Part 17

"Oh! that is another exercise that I adore. We will ride together--and you will see that I am not afraid, and that I have a good seat. But you don't seem to be listening to me! What in the deuce shall I talk to him about?--Poor boy, talk to me about Armantine. It is such a joy to speak of the person one loves! And you are very much in love with her, aren't you?"

I confess that at that moment I was thinking much less of Madame Sordeville. So that I replied, rather coldly:

"I was very much in love with her; but her treatment of me to-night cooled me off."

"Oh! when a man is really in love with a woman, monsieur, he doesn't cease to love her just because she flirts a little with other men; on the contrary, he often loves her all the more for it."

"Coquetry has never had that effect on me."

"Go and see Armantine in a few days, in the daytime. I'll wager that she will be very amiable to you."

"So the lady is capricious, is she?"

"Exceedingly capricious."

"That is a failing which I have never been able to endure."

"Ah! but when one loves a woman, one loves her with all her failings."

"My theory is that when one really loves, one is not capricious in dealing with the object of one's love. Consequently, I am persuaded that all these women who have caprices don't know what it is to love."

"Perhaps you are right. But I think that Armantine is in reality very susceptible."

"You think so? You are not sure?"

"How is one to be sure of other people? one is not always sure of one's self."

We sat for some time without speaking; but to me that silence was not without charm. It is often pleasant to think, in the company of a person who is thinking at the same time.

Suddenly Frédérique looked me in the face and said:

"Well, Charles! you don't seem to talk about Armantine?"

"I have so little hope!"

"Oho! monsieur plays the modest adorer! After all, I don't pretend to say that she will yield to you. That is a mystery--the secret of the gods."

"True; but you might tell me whether--whether any previous weakness on her part gives me reason to hope."

"My dear man, it isn't right to ask me that. If Armantine had given me her confidence, I would not betray it. But, frankly, I know nothing about it. All that I can say is that Monsieur Sordeville is not in the least jealous; that he gives his wife her liberty in a way that strongly resembles indifference; that Armantine is pretty, coquettish, likes to be courted; and that all those things may very well lead to certain results. But whose fault is it, if not her husband's? Oh! these husbands! I've learned to my cost not to love them!--Well! what are you thinking about? you are not listening."

"Yes, I am. I was thinking that you--that---- Oh, no! it isn't worth while; I prefer not to say anything."

"My dear fellow, you don't like capricious women, you say, and, for my part, I detest a person who begins a sentence, then stops, and doesn't finish it. There's nothing so impertinent as that, in my opinion! It is almost equivalent to a confession that you had something disagreeable to say, and discovered it in time. Sometimes our conjectures go beyond the truth. Finish what you were going to say, I insist! I demand it! or I am done with you! Come, quickly! don't try to fabricate something, for you would simply lie."

Frédérique pressed me so hard that I had no time to invent a lie, as often happens in such cases, and I replied, almost shamefacedly:

"I was thinking of Monsieur--Saint-Bergame; and I was wondering about a lot of things. You told me that you and he had quarrelled. But are you not afraid of offending him still more, if he knows that you had guests to-night at supper?"

Frédérique compressed her lips and frowned. I realized that I had been indiscreet, that I had no right to ask such questions; but the thought had been at the end of my tongue for some time, and it must escape me sooner or later; it had been tormenting me since the very beginning of the supper.

"What on earth made you think of Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" cried Frédérique at last, with something very like anger. "Would you have liked to have him here? Would you have enjoyed being with him? In that case, you are not like him, for he can't endure you. I don't know why it is, but he is not attracted to you."

"I do not regret the gentleman's absence in the least, far from it! But it surprised me, because----"

"Because you had guessed that he was my lover, eh? Mon Dieu! it did not require much perspicacity to discover that!"

"Well! as you make no concealment of it, you ought not to be angry because I ask the question."

"There are some things that one doesn't conceal, or conceals imperfectly, that one doesn't like to have thrown in one's face, none the less. But you have said a lot of----"

"Stupid things! Finish the sentence, pray! I am like you, I hate unfinished sentences."

"Well, yes! _Stupid_ isn't just the word, but things that people keep to themselves when they think them."

"I beg your pardon. I have the bad habit of saying whatever comes into my mind. It's a serious fault, I admit, and I have often had occasion to regret it in society. I regret it all the more, because I see that it has annoyed you, for you have ceased to _tutoyer_ me; and yet you were the one who said to me just now: 'Let us have no secrets from each other.'"

Frédérique turned her face to mine, with a charming smile, and held out her hand, saying:

"You are right I was foolish to be angry, as we agreed to be like two brothers. Come, give me your hand! That's right! The fact is, you see, that you touched a sensitive chord. I have quarrelled with Saint-Bergame; the wound is still fresh; and wounds in the vicinity of the heart do not heal quickly. I will tell you about it."

"No, it's not necessary. I don't want to know it."

"Oh! but I want to tell you, now. Upon my word, he is trying to prevent my speaking!"

"Because I sincerely regret----"

"Hush! Be quiet, and listen.--You know that Saint-Bergame writes for a newspaper?"

"Yes."

"The newspaper in question has much to say about literature and the stage; and Saint-Bergame writes almost all the dramatic criticisms. I have often thought that his judgments were partial and unjust, and I have not hesitated to tell him so. When I have read in his article, after a play has been successfully produced, that it has failed miserably and been hissed, I have exclaimed:

"'What you have written is false! It's a shame! Why do you cry down that play?'

"'Because the author is not my friend. Because he didn't come to bespeak my good will.'

"'So, because an author is conscious of his dignity, because he doesn't go about begging praise; because, in short, he relies upon your sense of justice, your impartiality, you abuse him and belittle his work! And you call that exercising your profession of critic! In that case, it's a vile profession; you had better be a mason, monsieur, if your talents lie in that direction.'

"But Saint-Bergame always laughed at my anger, and that was the end of it. A few days ago, however, I saw at one of the boulevard theatres a very pretty young débutante, who showed great promise in her part. Saint-Bergame was with me, and echoed my opinion of the young actress's talent.

"'Then, of course, you will speak well of her in your newspaper?' I said. He smiled in a curious way, and answered:

"'We shall see; that depends.'

"'Depends on what? What is there to prevent your writing what you think at this moment?'

"'One of my friends is making love to this débutante.'

"'Well! what has that to do with the article you are going to write?'

"'The girl is playing the prude. She refuses to listen to my friend's proposals, and won't accept his bouquets. That's a familiar manoeuvre to increase her value.'

"'But suppose your friend doesn't please her? Isn't she her own mistress, pray?'

"'Bah! that's all mere comedy! She means to lead my friend on. But he has invited her to a nice little dinner to-morrow. I am to be there. If she comes, I exalt her to the skies; if she doesn't, I tear her to tatters.'

"I said nothing, but I cannot describe my sensations. I turned my eyes away so that Saint-Bergame should not see their expression, in which he might read what I thought of him. I waited impatiently for the second day following--that was the day before yesterday. I lost no time in opening the newspaper edited by Saint-Bergame, in which I found an article on the young débutante we had seen. Not only did he criticise her acting, her methods, and her stage manner in the most contemptuous terms, but he also attacked her personal appearance; she is pretty, and he called her ugly; she has a fine figure, and he said she was deformed; she is exceedingly graceful, and he could not find words to describe her awkwardness and her embarrassment; in short, according to that article, she was a sort of monster who had been allowed to go on the stage to amuse the public for a moment.

"I crumpled the paper in my hands and threw it on the floor; I was furiously angry with Saint-Bergame. When he appeared, I threw his abominable article in his face, and told him that he was a dastard; that a man who would empty his gall so on a woman deserved no woman's love, and that I forbade him to darken my doors again. He tried to insist, to turn it into a joke, and called me hot-headed. But when he saw that I was in earnest, I believe that he lost his temper, too, and asked me by what right I presumed to pass judgment on his writings. I made no answer, but locked myself into my room. He went away in a rage, and I have not seen him since."

"And if he comes back?"

"I shall not receive him. It's all over! all over!"

"And you don't regret him?"

"I regret having had any relations with him--that is what I regret. He's a good-looking fellow, and I liked him. But I realize now that I never loved him."

"But if he loves you, he will return; he will beg you, beseech you."

"He will do nothing of the sort. He never loved me, either. It flattered his self-esteem to make a conquest of me, and that was all. He is one of the men who think that a woman is too highly favored when they deign to look at her. Oh! I know him now, I know him too well! I see him now as he is! Besides, he was not faithful to me, I am sure. How do I know that it was not he himself who was making love to that actress? Ah! my dear Charles, how does it happen that a connection so intimate, which is sometimes based on sincere love, often leaves nothing but regrets and bitter memories in the heart? After love should come friendship. Should not that be the natural consequence of the relation lovers have borne to each other? But, instead of that, they part in anger, and sometimes come to hate where they have loved so dearly."

"No, Frédérique, no! that does not happen when two hearts have burned for each other with a sincere passion. The connection may be broken, but a pleasant remembrance of the happiness they have enjoyed always remains."

"Do you think so? In that case, I never loved Saint-Bergame. Yes, I am sure now that I didn't love him; and, more than that--would you like me to tell you my inmost thoughts? Well! I believe that I have never loved any man! and I propose to continue on that line; it's much more amusing. Then one treats men just as they treat us--one drops them as soon as they cease to be attractive! You won't say that I am right; but in the bottom of your heart you think so."

"I--I--I am thinking that you are free at this moment----"

"Yes, and I believe I am almost as delighted as I was when I ceased all relations with Monsieur Dauberny."

"Oh! for all that--before long--another sentiment----"

"We shall see; one can be sure of nothing; but not very soon. No, I am in no hurry to assume new chains, however light they may be. I believe that I was born to be independent. It is such fun to do just what you please! For example: if I had been Saint-Bergame's mistress still, I couldn't have had you to supper to-night. It would have displeased him; or else I should have had to conceal it from him; and I don't like mysteries.--Ha! ha! ha! how poor Brunzbrack is snoring! If that's his way of making love to a woman----"

"He won't be the man to replace Saint-Bergame, will he?"

"No, indeed! Besides, I don't mean to love any more; I have decided. I don't feel sure--whether--I am--right; tell me--if I'm--right. It's very late--isn't it? I must--go to bed. You don't tell me anything; I have to do all the talking myself."

For several minutes Frédérique had had difficulty in fighting against the drowsiness that made her eyelids heavy. While she was talking, she let her head fall on the back of her chair; her eyes closed and still she talked on. But suddenly she ceased--she had fallen asleep.

I turned and leaned over her to gaze upon her at my leisure. I could not tire of contemplating that strange woman, whom I had known so short a time, and with whom I was already on the most friendly terms. I liked that face, which reflected so clearly the impressions of the heart; surely that mouth could not speak falsely! Her forehead was noble and distinguished; at that moment, her lovely hair, through which she had passed her fingers a moment before, fell in long curls about her temples and partly covered her face. I have seldom seen black hair of such brilliancy and of such a beautiful shade. I could understand why she enjoyed changing its arrangement; with that natural adornment she was sure of always looking well.

She was speaking at the moment that sleep overcame her. Her lips were partly open; but her expression was rather serious than smiling. When she fell asleep she threw her body back, so that there was nothing to prevent my examining her bust, her waist, and the graceful figure which the fine, soft fabric of her gown outlined while it concealed them, and which disappeared at one point beneath the clinging folds, only to reappear farther on more alluring than ever.

I took much pleasure in that scrutiny. I can hardly define the sentiment that made my heart beat fast; but I was profoundly moved. I tried to forget the fascinating sleeper for a moment by glancing about the room; but the oddity of my position, the place, the time, and everything within my view, simply intensified the agitation that had taken possession of me. Imagine yourself, in the middle of the night, in a deliciously cosy retreat, near a table at which you have enjoyed a dainty supper, and on which the decanters are still half full of exquisite wines which you have not spared; the lamps diffusing only a dim light; and beside you, seated, or rather reclining in an easy-chair, a young, fascinating, original woman, a woman who addresses you _thou_ and who has confided to you the secrets of her heart; that woman in a ravishing négligé which permits you to admire a portion of her charms and to divine the rest. If all this does not give you a sort of vertigo, upon my word I pity you! As for the third person who was with us, he did not count. He was snoring like a bell ringer, with his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table.

I moved nearer to Frédérique, then drew back. I resumed my contemplation of her; and suddenly, unable to resist the impulse that drove me on, I put my lips to hers and stole a kiss in which there was nothing fraternal.

Frédérique woke instantly, pushed me away, and sprang to her feet; her brow was clouded, her bosom rose and fell more quickly, and I thought that her eyes, which she turned away from me, were wet with tears.

"Ah! so this is the way you treat me!" she cried, in a quivering voice. "What do you take me for, monsieur, in heaven's name? I receive you in my house, I look upon you as a friend; and you treat me like one of the women with whom a man seeks to gratify a caprice! Do you suppose that I asked you to my house to make you my lover? that I, the friend of Armantine, whom you love to distraction, asked you to sup with me in order to steal from her the heart of a man who is paying court to her? Ah! you know me very little, monsieur. I do not love you, I shall never love you! It was because I knew that you were in love with Armantine that I invited you this evening and then offered you a brotherly affection. You understand me now. Adieu, monsieur! It is not worth while for you to come to my house again."

She took a lamp and vanished before I had recovered from the shock her words had caused me, or had found anything to say in reply.

But in a few moments my excitement subsided, and I had no other sentiment than irritation at having allowed myself to be so roughly handled by the lady with whom I had supped. I said to myself that when one is dealing with a _gaillarde_ of Frédérique's stamp, it does not pay to do things by halves. If, instead of kissing her so gently, I had been more audacious, would she have shrieked louder? I could not say, but, at all events, she would have had some excuse for shrieking. Oh! these women! I utterly failed to understand that one. The idea of forbidding me her house because I had kissed her! Could she not have scolded me gently, instead of flying into a rage? I decided that I should be a great fool to waste another thought on Madame Dauberny.

But as one should never forget to be polite or to keep one's promises, I went to the Baron von Brunzbrack, whom none of these episodes had aroused from his heavy sleep, and shook him violently.

"Wake up, monsieur le baron, it's time for us to go! Madame Dauberny has gone to her room."

He raised his head at last, rubbed his eyes, and exclaimed:

"Vat! is id bossible? Haf I pin ashleep? _Sapremann!_ Nein, nein! I vas not ashleep; you tought--you haf been mishtook."

"As you please; but let us go."

"Wo ist te bretty hostess--Montame Frédérique?"

"She has gone to her room, I tell you, requesting us to go home."

"Ach Gott! is id tat she too tought tat I haf pin ashleep? I am fery annoyed--I haf not shlept; I haf reflected; I haf pin shtill in loafe mit te lady; and you, mein gut frent, you must not loafe her ein leedle pit; you haf bromised."

"No, monsieur le baron, I am not at all in love with Madame Dauberny. Make love to her, if you will; I shall not be your rival."

"Gif me your hand, mein frent."

"But it's very late; let us go."

"I vould vish to say gut night to te lady; to say to her tat I haf not shleep."

"You can come another time and tell her that. She has gone to her room, and to bed probably; she would not see you. Come!"

I succeeded at last, with much difficulty, in inducing the baron to leave the place. When we reached the street, he himself asked me to get into his carriage, and insisted on taking me home. But we were no sooner seated than his head fell back heavily against the cushions and he slept once more. I told the coachman to drive to his master's hotel, where he and the footman undertook to take him up to his apartment.

I returned on foot to my lodgings. The fresh air always does one good after a banquet at which one has not been abstemious; and then, too, I have always loved to be out late in Paris. It is so easy to walk, and the noisy, bustling city wears such a different aspect! Everything is quiet and deserted. You may walk through the most frequented streets, the most populous quarters, as if you were strolling on the outer boulevards. No carriages to block your way; no itinerant hucksters to deafen you with their yells; no passers-by to elbow you; no awnings, no stands outside of shop doors for you to run into; no dogs to run between your legs; no horses to splash mud on you; no concierges to sweep their gutters onto your boots. Vive Paris at night! especially since the streets have been lighted by gas, so that one can see as well as at noonday.

XXIV

COQUETRY AND BACCARAT.--A FIASCO

A week had passed since the unique night I had spent at Madame Dauberny's. I had respected that lady's orders and had made no attempt to see her; I had simply left my card with her concierge.

When the image of _my friend Frédérique_ presented itself to my mind, I exerted myself to banish it without pity; it seemed to me that my supper in her apartments was a dream, which it was not necessary that I should remember.

For several days, too, I had felt strongly inclined not to call again on Madame Sordeville. But, before renouncing my hopes in that direction altogether, I determined to go to her house once more. If she received me coldly a second time, I swore that I would not try to see her again.

One fine day, after making a careful toilet,--which always made my servant Pomponne smile, for he was bent on considering himself very sly,--I presented myself at the door of the pretty brunette, whose hair, by the way, was not so beautiful as her friend Frédérique's; but we cannot have everything.

"Madame is at home," said the concierge.

I went upstairs, gave my name, and was admitted to madame's boudoir, a charming sanctuary, the divinity of which was sure to attract many of the faithful.

I was greeted with the most gracious smile imaginable; she reproached me most kindly for having left her so long without a glimpse of me. Never had Armantine looked lovelier to me, and her amiability was delightful. I found once more my partner of the ball at Deffieux's.

I passed an hour at Madame Sordeville's, and at the end of the hour it seemed to me that I had just arrived. What did I say to her? I have no idea; but I think that I squeezed her hand more than once, and that it did not seem to offend her. I went so far as to put her hand to my lips; she withdrew it, and said in a tone in which there was no trace of severity:

"Well, well! what are you doing? what are you thinking about?"

"You, nothing but you."

"Oh! pardon me if I do not believe you! When one thinks so much of people, one doesn't go whole weeks without seeing them."

"When those people have received us with icy coldness, is it not natural that we should hesitate before venturing to present ourselves again?"

"Coldness! Ought I to have taken your hand, made you sit down beside me, and talked exclusively with you all the evening?"

"Oh! you are laughing at me, madame! You are well aware that, even in a crowd, before witnesses, there are a thousand ways of pouring balm on a suffering, anxious heart; a word, a glance, is enough."

"But, monsieur, such words and glances are almost signs of a mutual understanding, and are only exchanged by persons who know each other very well, who are sure of each other."

I kissed her hand. That time she made no objection and did not withdraw it; but she faltered:

"You are so impulsive! I begin to think that a tête-à-tête with you is very dangerous."

"And you will not receive me again?"

"I didn't say that."

"And you will permit me to love you?"

"If I should forbid you to, would you obey me?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then you see that I may as well permit it."

"And I may hope?"

"Ah! I didn't say that!"

"But you will not say anything!"

"I am not so quick as you.--By the way, I did have something to say to you. The other evening, you went away with Madame Dauberny, I believe. Did you escort her home? That would be very natural, as my friend was of such great assistance to you at the Guillardin ball that you should be polite to her."

I did not know what to say; I was uncertain whether Frédérique wanted it known that she had invited us to supper. In that uncertainty, it seemed to me more becoming to say nothing about that episode; one never repents having been discreet.

"I escorted Madame Dauberny to her door," I replied, after a moment, "and left her there."

"Ah! that is strange! It took you a long time to tell me that!"

"Because--I had forgotten."

"Indeed! Frédérique is so original--so disdainful of conventionalities sometimes, that I had thought----"

"What, pray?"

"But, no, that would have been contrary to all the proprieties! To be sure, she snaps her fingers at them."