Dodichet broke the seal; the letter did, in fact, announce the death of his aunt, who had left her whole fortune to a third or fourth cousin, as she did not choose that it should go to her scapegrace of a nephew, who had made such a wretched use of the money his other relations had left him.
Dodichet did not expect to be disinherited; he angrily crumpled the notary's letter which told him the news; and for the first time his reflections were not rose-colored.
After his quarrel with Nathalie, Adhémar sought distraction and pleasure to no purpose; go where he would, he found neither. When one loves truly, it is a very painful thing to cease to see her whose presence had a never-failing charm; one tries in vain to put a brave face upon it, and to tell one's self that a lost love is readily replaced by another; in reality, we cannot tear a beloved image from our hearts so easily; we are conscious of an aching void, a brooding melancholy which follows us everywhere; and we prefer the memories of the past for which we sigh to all the pleasures that the present has to offer us.
Adhémar was unhappy, and dissatisfied with himself; and yet he strove to convince himself that he was justified in breaking off that intimacy which had so much charm for him.
"I loved her," he would say to himself; "I loved her sincerely, but she did not love me, for she deceived me. That pipe case did not belong to any woman. So that she received visits from men without telling me! and when one's mistress once has mysteries of that sort in her life, everyone knows what it means. And that smell of tobacco, which I had noticed before! That smoker must have come often to see her! Ah! Nathalie, Nathalie! you who were the woman I had dreamed of—to be loved by whom would have made me so happy! But, no,women cannot be faithful; why should she have acted differently from the others?"
On a certain day, when the young author was walking along the street in gloomy mood, thinking such thoughts as these, he suddenly found himself face to face with Lucien, who, also, was sighing dolorously.
"Ah! Lucien!"
"Adhémar!"
"Where are you going, my dear Lucien?"
"I am going—upon my word! I don't know where I am going. I am walking about at random—I am so unhappy! so desperate!"
"Really? Come, tell me your troubles, my poor Lucien. I am none too cheerful myself, by the way. So we will share our sorrows; that always helps a little. Hasn't your invention, your little business enterprise, succeeded?"
"Why, yes, it is going on very well, and that is just the reason I am in such despair."
"I don't understand you."
"As my business seemed to be prospering, I thought I might hope that Juliette's hand would be given to me at last. But, instead of that, Monsieur Mirotaine has turned me out of his house and forbidden me ever to go there again, all because Dodichet conceived the unfortunate idea of helping along my suit by introducing to the Mirotaines a pretended millionaire Italian count, who was to propose for Juliette; they got themselves invited to dinner, and Monsieur Mirotaine went to some expense to entertain them. Then Dubotté arrived and laid bare the fraud. Monsieur Mirotaine saw that they had made a fool of him, and he is convinced that I was in the plot with Dodichet; hence his anger against me, and the prohibition to go to his house again!"
"What a devil of a fellow that Dodichet is! I remember perfectly that you definitely forbade him to play one of his wretched jokes on this Mirotaine."
"He meant to do me a service, so I can't be angry with him. And yet, he is the cause of my being turned out of the house."
"That old miser's anger will cool down, if you succeed in your undertakings. His daughter will make him listen to reason."
"But meanwhile I can't see her, or have any understanding with her. When I was admitted to her father's house, we found ways of exchanging a word or two in secret. But now that I can never see her, how am I to let her know anything about me? Why, to be unable to see, even for a single minute, the woman one loves, is the cruelest kind of torture, Adhémar, I tell you!"
"To whom are you saying that?"
"Do you mean to say that you can't see the woman you love?"
"In other words, the woman I loved did not love me! or she deceived me, which amounts to the same thing. So I ceased to see her; and yet, I know perfectly well that I love her still."
"Are you quite sure that she deceived you?"
"Quite sure; as sure as a man can be when he sees that a woman has secrets from him. Tell me, Lucien, suppose you should learn that your Juliette received visits, of which she never breathed a word to you; wouldn't you think that she had some intrigue on hand? I assume, of course, that she is living in her own apartment and is mistress of her actions."
"If Juliette was her own mistress and lived in the most modest little room imaginable, it would be of no use foranyone to say to me: 'She receives other men than you;' I would not suspect her for an instant!"
"Sapristi! what confidence! And suppose you had proof that she received men secretly?"
"Why, I should consider that she must have some reason for concealing those visits from me; for she certainly has none for telling me, for swearing to me that she loves me, if she doesn't love me. When I enter the room where she is, doesn't she always receive me with the sweetest smile? can I not read in her eyes all the pleasure that my presence affords her? Ah! not until she ceased to be the same to me, should I have the slightest fear that she no longer loved me!"
"You have a happy disposition, and no mistake! You are not jealous, are you?"
"Oh, no! not at all!"
"Tell me, do you know Madame Dermont? She is a friend of Mademoiselle Juliette, I believe?"
"Madame Dermont? Yes; I met her several times at Juliette's before Monsieur Mirotaine had forbidden me to talk with his daughter. She's a most attractive woman. Juliette has no better friend. They tell each other their joys and their sorrows, and neither of them has any secrets from the other. She knows that Juliette loves me; and if she could do anything to help us, she would ask nothing better. But she hasn't the power, poor woman! She has had a heap of trouble of her own."
"Who? Nathalie?—I mean Madame Dermont. What trouble? She never mentioned it to me."
"Do you know her, then?"
"Yes, a little. I go to her house sometimes. But this trouble of hers? Tell me about it, I beg you, dear old Lucien!"
"I heard about it from Juliette, to whom, as I just told you, Madame Dermont confides all her sorrows."
"But these troubles of hers? these troubles? for God's sake, come to the point!"
Lucien looked at Adhémar with a smile, as he replied:
"How deeply interested you seem to be in anything that concerns that young woman! Can it be, by any chance——"
"Yes, yes, I love her, I adore her, I am mad over her! And these troubles?—in pity's name, my friend, tell me all you know!"
"Madame Dermont, as you know, is a widow; but her husband had a brother,—a sad scamp, by the way,—who would never do anything but drink, gamble, smoke, and haunt low resorts. When Monsieur Dermont died, Alexandre—that was the brother's name—Alexandre was frantic with rage when he found that he was not his heir, but that the whole fortune—rather a modest one, by the way—which his brother had left went to the widow. He called on his sister-in-law, made an unpleasant scene, and went so far as to threaten her; but she has a clear head and a strong character, and she turned him out of the house. Thereupon, Alexandre saw that he had gone to work in the wrong way, and that he would not obtain anything from Madame Dermont by threats; so he called on her again, and that time he did not play the swashbuckler, but wept and whined over his sad plight. The young widow did not turn him out again, but gave him five hundred francs and advised him to enlist; that was the only profession in which he could hope to make anything of himself. Alexandre promised to follow that advice; but, after a few months, he came back to his sister-in-law and told her he was dying of hunger, thathe had eaten nothing since the day before; and he smelt horribly of brandy and tobacco!"
"And tobacco? He smoked, did he? Ah! now I understand. Poor woman! But why didn't she tell me all this?"
"Why? Because it is a painful thing to say that a man who is closely allied to you, who bears your name,—for Alexandre's name is Dermont,—in fact, you don't like to confess that such a ne'er-do-well, such a blackguard, is your brother, or that he has, at all events, the right to call you his sister."
"And the wretch has come again to torment Nathalie, I suppose?"
"Mon Dieu! yes; she doesn't know how to get rid of him! And yet, it is very hard to continue giving money away when it serves only to encourage vice and debauchery."
"Oh! I'll rid her of her miserable brother-in-law! Dear Nathalie! But why didn't she confide in me? No matter! I am a wretch; I am unworthy to be loved by such a sweet, dear woman!—Lucien, give me your hand. Ah! my friend, if you knew how much good you have done me! You have brought me back to life, to happiness, to love—that is to say, to her! Adieu, Lucien, adieu! I hasten—I fly to beg for forgiveness. She will grant it, won't she? she will grant it?"
Without waiting for a reply, Adhémar walked hurriedly away in the direction of Madame Dermont's; but when he drew near, and could see the house in which she lived, he slackened his pace; he began to wonder how she, whom he had left so cavalierly in consequence of his unjust suspicions, would receive him. And when he reached the door, he stopped; he dared not go in, butcudgelled his brain to find some pretext, some excuse, for calling.
He had been standing for some minutes, irresolute, before the porte cochère, when he was abruptly pushed aside by a person who said to him in a hoarse voice as he entered the house:
"Stand aside there! Don't you see that you're blocking up the door?"
The speaker was a man of about thirty, very carelessly dressed, whose hat was dented in several places; his face was prematurely old and bloated, his manner was vulgar and impertinent, he was saturated with tobacco, and seemed to be slightly tipsy.
"Where are you going, monsieur?" the concierge called to him as he passed through the porte cochère and started for the staircase, while Adhémar, who was on the point of calling him to account for the discourteous way in which he had pushed him aside, waited to hear his reply.
"Where am I going? Sacrebleu! you know well enough; this ain't the first time I've been here! I'm going up to my sister's—Madame Dermont."
"Madame Dermont is out, monsieur."
"You always say the same thing; and you know that I go up, all the same."
"I have been expressly forbidden to let you go up, monsieur, and this time you shan't go!"
"I shan't go up! is that all, old dormouse? Just think of that! Madame Dermont won't receive me! But I am Alexandre Dermont, her husband's brother, and she has no right to close her door to me; and I'm going up, all the same, and you can go hang, concierge! And my sister-in-law will have to receive me, because—because——"
Monsieur Alexandre did not finish his sentence, because someone stood before him, barring his passage, and forced him back, looking him steadily in the eye.
"Well, well!" he muttered; "what does this fellow want?—Let me pass, I say!"
"I want you—yes, you, Monsieur Alexandre Dermont."
"I don't know you—let me go upstairs!"
"You shall not go upstairs, you shall not go to your sister-in-law's, who is perfectly justified in refusing to admit a miserable wretch, a scoundrel of your stamp!"
"What! what do you say? What business is it of yours?"
"I say that you're a low-lived hound, that you call on Madame Dermont for no other purpose than to worm money out of her, which you spend in orgies and debauchery! And you are not ashamed to be guilty of such conduct! Do you think that Madame Dermont's modest fortune will serve to gratify your passions forever? No, monsieur; don't count upon it. I forbid you—do you hear?—I forbid you to show your face at your sister-in-law's again!"
"By what right, I should like to know?"
"By the right that every decent man has to protect a woman who is abused and threatened and robbed!"
"Oh! you make me tired! I propose to go up."
And Monsieur Alexandre, turning half around, tried to reach the stairway. But Adhémar overtook him, seized him by the throat, and held him against the wall, saying:
"If you make another attempt to go up those stairs, I'll smash your head against this wall!"
"You're choking me, monsieur!"
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes; but let me go!"
"Will you swear never to come to Madame Dermont's again?"
"Yes, I swear; but you are murdering me! I left a pipe case at my sister's; I came to get it."
"You didn't come on any such paltry errand as that; you came to ask that lady for more money, dastard that you are!"
"You insult me, monsieur!"
"Ah! you feel that you are insulted, do you? Very well! if you have the least bit of pluck, come with me, and I'll give you satisfaction. There's a gunsmith's close by; we can go there and get pistols, and take a cab. Come!"
"I, fight! I think I see myself! no, thanks! Let me go; I've had enough! I swear I won't come here again."
"Go, then; but if you fail to keep that oath, I swear that I won't fail to shoot you!"
Monsieur Alexandre did not stay to listen to any more; he ran away as if he feared pursuit. Thereupon the concierge, who had armed himself with his broom to support Adhémar if necessary, exclaimed:
"Ah! monsieur, how lucky it is that you happened to be here to drive that miserable scamp away! He wouldn't listen to me—but you! Why, you gave him such a shaking that I warrant he'll never come again. You have done Madame Dermont a very great service, I promise you!"
"Has she really gone out?"
"No, monsieur, no; she hardly ever goes out lately; but those were my orders for that rascal. You can go up, of course; she'll be glad to see you."
Adhémar went upstairs, but paused at Nathalie's door; he was intensely excited.
"She hardly ever goes out, so the concierge said," he thought. "Has she been sick? Am I the cause of it? Oh! this infernal jealousy! How will she receive me? No matter! I will see her, and die at her feet if she doesn't forgive me."
He rang with a trembling hand; the maid opened the door, and uttered a cry of joy when she saw who it was. Servants almost always divine their mistress's secret thoughts, and this one was very sure that Adhémar's return would bring back joy and happiness to the house, which had been very gloomy since he had ceased to come.
"Ask Madame Dermont if she will see me," said Adhémar.
The servant, with a beaming face, hurried away to her mistress, and returned almost immediately to say that he might go in. Adhémar did not wait for the words to be repeated. He found Nathalie holding her embroidery frame in her hand, but not working. A glance sufficed to show him that she was pale and changed, and that her features wore an expression of profound melancholy. Adhémar could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at Nathalie's feet; he seized her hands and pressed them in his own, crying:
"Mercy! forgive me! if you could only know how I have reproached myself! but I will not offend again, I swear! I am cured. Oh! I have been so unhappy ever since I saw you last!"
"And what about me, monsieur? Do you think that I have not been unhappy? Why didn't you come back sooner? What prevented you?"
"Because—I didn't know—— Look you, Nathalie—I will not lie to you—to-day I met Lucien, and Ilearned from him that you had a brother-in-law who smoked——"
"And then you understood that I had no other intrigue. Bad boy! if you hadn't left me so abruptly, I would have told you the whole story; but when jealousy takes possession of you, it is impossible to make you listen to reason."
"Hereafter, my confidence in you will be absolute. You love me—you forgive me once more, do you not?"
"Yes, but this is the last time; for such scenes are too painful to me."
At that moment they heard the servant laughing uproariously. Nathalie rang for her and asked her the reason of that outburst of merriment.
"Oh! madame, hasn't monsieur told you what he did to your scamp of a brother-in-law? The concierge just told me. Monsieur took him by the throat and turned him out of the house, and promised to cut him in pieces if he ever dared to come to see you again!"
"Is this true, Adhémar?"
"Yes; did I do wrong?"
"Oh! far from it; you have done me a very great service. It seems that I am destined to be saved by you from all sorts of dangers! You see, monsieur, that you did wrong to desert me!"
Adhémar's only reply was to cover with kisses the hand she abandoned to him; and the maid returned exultantly to the kitchen, crying:
"What joy! The man with the quid of tobacco won't come here again!"
After the evening when young Callé played bézique until midnight with Madame Dubotté, the clinging Éléonore said to her husband:
"Do you know, monsieur, that it was very wrong of you to leave me to pass the evening alone with a young man? and that it shows the greatest indifference on your part toward your wife? for, if I didn't love you as I do, I might revenge myself for your neglect. You expose me to the risk of receiving declarations of love!"
"My dear love, you don't look at things from the right standpoint," Philémon replied, caressing his mutton-chop whiskers, which threatened to encroach upon his cheeks. "Tell me, did Callé make a declaration?"
"Oh, no!"
"You see! Deuce take it! I know with whom I leave you: that young man is as virtuous as Voltaire'sCandide. Do you knowCandide?"
"No, my dear."
"I'll get it for you; for you're a little behindhand in literary matters, and I propose to train you in every way. I don't choose to have people say of my wife that she's a ninny. I won't have that, do you hear? and you must govern yourself accordingly."
"I will try, my dear."
"To return to Callé: he is more or less of a simpleton. He doesn't dare to look a woman in the face; indeed, he hardly dares to speak to one. So you see that I cansafely leave you with him. If he should ever become any woman's lover, she would have to make the first overtures!"
"Do you think so, my dear?"
"I am sure of it; he would never dare to declare himself, unless he got a little help. And so, my dear love, as I know your virtue and your affection for me, I am entirely easy in my mind. I would intrust you to Callé, my dear, as I would to a keeper of the seraglio. Do you know what a keeper of the seraglio is, in Turkey?"
"No, my dear."
"Well, he's a eunuch."
"What in the world is a eunuch?"
"Why, don't you know that? I'll tell you some night—when it rains. Evidently, I have a great many things to teach you."
A few days later, Philémon said to his wife one morning:
"My dear love, I am going to make you very happy!—I know how much you like the theatre, especially the Gymnase; well, I have taken a box for you there, for to-night."
"Oh! what fun! at the Gymnase! and a box! How lovely of you, dear! Tell me what time we must start, so that I can be ready and not make you impatient."
"Oh! the play doesn't begin till half-past seven—be ready at quarter-past, that will be early enough; he won't call for you before then."
"What did you say? call for me? Am I not to go with you?"
"No; I will join you later; I have to go to an evening party given by my chief. I can't miss that, you understand. When a man wants promotion, he must always stand well with those above him."
"But, in that case, as you knew you were going somewhere else, you shouldn't have got a box for this evening."
"Why not, pray? If I am enjoying myself in one place, is it any more than fair that you should enjoy yourself, too?"
"But you used always to take me with you to your chief's parties."
"Yes, to the dancing parties and the musicales. But this is to be a—serious party; we shall talk politics and discuss the best method of dealing with the maturing obligations of a new Oriental railway; and you can see for yourself that women would be bored to death to sit and listen to all that. That's why there are to be no women."
"With whom do you propose to send me to the play, then?"
"Oh! don't worry about that; I have sent word to Callé! I saw him yesterday, and asked him if he would like to take you to the theatre to-night. He jumped for joy; he adores the theatre."
"But you impose on that young man's good nature."
"On the contrary, I make him very happy! The poor fellow, who has never been able to have a mistress of a decent sort, is delighted to be your escort.—'People will think I've made a conquest of her,' he'll say to himself."
"And you are willing people should think that I am that young man's mistress?"
"Why, no, indeed! no one will believe it! What I say is, that he will imagine that people believe it. I have to dot all myi's to make you understand!"
"There's one thing that I understand very well, monsieur; and that is, that nowadays you do your utmostto avoid taking me anywhere with you. Although you think me a great fool, I beg you to believe that I can see that perfectly well."
"Oh! that's just like a woman! taking everything hind side before! A fellow does all he can to be agreeable—buys a box at the theatre, for a charming play, and says to himself: 'I can't take her to a—political gathering, but I don't want her to sit mooning all alone in her chimney corner.'—And instead of being thanked for what he has done, he is overwhelmed with reproaches, and has to listen to the most absurd reflections! Don't you be alarmed: it will be very hot when I buy another box for you!"
Monsieur Dubotté left the house in a very ill humor. Madame said nothing more, but she probably thought a good deal. When evening came, she made her toilet and took infinite pains with it. Young Callé arrived with great promptness at the appointed time. He was in full dress, and becurled and perfumed as if he were going to a wedding.
"Here's your box," said Philémon, as he handed him the ticket; "I will join you later, if it's possible for me to get away from my chief's party early enough. Try to make my wife enjoy herself; that isn't very easy, for she's not always in good humor. If you succeed in making her amiable, you'll perform a miracle."
Young Callé bowed and set off with Éléonore, who was becoming accustomed to accept his arm. Her escort suggested taking a cab, but she refused, as the Gymnase was not far away. On the way, Callé began a number of sentences concerning the pleasure it afforded him to be with such a charming person; when he could go no further, Éléonore came to his assistance by saying:"You are very good!"—and the sentence remained unfinished.
When they reached the theatre, Callé looked at the ticket and said:
"It's a baignoire."
"A baignoire? I don't know what that is; is it very high?"
"No, on the contrary, it's low; on a level with the pit."
When the box door was opened, Éléonore hesitated about going in.
"Mon Dieu! how dark it is in there!" she exclaimed. "Is this our box?"
"To be sure, madame," replied the box opener; "and it's almost opposite the stage, as you see."
"Dear me! what a strange place! Yes, we do have a good view of the stage, that is true; but we can't be seen—it is hardly worth while to take pains with one's dress. However, perhaps I shall get used to it. Do you like these boxes, Monsieur Callé?"
"So far as I am concerned, madame, I am always satisfied when—I have the—the privilege——"
"You are very good!"
Éléonore took her seat at the front of the box, and Callé modestly seated himself behind her. When she had looked for a moment into the auditorium, of which she could see only a very small part, she turned toward her escort, who returned her glance, sighed, and said nothing.
"You can't see anything from where you are, Monsieur Callé, can you? Sit here in front, beside me."
"You are very kind, madame, but I am all right here; if I sat in front, I—I should crowd you."
"Not at all."
"I can see the stage very well."
"But you can't see the audience at all."
"I don't care for that; what I do see is much more agreeable to me—to look at—and when—when one is near—near madame—then one has no wish to—one does not look elsewhere for—one——"
"You are very good!"
The play began, and they listened intently; there was much talk of love in it. Éléonore seemed deeply interested in it; the young man continued to sigh. After the first act he went out, and returned in a moment with bonbons andfruits glacés, which he offered to Madame Dubotté. She accepted them with a sweet smile. It was an excellent chance to tell her escort that he was very good; but she contented herself with handing him a quarter of an orange, then proceeded to stuff herself with the sweetmeats. As a general rule, women are very fond of bonbons; a man ought always to have his pockets full when he wishes to make himself agreeable to them. You may vary the menu, however, by adding truffles stewed in champagne; then your success will be even more complete.
The second play began. Now and then, in order to obtain a better view, the young man leaned forward from behind Éléonore. At such times his head brushed against the pretty blonde's shoulders; those shoulders were very white and her chest well developed. Her dress was cut low, and while looking at the shoulders one could see the base of those charming globes which, to my mind, excel in value all balloons, past, present, and to come, even Nadar'sGiant. With them, to be sure, you cannot float through the air; but I opine that what we find on earth is worth much more than anything we can find aloft. Young Callé, therefore, was not so much of a fool as heseemed, when he sat behind Éléonore. She, upon turning suddenly, collided with the head of her escort, who was not looking at the stage at that moment; and their two faces were so near to each other that the ends of their noses touched. A man accustomed to intrigues would have seized the opportunity to kiss the young woman, but Callé hastily drew back, stammering apologies which no one demanded of him; for Éléonore, when she found those eyes absorbed by contemplation of her charms, had been on the point of saying:
"You are very good!"
The second play had quite as much to say of love as the first. After the first act, finding that her companion continued to sigh without daring to speak, Éléonore remembered that her husband had told her that he needed to be encouraged, and that without encouragement he would never venture to talk with a lady; so she began the conversation.
"I have noticed one thing, Monsieur Callé."
"What is that, madame?"
"That there's a lot about love in all plays."
"Yes, that is true; you are right; they bring it in everywhere."
"Why is it, monsieur?"
"Why, madame, it is, apparently, because the authors don't know how to talk about anything else."
"Do you think so? I have heard people say that the stage was simply a copy of what happens in real life. But in real life people don't talk about love all the time, do they, monsieur?"
"Oh, no! madame, they don't always talk about it—although often—one would like to talk about it—but one doesn't dare."
"Oho! so it's because one doesn't dare. That is a great mistake! It seems to me that it's more interesting, more entertaining, than any other subject."
Young Callé had a declaration on the tip of his tongue. But the second act began, and he said nothing more. During the act, Éléonore dropped her opera glass on the floor. Callé instantly stepped forward to pick it up; but, in order to do it, he had to go to the front of the box and stoop until he was almost on his knees, for it was very dark, and he had to feel about on the floor. Instead of the opera glass, he seized Éléonore's foot and pressed it tenderly.
"Why, that is not my opera glass that you have, Monsieur Callé; it's my foot," said the pretty blonde, laughing.
"Are you sure, madame?"
"Oh! yes, I can feel. But where are you looking, Monsieur Callé? my glass isn't there; I can feel it with my foot."
Callé decided at last, albeit with regret, to take his head from under the seat; he had the opera glass, and presented it to the young lady with a trembling hand. She was deeply moved, so much so that, in trying to take it, she dropped it again. That time it fell in her lap, however; so Callé resumed his seat; but after that, when Éléonore turned to speak to him, she sometimes leaned upon him, perhaps unconsciously; ladies often venture upon trifling familiarities like that, which give great hopes to him with whom they indulge in them. The young man was as red as a cherry, and his eyes were always somewhere else than on the stage.
The act came to an end, and Madame Dubotté, turning to her escort, asked him what he thought of the play.
"I don't know, madame," he faltered; "I didn't hear a word of it."
"What! didn't you listen?"
"I beg pardon—I listened, but I didn't hear. I was so distraught by—— Did your opera glass fall again, madame?"
"Why, no—it's here in my lap."
"Oh! that's a pity!"
"Why so? would you like it to be on the floor again?"
"Oh! yes, because I might have the pleasure of looking for it. And then—and then——"
According to his custom, the young man failed to finish the sentence; but he heaved such a prodigious sigh that Madame Dubotté asked him with concern:
"Are you ill, Monsieur Callé?"
"Oh! no, madame; far from it!"
"Why do you sigh so deeply, then?"
"That is my way of being happy."
"Ah! that's curious. So you are very happy, are you?"
"Oh! yes, madame; I always am—when I am with you!"
He actually finished his sentence that time. Éléonore thanked him with a sweet smile; and during the last act she leaned much more frequently on the young man, whose knees served to transform her seat into an armchair.
The performance came to an end. They walked home slowly, very slowly; they did not seem in any haste to arrive. Éléonore talked about the play; the young man answeredyesandnoat random, but he pressed very tenderly the arm that was passed through his, and the caress seemed in no wise to offend her to whom it was addressed.
On reaching home, Madame Dubotté invited her young escort to come soon to play bézique with her, while her husband went about without her according to his custom. Callé promised to take advantage of her invitation.
And so, during the following week, Monsieur Callé went almost every evening to play bézique with fair-haired Éléonore; and she was no longer out of temper when her husband went out without her. Indeed, she sometimes said to him:
"My dear, if you have any business on hand, don't put yourself out for me; Monsieur Callé will come and stay with me. He is very strong at bézique, and never has enough of it; he is indefatigable!"
Dubotté was enchanted.
"At last I have trained my wife!" he cried; "she is just what I wanted her to be! She isn't on my back all the time now; she leaves me entirely at liberty. That is what I wanted to bring about; I had hard work, but I have succeeded. She goes to the theatre with Callé now, without showing any temper, even when I don't go after her."
The young woman did more than that: when her husband promised to secure a box for her, she always said:
"Try to get a baignoire, my dear!"
Adhémar went to see Nathalie every day; during the day, he gave her all the time which his literary labors left at his disposal, and passed all his evenings with her. He often discussed with her his ideas, his plans for new plays; and sometimes read a scene to her, or a chapter of a new novel. He consulted her and profited by her advice. If Molière consulted his maid-servant, is it not much more natural to consult one's mistress? There is this difference, however: Laforest, Molière's servant, was proud and happy to be consulted by her master; whereas, out of twenty mistresses, there will be nineteen who will not listen to you when you talk literature to them, who will yawn when you read them a page that you have just written, or who will interrupt you at the most interesting point to say:
"What color do you prefer for a dress, my dear, green or blue? I myself think that blue is more becoming to me—what do you say?"
Thereupon you see that your efforts as a reader who desires to move his audience are thrown away; you put your manuscript in your pocket, and make up your mind never to talk with your fair one about anything but dresses and fashions, as she takes no interest in anything else. But there are exceptions; there are women who are willing to listen when you do not talk to them about themselves, and who are able to talk about somethingbesides styles and love. Nathalie was one of these exceptions; that is why Adhémar was so happy in her company; that is why they suited each other so well.
So it was that the most perfect harmony reigned between the lovers, when, on arriving at Madame Dermont's one morning much earlier than usual, Adhémar was informed by the servant that her mistress was not at home.
"What! she has gone out before noon? To do some shopping, I suppose?"
"I don't know, monsieur; but madame will certainly return very soon, for whenever she goes out in the morning like this, she always comes home before noon."
"Whenever she goes out like this!" muttered Adhémar, his heart beginning already to sink. "So Madame Dermont often goes out in the morning?"
"Dame!monsieur, I can't say just how often; but she has been out several times lately."
Adhémar did not pursue his questioning any further. He threw himself into an armchair, thinking:
"I will wait for her; of course, she will tell me where she has been."
And he tried to banish the evil thoughts which were already besieging his mind. Less than five minutes had passed, when Nathalie appeared. She seemed a little surprised to find Adhémar there; but she went to him with outstretched hand, and said, smiling as usual:
"Good-morning, my dear!"
"Good-morning, madame!"
"Oho! what does thatmadamemean? Since when have I beenmadameto you? Is it because you didn't find me when you came, that you would call memadame?"
"Why, no—it was simply for a change."
"I don't like the change, myself! What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Have you been to walk?"
"Yes—that is to say, I have been to pay a visit."
"Oh! a visit. Would it be presumptuous in me to ask you to whom you pay visits—so early?"
"Why, yes, a little presumptuous, perhaps. However, as I see that you are frowning, and that you probably suspect me of treachery already——"
"Oh! upon my word!"
"No, you are incapable of it, aren't you?—Well, monsieur, I have been to see my poor friend Juliette. Are you satisfied?"
"Mon Dieu! I asked you—just for something to say."
"Yes, I understand—and to find out where I had been."
"Did you see your friend Juliette?"
"To be sure!"
"And you have been to see her often of late?"
"Why not? if I can comfort her or gratify her by listening to her confidences. If you were unhappy, wouldn't you be very glad to have a true friend come to see you and try to console you?"
"Oh! when I am unhappy, I keep it to myself, and don't go and tell other people about it."
"Women are not like men, my dear; when they have troubles—love troubles, especially—they love to pour out their hearts on a friend's breast."
"Yes, women are very fond of having secrets between themselves, of being mysterious with us."
"Oh, dear! there you go again, with your evil thoughts! Is it because I have been to see Juliette that you are so cross?"
"Cross? I am not cross!"
"As if I didn't know you! as if I couldn't read in your eyes! You promised me absolute confidence."
"It seems to me that I am proving my confidence in you at this moment."
"By making wry faces because you didn't find me when you came this morning! Come, my friend, let us reason a little; you should be logical: if I don't love you, what reason have I for pretending to, for feigning sentiments which I do not feel—for deceiving you, in a word? Come—answer me!"
Instead of answering, Adhémar rose and paced the floor, sat down at the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, began waltzes, polkas, and mazurkas; then ran to Nathalie and kissed her, saying:
"Forgive me, dear girl; I slept badly last night; I have a little headache; that is why you found me so sulky."
Nathalie pretended to believe him, and harmony was reëstablished, in appearance at least; for in the bottom of his heart Adhémar was tormented by doubt; he thought of those frequent goings-out in the morning, ostensibly to see Juliette, and said to himself:
"She used not to go out so often—or, if she did, she told me herself when she intended to go."
Several days passed; Adhémar constantly changed the hour of his visits; but Madame Dermont was always at home, and he began to feel a little more at ease. But, impelled by that jealousy which in him was the inevitable concomitant of genuine love, it happened more than once that, after he had left Nathalie, he prowled about the street a long while, or stood under a neighboring porte cochère, to see if she did not go out; but he had his trouble for his pains, to his great contentment.
One morning, about nine o'clock, it occurred to him to go and walk through the street where Madame Dermont lived.
"I won't go up to her rooms," he said to himself, "for she's not an early riser, and I might disturb her in her sleep; but I may see her servant come out, and I can give her the bouquet I am going to buy for her mistress. Nathalie will find it by her side when she wakes, and she'll surmise from whom it comes."
He dressed hurriedly, and bought a lovely bouquet on Passage Verdeau. Then he walked to Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière, to Madame Dermont's house, looked up at the windows, where all the curtains were still drawn, and strolled along the street, after looking at his watch: it was half-past nine. That was too early for a call on Nathalie, but he hoped that the servant would come out.
Ten minutes passed, and Madame Dermont's servant did not appear. Adhémar was tired of pacing the street with his flowers in his hand, and had almost concluded to go up, thinking that he could ring very softly, to avoid waking her, when he saw a cab coming rapidly toward him. It slackened its pace as it approached Madame Dermont's house. Adhémar, without pausing to weigh his reasons for so doing, stepped aside; something told him that he was interested in that cab, and he determined to see who alighted from it.
It stopped in front of Nathalie's door; a young woman alighted, paid the driver, and hurried into the house. But Adhémar had recognized her; he could not be mistaken; he had seen her features, he had recognized her dress, and the hat she wore when she went out in the morning: it was she, it was Nathalie! For an instant Adhémar thought of running after her and shouting:
"Where have you been?"
But he reflected that she might lie to him again; and a better plan occurred to him. The cab was still there,the driver preparing to return to his box. Adhémar opened the door, jumped in, and, taking ten francs from his pocket, placed them in the cabman's hand as he asked him where he wished to go.
The man was amazed at sight of the ten francs which his new passenger gave him even before hiring him.
"Oh! it's to be a long trip, eh? You want to go into the country, I take it, bourgeois?"
"The ten francs are to pay you for answering my questions briefly: a lady has just got out of your cab?"
"Yes, bourgeois; a pretty little lady—good style. I know what I'm talking about."
"Where did you take her from?"
"Where did I take her from? why, from here, bourgeois, about an hour and a quarter ago; it wasn't quite a half, but the little woman pays generous, without haggling."
"She took you by the hour, then, when she started?"
"Just so."
"Where did you go with her? Now, don't lie to me!"
"You pay too well for me to lie to you! Besides, there's no mystery about it; I took her to the Jardin des Plantes."
"To the Jardin des Plantes?"
"Yes, bourgeois; in front of the gate, on the water side. She got out there and told me to wait, and then she went into the garden."
"Alone?"
"Yes, yes, alone when she went in; but when she came out, after a quarter of an hour or more, she wasn't alone then."
"Who was with her?"
"A gentleman—a young man."
"A young man? What was he like—his dress—his features?"
"Oh! excuse me! but you don't suppose I took his photograph, do you? He was dressed, like everybody else, in a frock-coat. I thought he was rather a good-looking fellow. That's all I can tell you."
"And this man—this gentleman—this frock-coat—he came out with the lady, you say? Did she have his arm?"
"Oh! as to that, I can't say; I was on my box, and I didn't see them till they were close to my cab, and the young man helped the lady in."
"And got in with her?"
"No, no; he didn't get in—he said good-bye."
"How did he say it? Did he embrace her?—did he kiss her hand?"
"Oh! bless your heart! I was straightening out my reins, and I didn't see them embrace. The lady called out to me: 'Take me back to where you brought me from!'—The young man shut the door and went off—but, yes, I remember now that he said to her, as he went away: 'Thank you, thank you a thousand times for coming!'—Now, where'll you go, bourgeois?"
"To the Jardin des Plantes, to the same spot where that lady got out."
Adhémar's brain was on fire, his heart beat violently; he pressed his hands against his brow, saying to himself:
"It is absolutely certain now—she too deceives me—and she dared to tell me that she loved me! Ah! we don't deceive those whom we love! It is all over—yes, all over, this time! I won't see her again, for she would tell me another lie; she would invent some fable to make me believe that she is innocent! And perhaps I shouldbe idiot enough to believe her. But, no, I do not propose to be her dupe again; I will see her no more. But that man with whom she makes assignations so early in the day—ah! if I could find out who he is, I would kill him! And yet, he is not the guilty one, for he loves her. But not as I loved her—oh, no!"
As he glanced about, Adhémar saw a handkerchief at his feet; he picked it up, examined it, and recognized Nathalie's monogram, which he had seen her embroidering with her own hands.
"She was so engrossed that she forgot it!" he muttered, twisting the handkerchief in his clenched hands. "A moment ago, she was here, on this seat, and she was thinking of another man!"
He could no longer control his grief; he sobbed bitterly, and the tears rushed from his eyes; but he felt a sort of pleasure in wiping them away with the handkerchief which belonged to her.
The cab stopped and the driver opened the door, saying:
"This is the very place where the little lady got out, bourgeois, and where I waited for her. There's the Jardin des Plantes."
Adhémar, absorbed by his reflections and memories, had no idea where he was or whither he was going. The cabman's words recalled him to himself. He jumped out of the cab and said to the man:
"You must come with me."
"Where to, bourgeois?"
"Into the Jardin des Plantes."
"Carriages ain't admitted; it's against the rules."
"I didn't say anything about your cab; I want only you. We will walk through the garden, and I want you to look closely at every man you see; and if you recognizethe young man who escorted that lady back to your cab, you must point him out to me instantly."
The cabman began to laugh.
"My word! that's a good one, that is! You want me to go with you afoot, eh? And what will become of my cab and my horses in the meantime?"
"Mon Dieu! they won't fly away. Go and stand your cab over yonder where those others are."
"I can't do that, bourgeois; our orders is not to lose sight of our horses; I should be punished—discharged, perhaps."
Adhémar took ten more francs from his pocket and put them in the cabman's hand.
"Just a few times round the garden; while you're away, one of your comrades will look after your horses."
Money always produces its due effect; the cabman wavered, and at last replied:
"I'll go and ask Jérôme, who's over there, I believe, if he'll have an eye on my horses, and I'll share the ten francs with him—eh, bourgeois?"
"Yes, yes,—here, give him this five-franc piece; off with you!"
"Oh! Jérôme's a good fellow! he'll do it for me."
The driver ran to the cab stand, told his comrade what was wanted, and showed him the last five-franc piece he had received.
"We two will drink it up directly," he added.
Jérôme agreed; the cabman pocketed the hundred sous, and returned to Adhémar.
"It's all fixed," he said; "Jérôme will have an eye on my beasts."
"Come with me, then."
They entered the garden, the cab driver walking beside Adhémar, who said to him:
"Look carefully at all the men—the young men, I mean—and as soon as you see the one who was with that lady, say: 'There he is!'"
"All right, bourgeois; or, say I cough to warn you?"
"Very well."
There were few people in the garden. Adhémar walked rapidly, and his companion could hardly keep up with him.
"Sapristi!" he cried; "you travel faster than my horses!"
A young man passed them, and the cabman began to cough.
"Well!" exclaimed Adhémar, stopping abruptly.
"That's not the man, bourgeois."
"What in the devil did you cough for, then?"
"To let you know that he wasn't the one."
"You are not to cough unless you recognize him."
"Oh! all right! I understand!"
They went on again. They met a number of men, but the cabman made no sign; he simply said from time to time:
"If Jérôme should get a fare, who'd look after my cab?—By the way, monsieur," he said at last; "there's one thing perhaps I ought to tell you."
"What's that?"
"If the man you're looking for should pass us, I wouldn't know him. You see, I hardly looked at him, only just caught a glimpse of him, and I don't even know whether he was dark or light!"
Adhémar stamped impatiently, and, realizing that his search would necessarily be fruitless, decided to leave the garden. The cabman was overjoyed to find Jérôme still on the square.
"Where shall I take monsieur now?" he asked.
"Nowhere—thanks! I don't need you any longer."
In his then frame of mind, Adhémar preferred walking to riding; he craved air and exercise. He walked very rapidly, often without looking to see where he was going. However, he reached home in time, and had no sooner entered his study than he ran to his desk and seized his pen.
"I will write to her," he said to himself; "I cannot wait to tell her that I know of her treachery—and then everything will be at an end between us. I will try to forget her."
With a hand that trembled with excitement, although his thoughts caused it to move swiftly across the paper, he wrote Nathalie the following letter: