—you understand——”
And the amorous husband put out his hand to take his wife’s. But she abruptly withdrew her hand and exclaimed, with an angry glance at Chamoureau:
“It’s very becoming of you, monsieur, to presume to ask to pass the night with me, after all the idiotic things you have done to-day! for you have done nothing else.”
“What! I have been doing idiotic things! What were they, pray?”
“It is useless for me to tell you, monsieur; you wouldn’t understand me.”
“Was it my fault if Monsieur Luminot and Monsieur Edmond had a quarrel? After all, madame, it was you who insisted on inviting the two friends; I wouldn’t have asked them to come here myself. I was sure that Freluchon would call me Chamoureau, and he didn’t fail to do it; you heard him, didn’t you?”
“That’s all right, monsieur; that’s not what I refer to. Go to bed.”
Chamoureau drew himself up, assumed a dignified air, and replied:
“You tell me to go to bed. But allow me, madame, to remind you, that since we have occupied this house, where you consigned me to an apartment a long way from yours, you have not once allowed me to enter your apartment at night! Sometimes it’s one excuse, sometimes another; you always have a pretext for refusing to admit me.—But it seems to me, madame, that I have some rights—some glorious rights in fact! Am I your husband, or am I not? ‘That is the question,’ as the English would say.”
“Oh! how you bore me, monsieur!”
“Madame, I didn’t bring you twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year for the privilege of sleeping alone. Deuce take it! I married for another purpose—otherwise it wasn’t worth while for me to marry!—Why——”
“Have you finished, monsieur?”
“Madame, you made me dance seventeen times with different women. Some of them were very ugly. I do whatever you want me to; and it seems to me that you, in your turn——”
“How dare you talk to me of such matters, monsieur, when you have a duel on hand for to-morrow—a serious duel? If Monsieur Luminot should fall, it would be your duty, as his second, to avenge him.”
The memory of the duel instantly put to flight the amorous thoughts which were agitating Chamoureau. He turned pale and stammered:
“I don’t know, madame, why you mixed me up in that affair, which did not concern me at all. There was your old friend, Baron von Schtapelmerg—a man who has fought against the Turks; he would have asked nothing better than to be Monsieur Luminot’s second. However, two seconds are required; I will see the baron to-morrow, and——”
“You will not see him; the baron has gone to Paris.”
“What! Monsieur de Schtapelmerg has left Chelles like this—without shaking hands with me—without bidding me adieu?”
“You will see him later; urgent business compelled him to start at once. The other second can be found to-morrow. Now I feel the need of rest. This day has tired me terribly. Good-night, monsieur.”
Chamoureau took a candle, blew it out because he saw that day was breaking, and made up his mind at last to go to his room, saying to himself:
“I am beginning to think that I should have done as well to remain a widower. O Eléonore! you would not refuse to admit me to your bedroom! To be sure, we had only one between us.”
Thélénie hastened into the garden. Croque was awaiting her in a clump of trees. Having satisfied herself that they were quite alone, she said:
“Listen attentively to what I expect you to do. This time I trust that you will not hesitate to obey me; the commission that I am going to intrust to you is not dangerous.”
“Sacrebleu! I am no coward, but only a blasted fool puts himself in the way of being thrashed when there’s no need of it. That young Freluchon’s as strong as Hercules; I saw that at a glance. He would have thrown me down as he did Luminot. How would that have helped us?”
“Listen: you saw that nurse, that Jacqueline, who came here during dinner, with a little boy?”
“Yes; and you didn’t want to see her, for you skipped out in a hurry!—I’d like to bet something that you’re the Baronne de Mortagne, and that that little chap is your son.”
“Hush! hold your tongue!”
“Oh! after all, it’s your business! It’s all one to me, you understand!”
“What I want you to understand is that this nurse must leave this part of the country to-morrow; for if chance should bring us face to face——”
“True; she would recognize you, and that would have a bad effect, the world is so unfeeling!—And the little boy?”
“She must take him with her. In two or three hours, you will go to this woman——”
“Where does she live?”
“With her sister, the widow Tourniquoi; any peasant will show you the way.”
“Widow Tourniquoi; all right! I’ll find her.”
“You will ask for this Jacqueline.”
“Oh! I shall recognize her; I examined her closely, and the little fellow too; he’s not bad-looking—he’ll be a tough one!”
“You will take the woman aside and tell her that you come from the Baronne de Mortagne, who has the most ardent desire to see her son.”
“She has taken plenty of time about it; but never mind that.”
“You may invent whatever fable you choose to account for the baroness’s conduct.”
“Oh! as to inventing fables, that’s my particular forte; I am never at a loss; I’ll give ‘em to her of all colors.”
“You must tell her that Madame de Mortagne, being unable to come here, expects her and the child to come to Dieppe, and that she must go there instantly; that when she gets there the baroness will pay her all the arrears she owes her, and will reward her handsomely for the care she has taken of her child.”
“Very good; but why do you send her to Dieppe rather than somewhere else?”
“Because there are vessels there which sail for distant countries; and I know someone there to whom I will send this Jacqueline; and that person will find a way to ship her and the little boy to America or some other part of the globe; and when they are once there, as the woman will have no money to pay her return passage, she will be obliged to stay there.”
“Perfectly thought out; there is only one difficulty: how am I to persuade this Jacqueline to go to Dieppe? Suppose she doesn’t believe what I tell her?”
“Haven’t we the great means to which all obstacles yield? Here are three hundred francs in gold, which you will hand to the woman, and tell her that it’s to pay the cost of the journey, and that at Dieppe the baroness will pay her all that she owes her.—Do you think that Jacqueline will hesitate an instant on receiving that money?”
“Oh no! that will smooth away all difficulties; the peasant won’t doubt for an instant the truth of everything I tell her; she will be too well pleased, first, by the feeling of these fifteen yellow boys, and secondly, by the hope of receiving a still larger sum at Dieppe.”
“Tell her that the Baronne de Mortagne awaits her impatiently, and hand her this address; it is that of the person to whom I propose to commend her.”
“In order to ship her away from France?—Very good. I will say: ‘That is the place where you will find little Emile’s mother.’”
“She must start for Paris with the child to-day; there she will take the train for Dieppe.”
“Do you want me to go with them?”
“No; for I need you for something else.”
“For the duel? That suits me; I will be Luminot’s other second. I’ll load the pistols, for I know a neat little way of assuring myself the advantage.”
“No, no, that isn’t what I want of you; I have other plans. On the contrary, you must not show yourself; I have said that you have gone to Paris.”
“The deuce! then I shan’t dine with you! that’s a pity!”
“You must take off those clothes and obtain others—a boatman’s, for instance—and make yourself unrecognizable.”
“Oh! as for disguising myself, that’s easy enough. I have a pretty knack at that. You might pass me on the street and you wouldn’t know me.—What else?”
“I will tell you. In the first place, I must find out when this duel is to take place.—Oh! those women! those women! they are the ones I want to be revenged on most of all! One is adored by Edmond, the other has won the heart of that——”
“Of that what?”
“It is enough for you to know that on the day when you announce to me the ruin of those two women, I will cover you with gold, I will give you as much of it as you can carry.”
“Bigre!I’ll be strong that day, I promise you!”
“It is broad daylight; don’t stay here. By-and-by, about six o’clock this afternoon, be at the end of my park—on the lonely road that skirts the wall.”
“Agreed; I will be there.”
Croque left the villa, and Thélénie hastened to her apartment.
While all these events were taking place at Goldfish Villa, let us see what was happening in the modest abode of Honorine and Agathe.
Edmond’s young betrothed was secretly unhappy at the thought that her beloved was going to Madame de Belleville’s fête. She remembered how that lady had stared at her the first time that she saw her at the summer-house window, and the familiar tone in which she had spoken to Edmond.
The woman who is most innocent of intrigue has nevertheless a secret instinct which enables her to detect the sentiments which people try to conceal from her; and that instinct never deceives her in the matter of a rival.
Agathe, however, did not doubt the love or the fidelity of the man she loved; that was why, dreading to appear ridiculous if she allowed the apprehensions caused by Madame de Belleville’s invitation to appear, she had been the first to urge him to attend the fête.
But that evening, as soon as Edmond had left them, to go home to dress, Agathe had gone up to her room, in order to conceal from Honorine the anxiety she felt.
Honorine had divined what was taking place in Agathe’s heart; but she did not share her apprehensions. She thought that a woman ought never to abuse her influence over the man who loves her, by obliging him to do only what she wished. She imagined too that Edmond’s presence at Madame de Belleville’s would prevent the slanderous tongues of the village from making any unseemly remarks about herself and her young friend.
Honorine therefore was alone that evening in the small salon which opened into the garden; it was the first time that that had happened since she had lived at Chelles. At that moment solitude was not irksome to her; when the heart has much to think about, it loves silence and repose. Honorine reflected that for several days their neighbor Paul had not called upon them. She wondered if it was possible that anything that she had said had displeased him; she could think of nothing to account for his absence, and the result of her cogitations was a deep sigh, and the reflection that she was thinking of someone who did not waste a thought on her.
The young woman, absorbed in her reverie, had long since let her embroidery fall from her hands, without being conscious that she had ceased to work, when of a sudden she felt something cold against her hand, then a heavy paw was laid on her lap; that was the way in which the dog from the Tower always said good-morningor good-evening. When she saw Ami fawning upon her, Honorine’s heart beat fast with pleasure, and she patted the dog gently.
“Why, is that you, Ami? So you have found the road to this house again? I was beginning to think that you had forgotten us altogether, and that we should not see you again!”
These words were addressed no less to the master than to the dog; and Paul, who appeared in the doorway, would have been very ungrateful if he had not taken them home to himself.
He bowed low to the young woman, saying:
“Is it not presumptuous in me, madame, to present myself here so late?”
“Why, no, monsieur; it is little more than nine o’clock, I think; and if you find me alone—which I very rarely am—it is because Agathe felt tired and sleepy. As for Monsieur Edmond, he is at a party, which fact accounts in some measure for Agathe’s headache.—Now, monsieur, consider whether you have the courage to remain with one poor woman—who has nothing but her conversation to offer you.”
Paul took a chair and seated himself at some distance from Honorine. On learning that he was to be alone with her, he seemed embarrassed. Luckily, Ami was there to enliven the interview; Honorine continued to caress him and said to him:
“How glad you seem to see me, Ami! But if it gives you so much pleasure to be with me, why don’t you comeoftener? You don’t need to wait until it happens to occur to your master to come. If he doesn’t enjoy himself here, he is right not to come; but you know the way, and I don’t think that he objects to your coming here to show us that you haven’t forgotten us.”
“Surely you cannot think, madame, that I do not enjoy myself in your house; only in your pleasant company have I found at last some distraction from the sorrows which have made me shun society for many years.”
“If that is so, how does it happen that we have not seen you for several days? You had accustomed us to your company of late; we made up our minds—too soon—that it would continue. There are habits which give one so much pleasure!”
Honorine’s voice began to quiver, and she abruptly ceased speaking, in order to conceal the emotion she felt.
But Paul had drawn his chair nearer to hers; he gazed at the young woman with an expression which was not calculated to calm her agitation, and replied:
“I went to Paris several days ago. I had received some information which led me to believe that I had found the traces of a person whom I have sought in vain for nine years! But the information was misleading; my investigations were of no avail, and I have learned nothing.”
“I shall be very presumptuous, I fear, if I ask you who this person is whom you have been seeking so long.”
“It is a young girl; she must be about sixteen years old now.”
“Ah! and this girl is your kinswoman, or perhaps even more than that? Why shrink from admitting it? Men do many foolish things in their youth; they should never be ashamed to try to atone for them.”
“You are mistaken, madame; this girl is no connection of mine; and yet, it is my duty to stand in a father’s place to her, for I had the misfortune to deprive her of her father—in a duel.”
“In a duel! Ah! I guessed as much; I understand it all now!”
“What? what did you guess?”
“This duel took place in the ravine yonder, by your estate of the Tower.”
“That is true, madame. But who can have told you?”
“We had heard the story of a young man being found dead on that spot; no one knew whether he had been attacked there, but he had not been robbed; so that it was presumable that he was killed in a duel.”
“Yes, madame, yes. Ah! that is the deed for which I can never forgive myself; for that unfortunate man had never offended me—he was the victim of an execrable plot. A woman—but I am not sure that one should give that name to such a monster of wickedness!—I loved her, I loved her madly! Our liaison had lasted three years. I was young, rich, independent; my father, Monsieur Duronceray, had left me more than thirty thousand francs a year, so that I could afford to make every sacrifice for that woman; I would have gone so far as to give her my hand and my name. But thatwoman deceived me. A man whom I believed to be my friend was secretly her lover; but in order to turn aside my suspicions more effectually, she played the flirt with other men; with one, among others, of whom I was jealous—for he was well adapted to seduce! he was young and rich and had every quality likely to attract and charm a woman. Ah! if he had chosen to respond to that woman’s allurements, I am sure that she would have asked nothing better than to number him among her lovers. And it was to revenge herself for his indifference that she made him her victim.—But I ought to have been enlightened as to the real sentiments of those who surrounded me. My faithful Ami, my brave companion, had never been willing to bestow the slightest caress on the woman who betrayed me; far from it! he always manifested such an aversion for her, that I had ceased to take him with me when I went to see her. Whereas, whenever I was with that young man whom I believed to be my rival, Ami would run to him and display as much friendly feeling as he displayed just now for you. But at that time I did not know that the dog was so skilful in divining the sentiments that people entertained for his master; I attributed his behavior to caprice, and drew no other inference from it.
“At last, on a certain day—a fatal day, which I cannot recall without a shudder!—this woman, by the way, had hired a small country house near the village of Couberon—I went to her house in Paris; not finding her there, I suspected that she was in the country, and I hastenedthither, torn in advance by a thousand suspicions, for she was not in the habit of going to Couberon without me.—I arrived. A lady’s maid, who was doing sentry duty, saw me in the distance and hastened to warn her mistress. She instantly dismissed her lover, and learning that Comte Adhémar had just arrived——”
“Comte Adhémar! was that the name you said, monsieur?” cried Honorine, in the most intense excitement.
“Yes, madame, Comte Adhémar de Hautmont.”
“Ah! that is the name! the very name!”
“Did you know him, madame?”
“Yes—that is to say, not I—But finish, monsieur! for heaven’s sake, finish your story!”
“Well! on entering my mistress’s room, I found her alone with the count, and apparently in the utmost confusion. Thereupon, blinded by jealousy, I overwhelmed her with reproaches. And she, instead of telling me that the man who was then with her was not her lover, had the perfidy to confirm my suspicions by some words which seemed to escape her involuntarily. I instantly insulted the count and demanded satisfaction for his conduct. He, utterly amazed by what he had seen and heard, could not comprehend my jealousy, and tried to make me understand that I was wrong to think him my rival. But I could no longer restrain my fury, jealousy drove me mad. I thought that the count declined to fight with me, and, to force him to do it, I raised my hand against him.
“Adhémar’s temperament was as fiery as mine. I had offered him an insult which could only be washed outin blood; and after that, it was on his own account, to avenge his outraged honor, that he fought.
“I succeeded in obtaining pistols, and we both went out from that house to which that woman had lured the count, solely in the hope—too fully realized—that if I should surprise her, he would serve to lead my jealousy astray.—Adhémar and I walked a long distance through the fields. It was mid-day, and we constantly met villagers and farm-hands at work in the fields, in whose presence we could not fight. At last we reached the sunken road that leads from the road to Noisy-le-Grand. It was a deserted spot, no one could see us in that ravine, and there our duel took place.
“Adhémar was the insulted party; he fired first, but did not hit me; whereas I—poor, poor fellow! shot through the breast, he had barely time to say:
“‘I was not your rival; I have never made love to that woman in whose house you found me. I love devotedly a young girl who has made me a father. She is poor; my relations are opposed to the connection; but before long I should have been able to marry my love. What will become of my poor little girl and her mother without me?—Go to them and take care of them.’
“‘Their name, their address?’ I cried; ‘on my honor I swear to take your place with them.’
“Alas! poor Adhémar tried to speak, but he had not the strength; he died without naming the woman whom he adored. I looked through his wallet, hoping to findthe name and address there. Nothing—no paper, no scrap of information to put me on the track of those unfortunate creatures from whom I had taken their only support. I rushed away from the spot, beside myself with grief, like a madman. I had seen people coming; I was afraid of being arrested; for I said to myself: ‘If they deprive me of my liberty, how shall I find this woman whom I have deprived of her husband, this child whom I have deprived of her father?’”
“That child is here, monsieur, very near you—in this house.”
“Mon Dieu! what do you say, madame?”
“I say that Agathe is the daughter of Comte Adhémar de Hautmont!”
“Is it possible? are you not mistaken?”
“No, monsieur, and you shall have proofs of it—letters from the count which her poor mother possessed and kept religiously; they were all she had of his.”
“Agathe, Adhémar’s daughter! I have found her at last! O my God! hast Thou forgiven me?—But her mother?”
“Julia Montoni, Agathe’s mother, is no longer living. Poor woman! she died five years after the disappearance of the man she adored, and whom she never ceased to expect, for no one knew how the count had died. And when she went to his hotel to inquire what had become of him, they could give her no information. She caused inquiries to be made of his family, but obtained no reply; and when she was on her deathbed, when shecommended her daughter to my care, poor Julia still hoped that Agathe’s father would be restored to her some day.”
“Ah! madame, from this day half of my fortune belongs to her. But do you think that she will forgive me for having deprived her of her father?”
“Your long repentance, your remorse for the duel, the seclusion and isolation to which you condemned yourself—all these surely entitle you to forgiveness.”
“Yes; after fruitless endeavors to find the two persons whom the count had so earnestly recommended to me, I returned to this region, to the stage upon which those events took place. The woman who was the cause of everything had left her Couberon estate long before. I found, in the ravine, the modest memorial of the unfortunate Adhémar; an estate near by was for sale; I bought it and went into retirement there. Far from the world which I hated, and near the last resting-place of the victim of my blind jealousy, I was enabled to visit the ravine every day, to visit the spot where that fatal duel took place, and to weep by the cross which has been set up where Adhémar lies.—Ah! if his daughter had seen me there, she would forgive me!”
“She has seen you there; that evening, after the storm, Agathe and I heard you praying by the cross.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes; and Agathe herself said: ‘That gentleman cannot be guilty; he regrets too sincerely the person who lies there.’”
“Dear child! poor girl!—But that is not all, madame. Still hoping that I might sooner or later find the count’s natural daughter, I went to his family. There I asked if anyone knew the name of the young woman whom Adhémar loved. His people did not know, or at all events they would give me no information. But one old uncle, who was more kind-hearted and indulgent than the rest, said to me: ‘They are concealing from me too the name of the young woman whom my nephew wanted to marry. But if you ever succeed in finding her, tell her that her daughter, Adhémar’s daughter, shall have the whole of my fortune; that I will leave everything I possess to her.’
“That old man is still alive, I know. And Agathe, you say, has letters from Adhémar to her mother. Those letters will suffice to prove that she is his daughter, and to give her the fortune that is destined for her; for I am certain that this uncle, by recognizing her as his niece, will give her the right to bear her father’s name.”
“Mon Dieu! this seems like a dream. My poor Agathe rich and happy! Suppose I wake her?”
“No, no! Let me prepare myself to see her. If you knew all that I feel! Ah! madame, you have made me very happy; and yet I tremble—it seems to me that I shall not dare to face this girl whom I have wronged so terribly!”
“Calm yourself, monsieur; your duel was the result of a mistake, of an act of perfidy; the sole culprit was that woman who so ill requited your love for her.”
“But I am no longer surprised by this dog’s affection for Agathe. As I have told you, he always showed the greatest friendliness for her father. On that fatal day, when I went to Couberon, I left Ami at Paris. When he saw me again after the duel, instead of coming to meet me as he usually did, he retreated, making a plaintive sort of groaning noise; one would have said that he meant to reproach me for what I had done. It took a long time to recover his affection, and he never fawned upon me again until he had seen me weeping over Adhémar’s grave.”
“Good dog! See, he is looking at us and listening to us; one would think that he knows what we are talking about.—Dear Agathe! so I shall see her happy at last! she will be able to marry him she loves! You will oppose no obstacles to her marrying Edmond Didier, will you?”
“I, madame, oppose obstacles to her happiness, when it is my duty, on the contrary, to do everything to ensure it! Is it not my duty?—Whether her father’s uncle leaves her his fortune or not, I have thirty thousand francs a year, and I will give half of it to Mademoiselle Agathe on her wedding day.”
“Oh! that is too much, monsieur! you mustn’t do so much for the young couple.—How delighted poor Edmond will be.”
“How does it happen that he is not here to-night?”
“He could not refuse to attend a grand fête given to-night by some people who have been living here a short time. His friend Freluchon and he are old acquaintances of Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”
“Monsieur Edmond at Madame de Belleville’s?”
“Yes.—That lady’s name seems to excite you strangely. Do you know her?”
“Do I know her! Why, this pretended Madame de Belleville is no other than Thélénie—the woman whose treachery caused Comte Adhémar’s death.”
“What do you tell me? Can it be true?”
“Yes. Only to-day, this morning, did I learn it. I had just returned from Paris when a woman on horseback appeared at my house, made a great outcry in my courtyard, and demanded to speak to me, in order to complain of my dog, which had presumed to jump at her and her horse. Fancy my amazement on recognizing in that person the woman who no longer inspires me with any other sentiments than horror and disgust! Ah! I believe that, when she recognized me, she was very sorry that she had come to the Tower.—But I am sorry that Edmond has gone to Thélénie’s house; I am sorry that he knows her; for if there has ever been a liaison between them, and she knows that he is in love now with the lovely Agathe, we must expect anything from that creature; she is capable of anything, if her self-esteem is humbled.”
“Mon Dieu! you make me shudder! Your words remind me of the strange way in which she stared at Agathe, and of Agathe’s melancholy mood to-night!—But what could that woman do to Edmond?”
“I trust that our apprehensions are without foundation; however, to-morrow Monsieur Edmond shall knowthis Thélénie as she is, and I am quite sure that he will never darken her doors again.—Mon Dieu! it is very late, and I am keeping you from retiring.”
“Do you think that I regret seeing you this evening?”
“No, you are so good—you are so attached to your young companion!”
“You give me permission, do you not, to tell her to-morrow all that you have revealed to me to-night?”
“Yes, let her know all; and to-morrow, when I come, you will tell me, before I enter the presence of Comte Adhémar’s daughter, whether she is willing to receive me and give me her hand.”
“I have already told you that Agathe saw you on your knees by the cross in the ravine; that sight has remained engraved on her memory, she has often mentioned it to me; that fact is enough to assure you that you will be forgiven.—Mon Dieu! it is twelve o’clock, and you have to return to the Tower alone!”
“Alone! no, isn’t Ami with me? He would be a valiant defender; but this neighborhood is not dangerous, there are no evildoers hereabout.”
“You will come to-morrow—during the day?”
“Oh! I shall not fail; I long to see her.”
“Of course, you will not fail to come,” murmured Honorine with a faint sigh; “for it is for Agathe!”
The young woman uttered these last words in a trembling voice. Paul suddenly seized her hand, covered it with kisses, pressed it to his heart, and then hurried away, unable to speak.
But what words could have been more eloquent than his acts? Honorine understood their significance, for her face lighted up with pleasure, and she whispered to herself as she went up to her room:
“Ah! I am very happy too!”
On leaving the ball at Goldfish Villa, Freluchon and Edmond returned to the house occupied by the latter.
“You will need another second for to-morrow,” said Freluchon; “where can you find one in this place?”
“He is all found: the owner of the Tower, a gentleman of the best tone, who comes to Madame Dalmont’s sometimes in the evening. I am sure that he won’t refuse to do me this favor. We will go to see him early to-morrow.”
“Very good.”
“But the most important thing of all is to keep all knowledge of this duel, and of the quarrel of this evening as well, from the two ladies.”
“We won’t tell them; but everything becomes known so quickly in small places like this!”
“They never go out or receive any visits; from whom then can they learn what happened at that infernal fête?”
“So much the better; I trust you are right. But it’s daybreak already, and we have only a short time to sleep. Let us make haste. Luckily, I fall asleep very quickly myself.”
At eight o’clock in the morning, Edmond was out of bed and woke his friend.
“What! already?” muttered Freluchon; “why, we’ve hardly got to bed!”
“That may be; but it’s a long distance from here to the Tower; then we must come back, and I don’t want Monsieur Luminot’s seconds to come and not find us.”
“Oh! never you fear; those fellows won’t be in such a hurry as you are; especially if Chamoureau’s one of them.”
“I should say that he must be, as the affair took place in his house.”
“Then it will be more amusing; I will tell him that the seconds have to fight also.”
Freluchon consented to rise at last, and the two friends were soon en route for the Tower.
“I recognize this part of the country,” said Freluchon as they crossed Gournay bridge. “This is where I came for that famousmatelote, which you left me to eat all alone.”
“Yes, the estate we are going to is a little beyond Gournay.”
“Ah, yes! Gournay! a little village that I could put in my pocket. Suppose we should stop and eat amatelotewhen we come back?”
“Can you think of such a thing? What about my duel, and the seconds I expect?”
“If Chamoureau is one of them, they won’t come till next week.—I am very hungry myself. Will your high-toned gentleman invite us to breakfast? It seems to me that that is the most high-toned thing he could do.”
Edmond’s only reply was to quicken his pace.
Freluchon trotted along behind him, saying:
“If I had known it was so far, I’d have hired an ass for us both; we should have resembled half of theFour Sons of Aymon. Do you know, I have always liked that story of the Four Sons of Aymon! particularly on account of their horse. Horses of that build aren’t made to-day! Think of putting four people on one of our ponies of the present day! even the third one would be on his tail—where would the fourth one be, I would like to know?”
The young men reached the Tower in due time. Edmond was about to ask to speak with the proprietor, when he, having seen them coming, hastened forward to meet the two friends.
Paul was no longer the same man; a complete change had taken place in his whole aspect since the preceding night. In place of the gloomy, careworn expression which was habitual to him, he presented himself to Edmond with a smiling, expansive countenance. His dress too had undergone a change; he was dressed with more care and had shaved part of his beard; he was no longer the man who shuns society.
“You at my house, Monsieur Didier, and at such an early hour! This is very kind of you. Come in, messieurs; the proprietor of the Tower is happy to welcome you to his manor house.”
“Thanks for your cordial welcome, monsieur,” replied Edmond, taking the hand that Paul offered him. “But we have only a few moments, and I have come to ask you to do me a favor.”
“A favor! I am entirely at your service. But I supposed that another motive brought you here, I thought—Have you not seen Mademoiselle Agathe since yesterday?”
“Oh, no! and it is most important that she and Madame Dalmont should not know of our visit to you.”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said Freluchon, throwing himself upon a chair, “but although he is in such a hurry, I will ask your permission to rest a bit. He has made me run almost all the way, and it’s a long distance from Chelles; I am used up.”
“Make yourselves at home, messieurs.—But speak, Monsieur Edmond; what you have just said makes me anxious.”
“Monsieur, Freluchon and myself both went last night to a party given by Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”
“I know it.”
“I didn’t go until quite late in the evening.”
“But I dined there—which doesn’t mean that I am not very hungry this morning.”
“You shall have breakfast here.”
“Oh! Monsieur Paul, for heaven’s sake, pay no attention to what Freluchon says; you will see that we must go away again immediately.—At that party I had a scene, a quarrel, with a certain Monsieur Luminot, who lives at Chelles.”
“The ground of your quarrel—what was it?”
“The most serious imaginable, for a man of honor; he insulted the lady whom I love, he presumed to speak in contemptuous terms of Mademoiselle Agathe and her protectress, Madame Dalmont.—At first some ladies, intimate friends of Madame de Belleville, began to make those slanderous remarks which women are so adroit at flinging at people whom they detest; but luckily a man mingled in the conversation and chose to affirm what the women had said. I ordered him to take back his words; he refused and I struck him!”
“Ah! you did well!” cried Paul, grasping Edmond’s arm. “Insult Agathe! insult that good, honorable woman who has been like a mother to her! the wretches! But those remarks, those dastardly slanders, all were certainly prepared, concerted beforehand by Thélénie.”
“By Thélénie! Do you too know Madame de Belleville?”
“How nicely it comes about!” said Freluchon. “Parbleu! who doesn’t know that lady?—Oh, yes! there’s her husband, Chamoureau—he has no suspicion what she is.”
“Yes, messieurs, ten years ago that woman was my mistress, and she is the cause of my having passed mylife since then in sadness and remorse. You shall know the whole story later; let us return to your duel.”
“When this Monsieur Luminot received my blow, he attempted to throw himself upon me.”
“And no one tried to prevent him,” said Freluchon. “Observe that the worthy man is a giant and could have crushed Edmond simply by falling on him. Luckily I arrived at that moment; I am not a giant—on the contrary, I am rather slender and fragile to look at! But beneath this feeble exterior, I carry a pair of small steel wrists which are equal to the best made at Birmingham. I grabbed Luminot by the waist, lifted him up, and tossed him at hazard. I believe that when he fell he damaged the husband of one of the harpies who began the scene; there was no harm done; I am only sorry that I didn’t pulverize those women at the same time. What horrid-tasting salt they would have made! It would have been excellent rat poison.”
“I will be your second, and I thank you for thinking of me. Monsieur is your other second, no doubt?”
“Yes, monsieur; if I don’t die of hunger first.”
“When does your duel take place?”
“I have no idea as yet; I told the fellow that I should expect his seconds; that is why I am in a hurry to return home.”
“I will be at your house in an hour.”
“Oh! monsieur, you have plenty of time, I assure you!” said Freluchon. “I know Chamoureau,aliasde Belleville; he’ll drag the thing out.”
“I don’t know what those gentlemen may do, Freluchon, but I propose to be there when they come. Let us go.”
“Have a glass of madeira, messieurs, to restore your strength.”
“Ah, yes! one, two, several glasses of madeira!”
“Freluchon, you are getting to be a genuine glutton!”
“My son, you are getting to be an anchorite! I shall cease to consort with you.”
The madeira was brought, and Edmond drank a glass in haste. Freluchon drank several in quick succession, and they took leave of their host, agreeing to meet again soon.
That same day, but not until about noon, for they slept late at Madame de Belleville’s, Chamoureau, having breakfasted, received orders from his wife to go to Monsieur Luminot’s and take his instructions concerning the duel.
Chamoureau hesitated for some time, seeking pretexts for keeping his skirts clear of the affair; but Thélénie said to him imperatively:
“You cannot break your promise, and you promised Monsieur Luminot to be his second. After all, monsieur, what are you afraid of? seconds don’t fight.”
That assurance emboldened Chamoureau, who took his hat and cane, then considered a moment whether he should not put on a leather chest protector, lest, as a second, he might receive some splashes. But his wife urged him and pushed him out of the door; so he benthis steps toward the former wine merchant’s house, saying to himself:
“After all, the day of the duel isn’t fixed yet; I have time ahead of me.”
Monsieur Luminot was pacing his floor in dressing gown and slippers, holding a foil in one hand and the sabre of a national guardsman in the other. He stopped every moment to lunge at the wall with his foil, or to make a cut at a wardrobe with his sabre. He thrust and parried with a triumphant air, but at the bottom of his heart, he was by no means overjoyed to fight; and since he had recovered his self-possession, since the fumes of the wine and the punch had disappeared, he kept asking himself:
“What in the devil did I meddle for? I slandered those ladies, whom I don’t know, and who may be perfectly respectable, simply to please that fat Droguet woman, who had said to me: ‘You will be careful to agree with us when we attack the women in the Courtivaux house.’—I ought not to have listened to her, I was very foolish; but I’ve got to fight because I have been struck.”
When Chamoureau entered the room, Monsieur Luminot was just in the act of executing a thrust with his foil, and the visitor stepped back in dismay, crying:
“Mon Dieu! the duel has begun. In that case they don’t need me, and I am going home!”
But the former wine merchant recalled his second.
“Well! where are you going?”
“Why, I am going home; as you’ve begun to fight, you don’t need seconds.”
“But I am not fighting; I am just practising, to get my hand in. Pray come in, my dear Monsieur de Belleville. Do you know, I am terribly distressed to have had that scene in your house!”
“And what about me? Do you think it is pleasant for me?”
“I may have been wrong to speak so slightingly of those two ladies.”
“If you admit that you were wrong, then the affair is arranged, and it isn’t worth while to fight.”
“Yes, but I received a blow!”
“If you were in the wrong——”
“Oh! I beg pardon—a blow calls for a sword-thrust. If I hadn’t received a blow, I would say: ‘I withdraw my insulting remarks about those ladies.’”
“Well! and if he should withdraw his blow——”
“That can hardly be done; unless he should let me give him one; then we should be quits!”
“He won’t do that.”
“In that case, you see, I must fight.—By the way, I need another second; two are none too many.”
“No, no! they’re none too many; perhaps you might have three or four—that would make more people.”
“No, it’s the custom to have only two. Who in the devil can I get for the other? I thought that you would bring one.”
“My wife didn’t tell me to.”
“Let us see—some hearty blade like you and me. Suppose I should take Jarnouillard?”
“I have just met him; he was going to Paris.”
“The doctor? No, he would refuse; he reprobates duels!”
“He is quite right! so do I!”
“But, my dear Monsieur de Belleville, when one can do nothing else!—Ah! Monsieur Droguet.”
“You wounded him when you fell on him last night.”
“Monsieur Remplumé then.”
“He is lame!”
“What difference does that make? he’s a tough old fellow, he used to be a corporal in the National Guard.”
“Do you think so?”
“He has often told me so. Yes, yes, Remplumé must be my second second. Let us go and ask him; will you be good enough to come with me? your presence will keep him from refusing.”
“If you think that my presence will be of any service, let us go.”
“Just give me time to put on a coat and waistcoat and a cravat.”
“Go on! go on! I am in no hurry.”
“One, two!—what say you to that sword-thrust, eh?”
“Superb! you have made a hole in your partition!”
“And this sabre cut—pan! paf!”
“Magnificent! Your wardrobe is all covered with gashes; it has seen some cruel work! Are you going to fight with sword and sabre?”
“I am tempted to choose pistols.”
“In that case, what’s the use of making holes in your partition and hacking your wardrobe?”
“I don’t know; I will see, I will reflect.—Monsieur de Belleville, your party was grand! and what a dinner you gave us!”
“There were some good things to eat!”
“In other words, there were dishes prepared with consummate art! I enjoyed among other things, a salmi of partridge,aux truffes——”
“With snipe!”
“Ah! there were snipe! that explains it; I said to myself that it had been kept just long enough!”
“And the mayonnaise of lobster?”
“And those white puddingsà la puréeof chestnuts!”
The two worthies passed the whole dinner in review, pausing to descant upon the dishes they had enjoyed most. This had lasted some time, when Monsieur Luminot exclaimed:
“Mon Dieu! and my duel!”
“I hoped he had forgotten it,” thought Chamoureau.
But it was after two o’clock when they went to Monsieur Remplumé’s house. The little lame man received them, coughing, spitting and sneezing as usual.
“You know about the scene that took place last evening at Monsieur de Belleville’s ball, do you not?” asked Luminot, laying his hand on the lame man’s shoulder.
“Yes, yes! I know all about it, it has made noise enough; no one is talking about anything else all overthe country. Besides, I arrived just as you fell on top of poor Droguet; you knocked out three of his teeth!”
“Two!”
“Three! he found there was another one missing when he got home.”
“It isn’t my fault; why did he happen to be under me when I fell?”
“That’s so; hum! hum! hum! When I go to bed so late, it makes my cough worse.”
“You know that I am to fight with Monsieur Edmond Didier, neighbor?”
“I know that he struck you, but I didn’t know whether you were going to fight or not.”
“Do you think that I will swallow that blow? Wouldn’t you fight if you were in my place, you who have been a corporal in the National Guard?”
“I? hum! hum!Sapredié!hum! hum! Oh! but I’m a swordsman, I am! It isn’t safe to look askance at me!—Hum! hum! I’ve got a horrid lump in my throat!”
“Do you think that I’ll let anyone tread on my toes?”
“I never said so. Hum! hum!”
“As you’re such a swordsman, you will be my second witness; you will enjoy it.”
“Your witness! to what?”
“Parbleu! to my duel with that popinjay who insulted me. Monsieur de Belleville is kind enough to be my principal second, and you must be the other.”
“Oh! but—I’ve got a very bad cold!”
“It won’t interfere with your coughing; I hope that I may count on you?”
“Let’s see—first, let’s see why you are going to fight?”
“Because I have received a blow.”
“Very good; but why did he strike you?”
“Why? because I said that this Madame Dalmont and her friend were hussies—didn’t amount to much.”
“But you were in the wrong. Why did you say that? are you sure of it?”
“Sure! not at all; but it was your ladies who did nothing but say it over and over again, and worked me up to it; besides, I was full of punch.”
“You should never make statements that you’re not sure of; isn’t that so, Monsieur de Belleville?”
Chamoureau scratched his nose, trying to think of a reply; but stout Luminot exclaimed:
“Enough of this! Sacrebleu! Monsieur Remplumé, you can’t refuse to be my second in an affair in which your wife urged me on to the quarrel, with the other ladies.”
“Monsieur, if my wife urged you on, I will be—hum! hum!—your second; I will put some licorice in my pocket—When do you fight?”
“That is for you two to arrange with this Monsieur Edmond’s seconds.—After all, I’d rather fight with him than with the fellow who grabbed me and tossed me in the air. Ah! the rascal! what muscle! what a biceps!”
“That was Freluchon—formerly my intimate friend, in the time of Eléonore, my first wife.”
“I congratulate you!—Go now, messieurs, and settle upon the place and hour of the combat.”
“I say! I hope it won’t be to-day!” cried Chamoureau; “what do you say to a week from Sunday?”
“My dear Monsieur de Belleville, a duel is never postponed so long as that. It is already three o’clock; it is too late for a meeting to-day. Fix it for to-morrow morning—at eight o’clock. We can meet in the little wood on your left as you go down toward Raincy—just behind the old keeper’s house.”
“Very good; and what weapons do you propose to fight with? You are the insulted party, and you have the right to choose.”
“Yes, I know that well enough! I have the choice of weapons, and that is what embarrasses me; that is the difficulty.”
“Which are you strongest with?”
“I am strong at all; that is to say, I can defend myself. Ah! if we could fight with the quarter-staff—that’s the thing I can handle!”
“Well, choose the quarter-staff,” said Chamoureau; “it isn’t so dangerous.”
“It isn’t accepted in fashionable society! I am reflecting; as the insulted party, I shall fire first.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Yes, yes! hum! hum! you will fire first.”
“Then I choose pistols.”
“That’s right,” said Chamoureau; “then, if you miss your opponent, you can pass at once to the sword.”
“Messieurs, will you please go to this Monsieur Edmond’s house, you know where he lives?”
“Perfectly well.”
“Remember what we have agreed upon—eight o’clock to-morrow.”
“And if it can’t be to-morrow,” said Chamoureau, “why, so much the better! we won’t go there again.”
Paul Duronceray was true to his promise and appeared at Edmond Didier’s not long after the latter and Freluchon had left the Tower.
“No one has come yet,” said Edmond.
“Pardieu! I was certain that no one would have come,” said Freluchon; “we have time to breakfast at our leisure.”
“And while you are breakfasting,” said Paul, after bidding his dog lie at his feet, “I will tell you something which will be of great interest to you; for it concerns this Thélénie, this woman who, I doubt not, is the original instigator of your duel to-day. And what I have to tell you also assures the happiness and the future welfare of that lovely girl, Agathe, who is to be your wife, Monsieur Edmond.”
“What! it concerns Agathe, monsieur? Oh! speak! pray, speak!”
Paul thereupon told the two young men what he had told Honorine the night before. The reader may imagine the surprise and joy of Edmond when he learned that the girl whom he loved would be recognized at last by her father’s family.
But suddenly his face clouded.
“Agathe is wealthy now,” he said, “and I am no longer a suitable match for her!”
“Now you’re beginning to talk nonsense!” exclaimed Freluchon. “When you determined to marry her, she had nothing, neither money nor a name; so she will know well enough now that it isn’t her money you marry her for.—But, look you, the story monsieur has just told us proves this: that when women set about being wicked, they are ten times wickeder than men, because they put a refinement in it of which we are not capable. In my opinion, Madame Sainte-Suzanne has played her rôle very prettily in all this business.”
“But Agathe must have learned all before this, from Madame Dalmont.”
“I think so,” said Paul, “but I have not yet dared to face her.—You must go with me, Monsieur Edmond; your presence will dispose her to indulgence, to forgiveness.”
“Oh! don’t be afraid, monsieur; there cannot be any resentment in her heart. Besides, you have told us that she saw you weep over her father’s grave, and it must be that she still remembers that.”
Twelve o’clock had struck, and no one had appeared on behalf of Monsieur Luminot. One hour, two hours more passed. Edmond was beside himself with impatience, for that business kept him from going to Agathe. Paul Duronceray was no less impatient than he.
At last, Messieurs Chamoureau and Remplumé appeared and announced themselves as Monsieur Luminot’s seconds.
At sight of the little, lame man, who tried to give an imposing expression to his sour face, Freluchon could not restrain a burst of laughter, which greatly disconcerted the two gentlemen. Chamoureau did not know which way to turn, and Remplumé began to cough as if he proposed to tear his throat to tatters. Edmond stood aside, and Paul waited for the visitors to speak.
At last the little, lame man stopped coughing and began thus:
“Messieurs! we come here as Monsieur Luminot’s seconds, entrusted with full powers by him. It is a serious matter—very serious; nothing less than——”
“It’s entirely useless to tell us what it’s all about, for we know,” said Freluchon; “I was present, I believe, and we have fully informed Monsieur Duronceray here.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “we know that Monsieur Luminot gratuitously slandered and insulted two ladies who deserve the respect and esteem of the whole world.—We assume that he was urged on to utter those abominable calumnies by certain persons, who desired to cause this quarrel.”
“That is my opinion also!” said Chamoureau.
“It is mine—hum! hum!—mine also—hum! hum!—I will say more: I agree with you.”
“In that case, messieurs, we are all agreed.”
“That being so, we can go away!” observed Chamoureau.
“Oh, no! Wait a moment, Chamoureau.—Your Monsieur Luminot has received a blow; he richly deserved it, but he wants to fight and he is entitled to.—So you are his second, are you, Chamoureau?”
“They insisted on it. I didn’t want to be. I hope you don’t take it ill of me.”
“Oh! not at all.”
“It was my wife who insisted on it.”
“She’s a very nice person, is your wife; she does things well. But how does it happen that the other second isn’t your intimate friend, the famous Baron von Schtapelmerg, who fought against the Turks?”
“And who won two hundred francs from me last night at écarté!”
“He cheated you, my dear boy; I would stake my head on it!”
“Oh! messieurs!” cried Chamoureau, “can it be that you suspect that worthy Bavarian of being a Greek?”
“I suspect it because I am certain that that unprepossessing person, who claims to be a German baron and can’t speak German, is simply your wife’s brother!”
“What! the brother of—then my wife is a baroness——”
“No more than he’s a baron; he gave himself away several times when he had drunk too much. However, I hope to see him again, and to find out just what to think. Where is he now?”
“Gone to Paris, on urgent business, so my wife said.”
“Messieurs,” interposed Edmond, “it seems to me that you are forgetting what brings you together; be good enough to complete your arrangements for the duel.”
“Well, messieurs, what do you propose? we are waiting to hear from you.”
“To-morrow morning, at eight o’clock——”
“Why not finish it up to-day?”
“Presumably because that would not suit Monsieur Luminot. If you interrupt us so soon—hum! hum!—we shall never finish.”
“True; go on, monsieur.”
“To-morrow morning, at eight o’clock, in the little wood behind what used to be the keeper’s house, as you go down the hill toward Raincy.”
“Very good,” said Paul, “I know the place.”
“Monsieur Luminot chooses pistols.”
“Agreed.”
“And he will fire first.”
“That may be open to discussion,” said Freluchon; “for your man began the attack by his slurring remarks.”
“No, no discussion!” exclaimed Edmond; “let him fire first—I agree.”
“Then, messieurs, as everything is arranged,—hum! hum!—we have only to salute you.”
“I beg pardon, monsieur,” said Paul, addressing himself to Monsieur Remplumé, who strove to maintain a surly expression; “if your opinion concerning the ladies insulted by Monsieur Luminot agrees with his, you too will have to deal with us; for you understand, messieurs, thatno onemay hereafter repeat those slanders, under pain of being chastised by us!”
The little, lame man turned green; Chamoureau sank upon a chair and put his handkerchief to his eyes, stammering:
“How can you believe me capable of speaking unkindly of those ladies, for whom I bought Monsieur Courtivaux’s house! I carry their images in my heart. I give no thought now to anything except the age of trees——”
“Enough! enough! we believe you!” said Freluchon.
Monsieur Remplumé made the same protestations as Chamoureau.
“That is all very well, messieurs,” said Paul; “but you will simply have the kindness to repeat this profession of faith in public, when we request you to do so.”
Luminot’s two seconds promised all that they were asked to promise, and hastened to take their leave.
“Now,” said Edmond, “as the rest of the day is ours, let us go at once to those ladies, who, I am sure, are surprised not to have seen us yet. But not a syllable concerning the duel!”
“Very good,” said Freluchon; “provided that some infernal gossip hasn’t told them of it already.”
“Let us go; look, messieurs, see how Ami gazes at us and runs to the door! Ah! he divines that we are going to see the persons to whom he is so attached; he is showing us the way.”
After her conversation with Paul, Honorine had hardly been able to sleep at all. Happiness frequently causes insomnia; it often keeps us wider awake than grief.
As soon as day broke, Honorine watched for Agathe to wake; it seemed to her that she slept much longer than usual. At last the girl opened her eyes; and she instantly read on her friend’s face that something extraordinary had happened. Having nothing in her head but her love, her first impulse was to cry:
“What has happened to Edmond?”
“To Edmond? Why, nothing new, I imagine. He went to that party, and probably passed the night there. As you may imagine, I haven’t seen him to-day; it isn’t seven o’clock.”
“Then why do you look at me so, my dear love? You certainly have something to tell me!”
“Yes, my dear child, I have to speak to you of your father—to tell you at last why your poor mother never saw him again.”
“Mon Dieu! can it be possible? You know that? Who can have told you?”
“Monsieur Paul Duronceray.”
“He knew my father?”
“Yes.”
“He has seen him, and spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“My poor father! he is dead, of course; otherwise he would not have abandoned us.”
“He is dead!”
“Oh! my dear love, tell me quickly everything that happened to him!—Speak! speak! I long to hear!”
“I shall have to say much of Monsieur Paul.”
“Speak—I will not lose a word!”
Honorine seated herself on Agathe’s bed and told her the story of the fatal liaison between Paul and Thélénie, which resulted in the duel and in her father’s death. She concluded thus:
“You have witnessed the regret, the remorse of the man who was the victor in that duel. From that day to this he has never ceased to try to find out what had become of you.—Will not you forgive him, as your father did?”
Agathe wept bitterly.
“My heart has no hatred,” she murmured; “it has nothing but regret.—So that cross in the ravine—that is the place.—Ah! that explains the inexplicable emotion that I felt. Poor father!—Oh! my dear, come, come quickly! You know where, don’t you?”
In a very few minutes, the two young women were ready to go out. Agathe went into the garden and gathered a bunch of flowers; then, with the bouquet in her hand, she took Honorine’s arm and they walked hastily, in silence and meditation, toward the ravine near the park of the Tower.
They reached the cross erected in that solitary place. Agathe knelt in front of it and prayed a long while; then, as she laid her nosegay on the grave, she spied, at the foot of the cross, some faded flowers, the remains of other bouquets laid there before her own. She picked up some of those flowers and placed them in her bosom. Then, leaning on Honorine’s arm, she took, more slowly now, the road leading back to Chelles.
The two friends had returned from that pious pilgrimage when Paul, Edmond and Freluchon made their appearance. Edmond ran forward and kissed the girl’s hands, crying:
“I know all! I am very happy in your happiness!”
Paul remained in the background; he dared not go forward. But Agathe went to meet him. He bent his knee before her; whereupon she held out the flowers she had taken from her father’s grave and said:
“These have told me that you too mourn for him; is it not equivalent to telling me to forgive you?”
The time passes very quickly with those who love one another, and who are engaged in forming the most delicious plans of happiness for the future.
Freluchon passed his time caressing the noble dog, of whom he too had made a friend.
For one moment, however, Agathe’s felicity was disturbed; it was when a chance remark informed her that Madame de Belleville was the very woman who had caused her father’s death.
The color fled from her cheeks and she murmured:
“Ah! now I understand the feeling of repulsion that that woman aroused in me. You won’t go to her house any more, Edmond, will you?”
“I will not, indeed; I give you my word, dear Agathe; and if I had known this distressing story sooner, I certainly would not have gone to her party last night.”
“Nor would I,” said Freluchon.
“And nothing unpleasant happened to you there?”
The three men exchanged rapid glances, and Edmond replied:
“What could have happened to us?”
“Mon Dieu! I don’t know—but I was terribly depressed last night, knowing that you were there.”
“A single word from you, and I would not have gone!”
“But I should not have dared to say it.”
“That is a pity!” thought Freluchon.
While the hours seemed so short in Honorine’s modest abode, the wealthy proprietress of Goldfish Villa waited impatiently, with her eyes fastened on a clock, for the moment when she was to meet her brother.