Part 11

One morning, after passing an hour with us, Armantine remembered that she had something to do at home, and left us. I rejoiced to be left alone with Frédérique, which had come to be a rare occurrence of late. I proposed a walk in the fields, but she refused on the ground of indisposition, a sick headache, and left me abruptly, to go to her room.

Why that ill temper with me? If her friend's constant presence irritated her, was I responsible for it? Had I sought Madame Sordeville's company? On the contrary, she must have seen that in my intercourse with that lady I kept strictly within the limits of the most rigid courtesy. As I said this to myself, I left the salon and the house, hoping to find a solution of my conjectures while walking.

I paid no attention to the direction I took. What did it matter, as I had no definite goal in view? But chance willed that I should turn to the right instead of the left; and to reach the woods I had to pass Armantine's house.

I did not notice it, but was walking on, musing deeply, when suddenly I heard my name called. I raised my eyes and found myself in front of Madame Sordeville's house. She was at a window on the ground floor; it was she who had called me, and, as I looked up, she bowed affably to me.

I returned her salutation, and was going on; but she called out:

"Won't you do me the favor to come in a moment, Monsieur Rochebrune? I have long wanted to have a moment's conversation with you; but at Madame Dauberny's it is impossible; for she doesn't leave you for an instant. As chance has brought you to my door, will you not grant me this favor?"

To refuse would have been discourteous and in wretched taste. Although one has ceased to be in love with a woman, one must still be polite to her, unless one is a wild Indian; and I had no desire to be looked upon as such.

So I went into Madame Sordeville's house; I continued to give her that name in my mind. She came to meet me, ushered me into the room, sat down, and pointed to a chair near hers. I took it and waited to hear what she had to say to me. She hesitated and seemed embarrassed; but she looked at me often, and her flashing eyes seemed to try to force me to speak first. Despite the fire of her glance, despite the dangerous play of her eyes, I remained dumb. At last, Armantine decided to begin the interview:

"When I went to call upon Frédérique, monsieur, I did not expect, I confess, to find you there, and especially to find you established there as if you were at home."

"What do you mean by that, madame?"

"You must understand me. The familiarity now existing between you and my friend is evident enough; indeed, she makes no attempt to hide it! But, I repeat, I did not expect that--not that I presume to reproach you, for I have no right to do so. You love--you do not love--that happens every day. As for my friend"--Armantine dwelt significantly on the last word--"as for my friend, it seems to me that I might be a little offended with her without laying myself too much open to blame. Her conduct toward me is hardly that of a really sincere friend. In leading you on to make love to her, to become her--her lover, in short, she has not acted with delicacy, and----"

At this point, I interrupted her.

"I don't quite know what you mean, madame," I said; "I begin by informing you that I am not Madame Dauberny's lover, that I am simply her friend. But even if I were in love with that lady, and she should do me the honor to reciprocate my feeling for her, wherein, I pray to know, could it offend you, or even interest you in the least, madame?"

Armantine was silent for a moment; she sighed, and murmured at last:

"I see that you have not forgotten the way I left you one day on the Champs-Élysées. I was wrong, monsieur, very wrong; I have often regretted it since. But do you not know that women sometimes have caprices, moments of irritation, which they themselves cannot understand? It may be that I am more subject than other women to such freaks. But, when I confess my sins, will you continue to bear malice?"

Armantine was really very fascinating; while "confessing her sins," she indulged in a thousand coquettish little manoeuvres which would have turned many a man's head. But I was in love with another woman, and that love must have been most sincere, for Armantine's tender glances had no effect whatever on my heart.

"I bear you no ill will at all, madame," I said, with a smile. "That episode faded from my memory long ago, and I supposed that it was the same with you. You owe me no apology; indeed, as you know, time changes the aspect of many things. To-day, it seems to me that that old story does not deserve a moment's thought from either of us. Au revoir, madame! With your permission, I will continue my walk."

I rose and bowed. Armantine was speechless, utterly crushed; she did not look at me, she did not even respond to my salutation.

I had just left the house, and was about to resume my walk, when I saw Frédérique standing a few steps away, with her eyes fixed upon me. I walked hastily toward her. Her pallor terrified me; the fixed stare of her eyes cut me to the heart. I tried to take her hand; she snatched it away.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"What were you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you come out of her house. I was certain that you were there."

"At Madame Sordeville's? It was the merest chance, my going in. I was passing, and----"

"You have no need to apologize, or to try to invent excuses. I have told you a hundred times that you were your own master, that you might have ten mistresses if you chose, that I did not claim any right to interfere with your affections. But I do not like to have people lie to me, deceive me, disguise their thoughts."

"I have done none of those things, Frédérique; and if you will listen to me----"

"Later--not now. Adieu!"

"Are you going to leave me? Won't you come to walk with me?"

"No! I have something to do, I am going home."

"I am going home, too."

"No; continue your walk, I beg you. It would annoy me if you should go home with me. You see that my nerves are all on edge, that a trifle upsets me. Leave me, my friend; au revoir!"

She hurried away; I feared to vex her by following her. She was there in the road, watching for me; she wanted to see if I was with Armantine. And that sadness that I read in her eyes, and that she tried in vain to dissemble--was not that jealousy? If she had no warmer feeling than friendship for me, would she be jealous of Armantine? Even though I were mistaken, even though the result were to break off our relations again, I determined that I would no longer make a secret of my sentiments, of my consuming love for her. I resolved that I would tell her all, that very day. It was no longer possible for me to be content with the rôle of a friend.

I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circumstance in Frédérique's conduct that could possibly encourage my hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour had arrived, when I returned to the house.

I found nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frédérique was not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand.

"Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a coincidence!"

"Where is Madame Dauberny?"

"She has gone, monsieur."

"Gone! What do you say, idiot?"

"I say, monsieur, that we're the masters of the house. Madame Dauberny has gone away with Adèle, and here's a letter she left for monsieur."

I took the letter, hastily tore it open, and read what follows:

"MY FRIEND:

"I am going away from this house, which has lost all its charm for me since Armantine has been my neighbor and has passed all her time with us. I say with us--I imagined that it was still that happy time when there were only we two! That time passed too swiftly. I realize that I am a selfish creature, and that it is natural that you should be happy in having found again a woman whom you once loved dearly, and whose presence has rekindled the fire which was not extinct. So, be happy with her. Remain at my house, my friend; remain there as long as you please, and believe that I go away without murmuring, but not without regret."

I had hardly finished reading the letter, when I called my servant.

"Pack my valise, Pomponne, and your own things; we are going back to Paris."

"Going back to Paris! When, monsieur?"

"Instantly! make haste!"

"What about dinner, monsieur? We haven't dined, and I know it's all ready; Adèle told me so when she went away."

"We will dine in Paris. I do not propose to remain another half-hour in this house. Come! you should have had everything ready before now."

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Paris in the first _coucou_ I could find; for there are still _coucous_ at Fontenay.

XLVIII

AT THE OPÉRA

I reached Paris about seven in the evening. As I entered my house, the first person I saw was Ballangier, in a neat brown frock-coat and a round hat; his attire was noticeable for a sort of coquetry which indicated that the desire to please was still his first thought.

He grasped my hand, crying:

"Ah! here you are at last! I am so glad to see you! I have so much to tell you about all that has happened in the six weeks since you went away! For it is six weeks since you left Paris."

"Is Mignonne in my room now?"

"No; but she sometimes passes the whole day there and a large part of the evening. She enjoys being in your room."

"Come up with me and tell me all about it."

Ballangier accompanied me to my apartment; I got rid of Pomponne by telling him to get his dinner wherever he chose; and when I was alone with my friend, I asked how his love affairs were progressing.

"In the first place, my dear Charles, when I came here, three days after you went away, I was very much surprised to learn that you were in the country; I was going away, sadly enough, when the concierge said to me: 'There's somebody upstairs, and my orders are to let you go up.' I didn't wait to be informed twice; something told me that I should find Mignonne here. Sure enough, she was here; she was working, but she was very sad--indeed, I believe she was crying. She received me coldly. I sat a long while looking at her, without saying a word, and she didn't speak, either. At last I began to talk about you, of all that I owed you, of my affection for you. Then she listened to me and answered. On my next visit, I talked again about you; I saw that that was the only way of making her talk a little. I asked her if she knew where you were; she said, with a sigh, that she knew perfectly well, but, as you had made a secret of it, she didn't think that she ought to tell. I continued to come from time to time; and when I couldn't call during the day, on account of my work, I made up for it by waiting for her in the evening at the corner of the street. I watched for her to come away from your house; I didn't dare to speak to her, for fear of displeasing her, but I followed her at a distance till she was safely at home; and as she lives on Rue Ménilmontant, my pleasure lasted some time. You will see, Charles, what an excellent idea it was of mine to act as her escort. For several days I had noticed a middle-aged man prowling about the street, a well-dressed man, but very fat; and I fancied that he too was on the watch for Mignonne; for he walked very near her--when he could keep up with her, that is, for she quickened her pace at his approach.--'Parbleu!' I said to myself, about a week ago; 'I must find out about this matter. I'll just keep out of sight and see what this fellow's intentions are.' The weather happened to be bad that night, and there were few people in the street. I waited; my man soon appeared, and he waited too. After a few minutes, Mignonne came out of the house. Then I saw my man, who was lurking in the darkest part of the street, speak to Mignonne, put his arm round her waist, insult her, in short, in spite of her entreaties and her shrieks. I tell you, his punishment wasn't long in coming! In three seconds I was on the fellow; I had grabbed him by the throat, thrown him into the gutter, and hammered him with feet and hands. I believe that I should be punching him yet, if Mignonne hadn't begged me to let him alone. You can imagine that I offered her my arm then to take her home, and she didn't refuse it. The poor child was so frightened! She thanked me a hundred times more than I deserved; and since then, I'm not sure, but it seems to me that she's more friendly with me."

"Well done, Ballangier! that incident ought surely to have helped on your prospects. You have rendered Mignonne a great service, and she is grateful."

"A great thing that was! to punch an impertinent blackguard's head! Anybody would do as much for a poor little woman who's being insulted--unless he has no blood in his veins! How is it with you, Charles, are you all right? Have you left the country for good?"

"I don't know; that depends. Look you, my friend, I too am in love, and I don't know yet whether my love is returned."

"Oho! Do you mean it? you are in love, too? Oh! she'll love you, I'll answer for that; it is impossible for anyone not to love you!"

"God grant it! Meanwhile, I will admit that I haven't dined; and as it's the fashion in our day for lovers to dine, because dieting would not advance their affairs, I propose to regale myself. Have you dined?"

"Oh! long ago. I came here to wait for Mignonne, but she must have gone away earlier than usual."

I was in a hurry to dine, because I intended to go immediately after to Madame Dauberny's; as she had returned only a few hours ahead of me, it was impossible that she should not be at home.

Ballangier went out with me; he would have left me when we reached the street, but I asked him to walk with me as far as the boulevard; and on the way I learned with pleasure that his conduct was still all that could be desired, that his love did not cause him to neglect his work, and that he had become one of his employer's head workmen.

We had almost reached the boulevard, when, as we passed a brightly lighted shop, Ballangier started back, touched my arm, and said, pointing to a man who had just passed us:

"There he is! That's the man! He didn't see me, but I recognized him."

"Who is he?"

"The man I thrashed so soundly for taking liberties with Mignonne."

I looked at the person whom Ballangier pointed out to me; his figure impressed me, it reminded me of someone. I ran back and overtook him, then turned about and faced him. I was not mistaken: it was Monsieur Dauberny.

I do not know whether he recognized me. He must have been surprised by the way I stared at him; but he simply frowned and went his way, quickening his pace. I let him go, and returned to Ballangier, who had stopped and was waiting for me a few steps away.

"Well, Charles, you wanted to see that man; you succeeded, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I recognized him perfectly."

"Recognized? The deuce! do you know the old reprobate?"

"Ah! if he were no worse than that! But he's an infernal villain! You did well, I assure you, to deliver Mignonne from his persecutions. Poor girl! If you knew of what that man is capable!"

"Really?"

"Continue to watch. The sight of that man makes me tremble for her! But the day of reckoning must come some time!"

"Explain yourself! Do you want me to run after the fellow and arrest him?"

"No, no! that's not the way I must deal with him. But we will watch him, and an opportunity will soon come--with that man they must come frequently--and then----"

"Then we will annihilate him, won't we?"

"Au revoir, Ballangier! I must dine. But, I repeat, watch over Mignonne more carefully than ever."

"Oh! you have no need to urge that on me."

I entered a restaurant, dined in hot haste, and went to Madame Dauberny's house.

"Madame is not in," said the concierge.

"You mean that she is not receiving, for she must be at home; did she not return from the country to-day?"

"Yes, monsieur; madame returned to-day. But I assure you that she went out this evening, not very long ago; and I believe I heard someone say that she was going to the Opéra."

"To the Opéra?"

"Yes, monsieur; Mamzelle Adèle told us that her mistress was going to the Opéra."

I was determined to find her. If I allowed that evening to pass without having an explanation with her, she would be quite capable of leaving Paris on the morrow; she would escape me again, and for a long time perhaps. I decided to go to the Opéra. Frédérique was not one of those women who are afraid to go to the theatre alone; more than once I had heard her say:

"Why do I need a companion? When the fancy takes me to go to the theatre, I send and hire a box, and I go. In my box, I am alone, I am at home, and no one has the right to come there to annoy me."

I arrived at the Opéra; I went into the orchestra and stood at the entrance, from which I examined one side of the auditorium. I did not see Frédérique. I walked to the other side of the orchestra; there was a large audience, and several men were already standing at that entrance. I slipped in behind them and began my inspection. That time my search was short: I saw her, alone, in a _baignoire_, leaning back a little. Was she listening attentively to the performance, or was she absorbed by her thoughts? Before joining her, I gave myself the pleasure of gazing at her for several minutes.

Suddenly one of the men in front of me began to speak, so loudly that I did not lose a single word; indeed, I was speedily convinced that he intended that I should hear.

"I say, do you see that lady yonder, in one of the _baignoires_--all alone in her box?"

"In a pearl-gray dress, with black hair, and long cork-screw curls?"

"Exactly. What do you think of her?"

"Not bad--a Spanish type of face; but a little pale."

"Perhaps that may be grief at losing me."

"Oho! is she----?"

"Yes, my dear fellow, she's an old flame of mine; she's still a----"

I did not allow Saint-Bergame to complete his sentence; if I had not recognized his voice, I should have guessed his identity from his language. I grasped his arm, and said to him in an undertone:

"Monsieur, the man who has been a woman's lover and tells of it is a conceited ass; the man who insults her in public is a coward!"

Saint-Bergame turned, eyed me from head to foot with an insolent air, and rejoined in a loud voice:

"Ah! you constitute yourself that lady's champion, do you? To be sure, it's your turn now."

I could not contain my wrath; I struck him in the face. Saint-Bergame tried to rush at me; but our quarrel had attracted general attention; someone threw himself between us, and I noticed then for the first time that Saint-Bergame's companion was Fouvenard.

We left the hall; several persons tried to adjust our difficulty, but I satisfied them that their mediation was useless, and that we knew perfectly well how the affair must end. I joined Saint-Bergame, who, with Fouvenard, awaited me in a corner of the vestibule. The latter stared at me in amazement, murmuring:

"What! is it you? What is this quarrel about?"

"There are no explanations to be given, messieurs. At what hour to-morrow?"

"At nine o'clock--no, ten o'clock, at Porte Maillot," said Saint-Bergame, who was trembling with anger. "I don't like to rise early. I shall have time enough to kill you."

"Very good, monsieur! Your weapon?"

"The sword."

"That is all."

"I shall have monsieur and another second with me."

"It seems to me that monsieur would suffice."

"You evidently do not fight often, monsieur, and are not familiar with the customs of duelling."

I did not consider it necessary to reply to this new insult.

"Very good; I will have two witnesses," I said, and walked away.

I returned to the hall and was going toward Madame Dauberny's box, when a lady rushed up to me. It was Frédérique. She took my arm and led me away, saying:

"Come! let us go! let us go!"

I followed her from the building. She almost made me run; she squeezed my arm convulsively; I spoke to her, and she did not reply; but she wept, and hid her face in her handkerchief. At last we arrived at her house. Then she threw herself into a chair and her sobs burst forth anew. I knelt at her feet; I took her hand and begged her to tell me the cause of her grief.

"The cause? the cause? You ask me that when you are to fight to-morrow--for me?"

"I am to fight?"

"Oh! no falsehoods! I recognized you at the entrance to the orchestra. You struck Saint-Bergame."

"Yes, for he insulted you."

She took my head in her hands and kissed me again and again, crying:

"Ah! that was well done! Thanks, my friend! I expected nothing less from you."

"Well! in that case, why these tears, this grief, when I am going to punish a man who had insulted you once before? I found this evening an opportunity that I have been looking for ever since our drive in the Bois de Boulogne."

"Oh! of course, this duel would be an everyday affair, if---- Mon Dieu! it is my fault! always my fault! Why did I leave the country? why did I come back to Paris? All this would not have happened, if I had stayed at Fontenay. But you, my friend--why did you come back--why did you follow me? Why didn't you stay with that woman whom you love--and who has no idea of spurning you now?"

"You are all astray, Frédérique: it was to stay with the woman I love that I returned to Paris; it was to be with her that I followed you; for the woman I love--not with friendship, but with love--the most sincere, the most passionate love--with a love that will end only with my life--is you--you! Yes! though you banish me from your presence again, I can no longer content myself with the title of friend, beneath which I have with difficulty concealed all that I felt for you!"

"He loves me! he loves me!" murmured Frédérique, gazing at me with an expression of the purest ecstasy in her lovely eyes. Then, giving way to her emotion, lacking strength to say more, she fell into my arms. I will not try to describe my bliss. One cannot describe what one feels so keenly.

When we had recovered the faculty of speech, Frédérique said to me, with her head resting on my shoulder: