part I fancy that she isn’t anxious to see me. It’s all over now! To the

devil with love! Whether my wife dies or not, it’s all one to me; I shall never marry again.”

“You have no children?”

“What do you suppose? As if we had time for that when we were always fighting! And faith, I am glad that we hadn’t any; they would have been left on my hands and I should have had to support the brats; and that would be hard for a man who cannot feed himself every day.”

“But your wife was faithful to you, at all events?”

“Faithful? the devil! as if I paid any attention to that! In fact we only lived together four months, and that didn’t make me rich! For some time past I haven’t had any work at all, and a man’s fingers get stiff doing nothing. But for all that, there’s no reason why you should come here with your purse in your hand!”

“Look you, Monsieur Pettermann, I have not made myself understood; I had no intention of insulting you.”

“I am not insulted, but----”

“I was told that you were without work, and I simply proposed to give you my custom.”

“Oh! that makes a difference! your custom, that’s all right.”

“I can’t show you to-night what I want you to do; but I thought that there would be no harm in offering you a little money in advance on what you do for me. We have lived under the same roof before, and we know each other; I should be very sorry to fall out with you.”

“Monsieur, if you offer me that in advance for the clothes I may make for you, that’s a very different thing. Give me what you choose; I will take it and I will not charge you any more on account of it.”

“All right; here is forty francs; we will settle up later.”

“Forty francs; I will make you a nice coat and waistcoat and trousers for that. And as for singing, if it disturbs you----”

“No, sing on, Pettermann, sing on; now that I know that it’s you, it won’t annoy me any more; I shall imagine that I am still living in my old apartment.”

I left the tailor, who could not make up his mind which pocket to put his forty francs in, and I returned to my room. But neither that night, nor during the next week, did I hear Pettermann sing, because he did not come home until midnight, and because he was always drunk and went to sleep as soon as he was in bed.

XVIII

A MEETING.--DEPARTURE

My conversation with the tailor had quieted my thoughts; they were a little less black, and I slept better; when we become depressed, we shun all sorts of diversion, we avoid our friends, whose presence would eventually allay our suffering. At such times we ought to be treated like those invalids who are forced to take decoctions which they refuse to take, but which are essential to their cure.

One morning I went to see Ernest, who had been to my rooms at least ten times without finding me.

His wife scolded me warmly for my behavior.

“You avoid your true friends,” she said to me; “you live like a wolf! that is perfectly absurd. Ought you to punish us for other people’s faults? Your wife has chosen to keep her daughter--is that any reason for you to despair? Can you not go to see her?”

“Go to see her! oh! I have longed to do it a thousand times; but she is with her mother; and I could not bear the sight of her.”

“Her mother is not always with her,” said Ernest; “when she comes to Paris, and that has happened quite often lately, she rarely brings her daughter with her.”

“What! Eugénie has come to Paris already? I did not believe that she would dare to show herself here.”

“You must remember that in society you are the one who is blamed. It is you who have abandoned a lovely wife, whom you made wretched. I report exactly what people say; it does not make you angry, does it?”

“On the contrary, I am very glad to hear it. Go on, Ernest; tell me what you have learned.”

“After passing only a fortnight in the country, your wife returned to Paris. She hired a handsome apartment on Rue d’Antin. She has been going into society and has indulged in amusements of all sorts. She dresses with the greatest elegance; she is seen at the theatre, at balls, and at concerts. However, she returns often to the country, passes a few days there, and then comes back here. The night before last I saw her at Madame de Saint-Albin’s reception.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes; there were a great many people there. When I arrived, she was at a card table. She was talking very loud, and laughing; attracted by her loud voice, I walked in that direction. When she caught sight of me, my eyes were fixed upon her; she turned hers away, and a great change came over her face; her brow darkened, she stopped talking, and soon left the table.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No, I had no wish to; and for her part I think that she was no more anxious than I, for she carefully avoided meeting my eyes. She went away while I was still looking for her in the salon; I believe that my presence was the cause of her going.”

“Were not you at this reception, madame?” I asked Madame Ernest.

“Oh, no, Monsieur Henri! you know that people do not invite me; I am not married.”

It seemed to me that as she said this the little woman sighed and glanced furtively at Ernest. After a moment she continued:

“However, if I were married, I should not care any more about going into society! The little that I have seen of it has not made me love it.”

“My dear love,” said Ernest, “we should go into society as we go to the theatre, not to please others but to enjoy ourselves; when the play is tiresome, you are not compelled to stay to the end.”

“And Monsieur Dulac?” I said after a moment; “you have not mentioned him, Ernest. Don’t be afraid to tell me what you know. I suppose that he is more devoted than ever to Madame Blémont.”

“You are mistaken; he had no sooner recovered from his wound, and that was not long ago, than he went on a journey; I am told that he has gone to Italy.”

I confess that that news pleased me. And yet what did it matter to me now whether it was Dulac or some other man who was attentive to Madame Blémont, as I should have nothing more in common with that woman? Madame Blémont! She still called herself so, Ernest assured me. I hoped that she would have resumed her mother’s name. Was it not cruel to be unable to take one’s name away from a woman who dishonored it? If Madame Blémont should have other children, they too would bear my name and would share my property. Was that justice? But divorce was prohibited, because it was considered immoral! Oh! of course it is much more moral to leave to a guilty wife the name of the husband whom she abandons, and to strange children a title and property to which they have no right!

And Ernest insisted that I should return to that circle where Madame Blémont was welcomed and made much of; whereas they would consider that they compromised themselves by inviting dear little Marguerite, who loved her children, devoted herself to her family and made Ernest happy; and why? because she was not married. Oh! that society, overflowing with vices and absurd prejudices, disgusted me! I left it to Madame Blémont; I did not propose to share anything with her thenceforth.

I promised my friends to go often to see them. I had not yet made up my mind what I would do; but I still intended to travel, to leave Paris, especially since I knew that Madame Blémont had returned.

My concierge informed me that a gentleman had called to see me for the third time. From the description that he gave me I could not doubt that it was Bélan, and I ordered the man always to tell him that I was out. He also handed me a card upon which was the name of Giraud. Would those people never leave me to myself? Unluckily my business had made it necessary for me to leave my address at my former apartment; but I determined to settle all the cases which had been placed in my hands with all possible speed, in order that I might leave Paris as soon as possible.

I spent a part of every day going about to my former clients, to whom I restored their papers, on the pretext that my health compelled me to abandon my profession. In my peregrinations I occasionally saw Bélan or Giraud, but I always succeeded in avoiding them. I had just finished my last business. I felt free once more, and was congratulating myself upon being able to follow my inclinations, when, as I walked rapidly through the Palais-Royal, I was stopped by Bélan. That time I had no opportunity to avoid him.

“Ah! I have caught you at last! Upon my word, I am in luck; where in the devil have you been hiding, my dear friend? I have been to your apartment a great many times, but you are always out.”

“I have many matters to arrange, my dear Bélan, and at this moment I am in a great hurry.”

“I don’t care for that, I don’t propose to let you go; I have too many things to tell you. But I say, have you left your wife?”

“Yes, we could not agree.”

“That is what I said at once: ‘They did not agree.’ I admit that you are generally blamed; you are looked upon as a jealous husband, a domestic tyrant.”

“People may say what they choose; it is quite indifferent to me.”

“And you are right. As for myself, if I only could separate from my mother-in-law! Great heaven! how happy I would be! But Armide refuses to leave her mother, and the result is that I am constantly between two fires: when one is not picking a quarrel with me, the other is. To be sure, I am perfectly at ease now concerning my wife’s fidelity. The marquis no longer comes to see us; I don’t know why, but he has entirely ceased his visits. As for Armide, she has become so crabbed, so sour; mon Dieu! there are times when I think that I should prefer to be a cuckold, and to have my wife amiable; and yet----”

“Bélan, I am obliged to leave you.”

“Pshaw! what’s your hurry? You are very lucky now, you are living as a bachelor again; you are raising the deuce----”

“I am giving my whole attention to settling up my business, and----”

“Oh, yes! playing the saint! I know you, you rake! faith! between ourselves, I will tell you that I too have made a little acquaintance. Look you, we men are not saints, and although one is married, one may have weaknesses, moments of forgetfulness; indeed, that is quite legitimate for us. But I have to take the greatest precautions, for if my wife or my mother-in-law should surprise me----”

“Adieu, Bélan. I wish you all the pleasure in the world.”

“But where are you going so fast? I will go with you.”

I was not at all anxious for the little man’s company; and to get rid of him, I told him that I was going to the Bois de Boulogne. He clapped his hands and cried:

“Parbleu! how nicely it happens! That is just where I have arranged to meet my little one--near the Château de Madrid. I never see her except outside the barrier.”

“But I have business in another direction.”

“Never mind; we will take a cab and drive to the Bois together.”

I could not refuse; it mattered little to me after all whether I went to the Bois; I had plenty of time. And once there, I knew how to rid myself of Bélan.

We took a cab. On the way Bélan talked to me about his wife, his mistress, his mother-in-law, and my duel with Dulac; which he believed to be the result of our quarrel over the cards. I was careful not to undeceive him.

When we arrived at the Bois, Bélan insisted that I should go with him and be introduced to his acquaintance. I assured him that somebody was waiting for me too; but to satisfy him I agreed to meet him two hours later at the Porte Maillot; and I determined not to be there.

Bélan left me at last, and I entered a path opposite to that which he had taken. The weather was fine; it was four o’clock and there were many people, especially equestrians, in the Bois. I stood for several minutes watching the young people who came there to display their costumes and horses, and their skill in riding. There had been a time when I myself enjoyed that pleasure; but now nothing of the sort had any temptation for me.

A cloud of dust announced the approach of a party. I thought that I could see two women among the riders, and I stopped to look at them. The cavalcade came up at a gallop and passed close to me. Having glanced at one of the ladies, I turned my eyes upon the other. It was Eugénie,--Eugénie, dressed in a stylish riding habit, and riding gracefully a spirited horse. She almost brushed against me, her horse covered me with dust and I was utterly unable to step back. I stood there, so startled, so oppressed, that I had not the strength to walk.

The cavalcade was already far away, and my eyes were still following it; I stood in the same spot, benumbed, motionless, with no eyes for anything else. Other horsemen came up at a fast gallop. I did not hear them. They called to me: “Look out!” but I did not stir. Suddenly I felt a violent shock; I was thrown down upon the gravel, and a horse’s hoof struck me in the head.

My eyes closed and I lost consciousness. When I came to myself, I found myself in one of the cafés at the entrance to the Bois. I saw many people about me; among others, several young swells. One of them said to me:

“I am terribly distressed, monsieur; I am the cause of your accident. I shouted to you, however; but my horse had too much impetus, and I could not stop him.”

“Yes, that is true,” observed a man who was holding my head; “I can testify that monsieur shouted: ‘Look out!’ but why should anyone ride like the wind? I shouted to you: ‘Stop!’ but prout! you didn’t stop.”

I recognized Pettermann; it was he who was behind me. I accepted the apology of the young cavalier and told him that I bore him no ill will. I reassured him concerning my wound, although I felt very weak, for I had lost much blood. Someone had sent for a carriage and I asked Pettermann if he could go with me.

“What’s that? can I!” replied the tailor; “why, if I couldn’t, I’d go with you all the same. As if I would leave in this condition an excellent neighbor of mine who paid me forty francs in advance! Prout! you don’t know me!”

They bandaged my head and helped me into the cab. Pettermann seated himself opposite me and we returned to Paris.

On the way, my wound occupied my attention much less than the meeting I had had. I asked Pettermann if he had not seen a woman riding past me when they took me up and carried me away.

“When you were thrown down,” said the tailor, “I was within thirty yards of you. I was walking, loafing, I had nothing to do. However, I did go to your room this morning, monsieur, to ask you for your cloth; but I never find you in the morning and at night I can’t find your door.”

“That isn’t what I asked you.”

“True. Well, then, I was walking, and I had just noticed some ladies pass on horseback. Prout! but they rode finely! Other horses came along and I stepped to one side; and it was then that I saw you. They shouted: ‘Look out!’ I don’t know what you were looking at, but you didn’t move; and yet I said to myself: ‘That gentleman isn’t deaf, for he heard me sing well enough.’ Still the horses came on. I shouted ‘Look out!’ to you myself, and I sung out to the riders to stop; but prout! you were already on the ground, and with a famous scar! The young men stopped then. I already had you in my arms. The man who knocked you down was in despair, I must do him justice. We carried you to the nearest café; and when I said that I was your neighbor and that I knew you, they sent for a cab; and then you opened your eyes. But never mind! you got a rousing kick!”

“And while I was unconscious, you saw no other people near me? Those ladies on horseback--did not one of them come back?”

“No, monsieur; there was no other lady near you except the one that keeps the café; but she washed your head; oh! she didn’t spare the water!”

I said no more. I was beginning to suffer terribly; the carriage made me sick, my head was on fire and my brain in a whirl. At last we reached my home. Pettermann and the concierge carried me upstairs, put me to bed, and went to call a doctor. I had a violent fever; soon I was unable to reply to the people about me; I did not know them.

One evening I opened my heavy eyes and glanced about my room. It was dimly lighted by a lamp. I saw Pettermann sitting at a table, with his head resting on one of his hands, and his eyes fastened upon a watch which he held in the other. I called him feebly; he heard me, uttered a joyful cry, dropped the watch, and ran to my bed.

“Ah! you are saved!” he cried as he embraced me. “The doctor said that you would recover consciousness to-night, before nine o’clock. I was counting the minutes; there are only five left and I was beginning to doubt the doctor’s word. But you recognize me! _Sacredi_! you are saved!”

He embraced me again, and I felt tears upon my cheeks. So there were still some people who loved me! That thought relieved me. I held out my hand to that excellent man, pressed his hand, and motioned to him to sit down beside me.

“First of all,” he said to me, “you are going to drink this; it’s some medicine ordered by the doctor, and you must do what he orders, since he has cured you. I believe in doctors now.”

I drank the potion; then Pettermann picked up the watch and put it to his ear, saying:

“It was your watch that I dropped on the floor, monsieur; but it hasn’t even stopped. It’s like you, the spring is strong.”

He sat down and continued:

“For five days now you’ve been there in bed, and in that time fever and delirium have been playing a fine game with you! Your brain galloped like the infernal horse that knocked you down. We tried in vain to calm you; you called me Eugénie, you talked about nothing but Eugénie. Sometimes you adored her, and the next minute you cursed her; so that the concierge, who is a bit of a gossip, said that some woman named Eugénie must have been playing tricks on you; and I replied: ‘You must see that monsieur is delirious, and consequently he doesn’t know what he is saying.’ In short, I don’t know whether I did right, monsieur, but seeing you in that condition, and no one with you to nurse you, I stationed myself here and I haven’t budged. The concierge undertook to object, he wanted his niece, who is nine years old, to nurse you; but prout! I didn’t listen to him, and I said: ‘I was the one who brought monsieur home wounded, and I won’t leave him until he’s cured.’ If I did wrong, I ask your pardon, and I will go away.”

I offered my hand to Pettermann again.

“Far from doing wrong, my friend, it is I who am deeply indebted to you.”

“Not at all, monsieur, I owe you forty francs. But as soon as you get your cloth----”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“All right; besides, you mustn’t talk much, that’s another of the doctor’s orders.”

“Has anyone been to see me?”

“Not a cat has entered the room except the doctor and the concierge.”

Ernest and his wife could know nothing of my accident; otherwise I was sure that they would have come to take care of me. So henceforth I could have only strangers about me. Ah! if my mother had known--but I was very glad that she had not been informed of the accident, which would have frightened her. There were many other things too which she did not know and which I would have been glad to conceal from her forever.

I tried to rest, but Eugénie’s image often disturbed my sleep.

It was she who was the cause of my being in that bed. It was impossible that she should not have recognized me, for her horse passed close to me; and she did not return! Had she heard the commotion caused by my accident? That I did not know. While I shunned society as if I were guilty, Eugénie was indulging in all forms of pleasure. She, who used to mount a horse only in fear and trepidation, and to ride very quietly, now rode through the Bois de Boulogne at a fast gallop and displayed the rash courage of an experienced horseman! It still seemed to me that I was dreaming, that I was delirious. Since the Eugénie of the old days no longer existed, it seemed to me I must forget the new one, I must think no more of the woman who had wrecked my life.

I believed that, if I could embrace my little Henriette, I should be entirely cured at once. I determined to go to see her before leaving Paris, and to take her in my arms without her mother’s knowledge; and even if her mother should know it, had I not the right to kiss my daughter? I would be patient until then.

The doctor came again to see me. He was a man whom I did not know; he seemed abrupt and cold; he talked little, but he neither made a show of his knowledge nor used long words to his patients. I like doctors of that sort.

After a few days I was much better, and I began to recover my strength. Pettermann was still in my room; he had told me to dismiss him as soon as he annoyed me, and I had kept him. I had become accustomed to his services and attentions. I could not doubt his attachment, for he had given me proofs of it. One especially convincing proof was that he had not drunk too much a single time since he had constituted himself my nurse. It was not selfish interest that guided him, for by refusing my purse when I went up to his room he had proved that he did not care for money. I had noticed also that he was neither prying nor talkative.

I indulged in all these reflections one evening as I lay upon a couch. Pettermann was seated by the window; he said nothing, for he never tried to converse when I did not speak to him. Sometimes we passed several hours in succession without a word; that was another quality which I liked in him.

“Pettermann.”

“Monsieur.”

“Are you very much attached to your tailor’s trade?”

“Faith, monsieur, I have had so little work lately that I shall end by forgetting my trade. And then, I may as well admit that I have never been able to distinguish myself at it, and I am sick of it!”

“As soon as I have fully recovered my strength, I propose to leave Paris and travel, for a very long time perhaps. If I should suggest to you to go with me, to remain with me, not as a servant, but as a confidential friend and trusted companion, how would that suit you?”

“Suit me! prout! that would suit me completely, monsieur. I will be your groom, your valet, whatever you choose; for I am sure that you will never treat me in a way to humiliate me.”

“Of course not. But, Pettermann, you have one failing----”

“I know what you mean; I get drunk. That is true; but it never happened to me except when I had nothing to do. You will keep me busy, and that will correct my habit of drinking. However, I don’t mean to swear to give up wine entirely, for I should break my oath. If you take me with you, you must allow me to get drunk once a month. I ask only that.”

“Once a month, all right; but no more!”

“No, monsieur.”

“It’s a bargain! You will stay with me. You have nothing to keep you in Paris?”

“Bless my soul, no, monsieur; I have nothing but my wife.”

“We start in a few days; but I warn you that I intend to travel like an artist, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a carriage; to defy the rain and the sun when that is my pleasure.”

“Monsieur is joking. I am not a dainty woman; I will do whatever you do.”

“One word more: do you know my name?”

“I have heard the concierge mention it once; I don’t remember it, but----”

“Don’t try to remember it. I mean to assume another under which I intend to travel. I shall call myself after this, Dalbreuse, and I do not wish to be called anything else.”

“That is enough, monsieur; you understand that I will call you whatever you please. So I have a profession at last. I have no further need to try to get waistcoats and breeches to make! The deuce take sewing! And then too I am very glad not to have to leave monsieur.”

Pettermann’s delight pleased me. I was very glad to have someone in my service who had not known me during my married life.

On the day following this agreement, Ernest entered my room, ran to me and embraced me.

“Do you know that I have been near death?” I asked him.

“I have just learned it from your concierge. Ungrateful man! not to send us any word! Is that the way that a man should treat his friends?”

“My dear Ernest, when I was in condition to send you word, I was out of danger; then I preferred to wait until I was entirely well, in order that I might come and tell you myself.”

“But what was this accident that happened to you?”

I told Ernest the whole story; I did not conceal from him that I was knocked down because I had gazed too long after Eugénie. Ernest was indignant at my weakness, and he started to scold me.

“My friend,” I said, “you will have no further cause for such reproaches; to prove it, I refuse from this instant to hear my wife mentioned. You will promise never to mention her name again, will you not?”

“Oh! I shall not be the one to break that promise!”

“Besides, I am going to leave you, for a long time perhaps. I am going to travel.”

“Despite my grief at being separated from you, I can only approve this plan. Change of scene will do you good. But are you going alone?”

“No, I have found a faithful companion; that man who left the room when you came in. You did not recognize him, did you? It is that poor journeyman tailor who lived in the attic room near your dear Marguerite, and who used to get into his room by breaking the window.”

“Is it possible? And that man----”

“Did not leave me for one minute while my life was in danger. And yet I was a mere stranger to him. He is to travel with me, he will go wherever I go.”

“I am very glad to know that you will have some devoted friend with you.”

“Here, my friend, take this memorandum book.”

“What shall I do with it?”

“It contains the portrait of the woman whom I used to call my wife. I must not keep it any longer. Later, if you choose, you may give the book to--to her son.”

“Her son? But, Blémont, he is your son too. Are you not going to see him before you go away?”

“No, the sight of him is too painful to me. I have told you all that I thought,--all my torments. I shall never see that child again.”

“My dear Blémont, are you not wrong? Is that child responsible for his mother’s wrongdoing?”

“It is possible that I am unjust; why did she give me a right to be? I entrust you to look after everything that concerns him, and to put him at school when he reaches the proper age. I will give you a letter to my notary, instructing him to supply you with money whenever you need it. Forgive me, my friend, for all the trouble I cause you.”

“Do not speak of trouble. But consider that that child----”

“Not another word about him, I beg you. I propose to try to banish from my memory those persons whom I am forced to banish from my heart. By the way, you must cease to call me Blémont, too; from this moment I lay aside that name and assume the name of Dalbreuse. So that is the name under which you must write to me, Ernest; for I trust that you will write to me, my friend.”

“Yes, to be sure; but I trust that you will not stay away from us a century. There will come a time, my dear Henri, when you will be able to live in Paris and to meet the--the person whom you avoid now, without its producing too serious an effect upon you.”

“I hope so. Meanwhile, I shall go away; I propose to visit Switzerland, the Alps, the Pyrenees, Italy--no, I shall not go to Italy. But I shall stop wherever I find that I enjoy myself. I shall try to paint some lovely views, some attractive landscapes.”

“Above all things, paint some portraits of beautiful women; they will distract you better than anything else. But when are you going? You must wait until you are perfectly well.”

“I flatter myself that in a week I shall not feel my wound; meantime, you will see me often; I am to be allowed to go out to-morrow, and I will go to your house.”

Ernest took his leave and I made arrangements for my journey. Ernest would let my apartment all furnished during my absence, and I left him in full charge of everything. I had but one wish, that was to be far away from Paris; but first I absolutely must see and embrace my daughter.

At last I was able to leave my room. I purchased two horses, for I proposed to travel by short stages as long as it amused me. Then I went to see my mother; I trembled lest she should have learned that I was no longer living with my wife. She did know it, in fact; some kind friends had not failed to inform her that I had separated from Eugénie; but she thought that it was nothing more than a quarrel which had caused the rupture. She proposed her mediation to reconcile us, for she also believed that it was I who was in the wrong; and she preached me a sermon.

I thanked my mother and told her of my approaching departure, which I said was due to important business. She hoped that at my return everything would be forgotten between my wife and myself; I encouraged her in that hope and bade her adieu. I was very certain that she would not go to see my wife, for that would disturb her habits.

I gave to Ernest and his companion all the time that remained before my departure. They were sorry to lose me, and yet they were glad that I was going; it was the same with myself. I urged them to send me news of my daughter; in leaving her I was separating from a part of myself, but if I remained I should not see her any more. I made them swear that when they wrote to me they would never mention Madame Blémont. Finally, one night I embraced Ernest and Marguerite and their children affectionately; I was to start early next morning.

Pettermann had long been ready. He told me that he was an excellent rider. We had a good horse each, and at six o’clock we left Paris. My comrade was very glad to be on the road; he hummed a refrain from the _Mariage de Figaro_, which he had not done since my illness.

I started in the direction of Montmorency, for Aubonne is in that neighborhood, and I proposed to go there to see my daughter. During the past few days I had made inquiries concerning Madame Blémont at her house on Rue d’Antin. In Paris, by the use of money, one may learn whatever one desires. The result of my inquiries was that Madame Blémont was now at Paris, and that her daughter was not with her. So that Henriette was in the country without her mother; I could not hope to find a more favorable moment to see my daughter.

We rode through Montmorency and arrived at Aubonne. Pettermann rode behind without once asking where we were going, and his discretion gratified me. When we came in sight of the first houses of Aubonne, I said to him:

“I have business here, Pettermann; I have to see someone who is very dear to me.”

“Whatever you please, monsieur; it looks to be a pleasant place.”

“First of all, you must inquire where Madame Rennebaut lives; she is an old lady who owns a house in this neighborhood.”

“Madame Rennebaut? All right; I will ask the first baker that I see. Perhaps there’s only one in the village, and Madame Rennebaut must necessarily trade with him. Wait here for me, monsieur, I will soon be back.”

I let Pettermann go; I was then on the summit of a hill from which I could see several country houses nearby; I had stopped my horse and my eyes strove to look inside those houses, to find my Henriette; the hope that I should soon see and embrace my child made my heart beat faster.

Pettermann returned.

“Monsieur, I have found out about Madame Rennebaut: she is an old widow lady, very rich and with no children, who keeps a gardener, a cook and a maid.”

“And her house?”

“It is at the other end of the village; if we take this road to the pond, then turn to the left, we shall see the house in front of us. It is a fine house with an iron fence in front of it, and a garden with a terrace, from which there is a splendid view.”

“Let us go on, Pettermann.”

We followed the road that had been pointed out to him. As I knew that Madame Blémont was at Paris, I had no hesitation about calling at Madame Rennebaut’s house; I did not know what Eugénie might have told her, but I would ask to see my daughter, and I could not believe that they would deny me that satisfaction.

We had passed the pond and were on a sort of path with the fields on one side, leading to the lovely valley of Montmorency.

I spied the house that had been described to us; I urged my horse, and we were already skirting the garden wall, when I saw a woman walking on the terrace which ran along the wall on that side, leading a little girl by the hand.

I recognized the woman and the little girl at once; and, instantly turning my horse about, I rode into the fields and away from the house as rapidly as we had approached.

I did not stop until several clumps of trees concealed me from the house. Eugénie was there; therefore my informant must have been misled, or perhaps she had returned the night before. However that might be, she was there and I could not go to that house; her presence debarred me; perhaps she would think it was she whom I wished to see. I should be too humiliated if she should have such a thought.

However, I did not wish to go away without embracing my daughter. I did not know what to do. Pettermann had followed me closely, and was right behind me; but he waited and said nothing. I dismounted, and he was about to do the same.

“No,” I said, “remain in the saddle and hold my horse; we shall go away again soon. Wait for me behind these trees.”

I left him and walked toward the house, taking a roundabout way in order to avoid being seen by the persons on the terrace; I was certain that they had not seen me before, for they were not looking in my direction. At last I reached the garden where I had seen them; a hedge concealed me. I saw the edge of the terrace, but I could not look into the garden. There was a walnut tree within a few feet of me; I looked about to see if anyone was observing me, and in a few seconds I was in the tree. From there I could look into the garden easily and had no fear of being seen.

There they were; they were coming in my direction from a path where they had been out of my sight. Henriette ran about playing. Her mother walked slowly, her eyes often on the ground, or gazing listlessly about. Ah! how much lovelier than ever my daughter appeared to me! How happy I was when she turned her head in my direction!

They drew near. The mother sat down on a bench near the corner of the wall. She had a book, but she placed it by her side and did not read. Why did she not read? Of what was she thinking? She did not talk with her daughter; her brow was careworn and her eyes were heavy. Was she already weary of dissipation?

Henriette ran to her and offered her some flowers which she had just plucked. She took her daughter between her knees, gazed at her, and suddenly kissed her several times in a sort of frenzy, then released her and relapsed into a reverie.

Never had she embraced her daughter like that in my presence; was it that she was afraid of pleasing me by allowing me to witness the caresses which she bestowed upon our child?

Nearly an hour passed. She was still there, sitting on the bench, not reading, from time to time glancing at her daughter, who was playing on the terrace. And I gave no thought to the passing of time, to poor Pettermann who was waiting for me; I could not turn my eyes away from that garden.

Suddenly, as she ran toward her mother, Henriette made a false step and fell on her face. I uttered a cry simultaneously with Eugénie. She ran to the child, lifted her up and kissed her; the little one cried a little, but soon became calm and smiled, and I heard her say:

“It isn’t anything, mamma.”

Thereupon Eugénie looked about in every direction. Still holding her daughter in her arms, she walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out upon the road. I heard her say to her daughter:

“It wasn’t you who cried when you fell, was it?”

“No, mamma.”

“Who was it then?”

“I don’t know, mamma.”

“Is your nurse in the garden?”

“I don’t know.”

“But no; it wasn’t the nurse who cried out in that way.”

Her eyes were still searching; she looked in every direction, and I dared not stir; I was afraid to move a leaf; but in a moment she said:

“Let us go in, Henriette.”

“I’d rather stay in the garden.”

“But if you should fall again----”

“No, I won’t run any more; I will play quietly.”

She walked away, and my daughter remained behind. I wondered if I might take advantage of that moment. But the wall was rather high; how could I get to her? Ah! by mounting my horse, I could do it perhaps.

I climbed down from my tree, and ran back to Pettermann, who was still in the saddle; I mounted my horse and motioned to my companion to follow me. In a moment I was beside the garden wall again. I stood on my horse, reached the top of the wall, jumped, and in a moment was on the terrace, leaving Pettermann staring at me with amazement, but without uttering a word.

I walked a few steps into the garden; I saw my daughter, I ran to her, took her in my arms and covered her with kisses before she had time to recognize me; at last she was able to look at me and she cried joyfully:

“It is papa! my little papa! you have come back, haven’t you? I keep asking mamma every day if you are coming back.”

“Hush, hush, my child; come this way, on the terrace; I don’t want to be seen from the house.”

“Wait; I will go and call mamma.”

“No, no; don’t go; stay with me, don’t leave me; it is so long since I have kissed you, dear child! Do you think of me sometimes?”

“Oh! yes, papa, I longed so for you.”

“You longed to see me? And your mother, what does she say when you ask her about me?”

“She doesn’t say anything; she just says: ‘That will do; don’t mention your papa.’”

“She doesn’t want you to think of me, she wants you to forget me!”

“And yet she talks about you all day.”

“Your mother?”

“Let me go and tell mamma that you are here.”

“No, my dear love, I haven’t time to speak to her now. I must leave you too, for a very long time perhaps.”

“What? are you going away again? Oh! stay with us, papa, don’t go away!”

Poor child! I should have been so glad to stay with her. I sat down on the bench where her mother had sat just before, I took her in my lap and threw my arms about her. For a moment I had an idea of taking her with me, of stealing her from Eugénie; but the dear child could not travel with me, and perhaps she would cry for her mother every day in my arms; for a child can do without her father much better than without her who gave birth to her. No, I must leave her with her mother; it was much better that I should be the one to suffer and to be unhappy.

These reflections made my heart ache; I sighed as I held my little Henriette in my arms; she gazed at me, and, seeing that I was sad, she dared not smile. Poor child! and I had thought of taking you with me! No, in my arms you would too often lose that lightness of heart which is the only treasure of your age.

Suddenly I heard a voice calling:

“Henriette, Henriette, aren’t you coming?”

“Here I am, mamma,” cried the child. I sprang to my feet, placed her on the ground, kissed her several times, and ran away.

“Why, papa, wait, here comes mamma.”

Those words gave me wings; I reached the wall, I dropped on the other side, then I ran to Pettermann, leaped on my horse, and shouted:

“Gallop! gallop!”

We both urged our horses and were already far away from Aubonne before I dared to turn, for fear of seeing her on the terrace.

XIX

MONT-D’OR

Two years had passed since I left Paris. Accompanied by my faithful Pettermann, I had travelled all over Spain; the memory of Gil Blas made my sojourn there more delightful; I looked for him at the inns, and on the public promenades; and more than once, when a beggar threw his hat at my feet, I looked to see if he were not taking aim at me with a carbine. The scullery maids and the mule drivers reminded me also of Don Quixote and his facetious squire; I would have liked to meet them riding in search of adventures. All honor to the poets who depict their heroes so vividly that one becomes convinced that they have really existed. Gil Blas and Don Quixote are only imaginary characters, and yet we sometimes fancy that we recognize them; we look for them in the country where the author has placed them. They must be very lifelike therefore, those pages of the novelist, since we attribute life to them, and they become engraved in our memories. For my own part, I know that it would be impossible for me to visit the mountains of Scotland without recalling Rob Roy; to visit Mauritius, without talking of Paul and Virginia; and to visit Italy without thinking of Corinne.

I crossed the Pyrenees, but the idea of seeing Switzerland occurred to me, and we left France again. My depression had vanished, I was no longer morose and taciturn as when I left home; Pettermann too had resumed his habit of singing. We had travelled on horseback for some time; then I sold our steeds and we went through a large part of Andalusia on foot; after that, public conveyances or hired post-chaises carried us to other places. It was by diversifying thus our random journeyings, that I triumphed over the trouble that was consuming me; and it was not an easy matter. In truth, there was still a tinge of bitterness in my smile, and I concluded that that was something of which I could never rid myself.

In the different countries I had visited, I had seen many husbands who were in my position and who worried little about it. Some, jealous through self-esteem, were themselves unfaithful and tyrannized over their wives; others, pretending to be philosophical, treated very badly in private the wives whom in society they seemed to leave entirely at liberty. Many of them closed their eyes, and the great majority believed themselves too shrewd to be betrayed. But I had seen very few who really loved their wives, and who deserved by their attentions and their conduct that those ladies should be true to them.

I had had some love-affairs, but I had not lost my heart. I believed it to be no longer susceptible to love; it had been too cruelly lacerated. My heart was like an invalid with whom I was travelling; it was still weak, and it dreaded violent emotions.

Pettermann gave little thought to the other sex, and I was very glad of it for his sake; but he did not forget the promise I had given him, and he got completely drunk once every month. The rest of the time he drank moderately. I had had no reason to complain of him since he had entered my service. His disposition was equable and cheerful; he sang when he saw that I was in good humor, he held his peace when I was pensive. But never a question, never an inquisitive word; he did not once mention Aubonne, where he had seen me scale the wall. I had every reason to think that he believed me a bachelor.

During the first year of my absence, I received letters from Ernest quite frequently, and I wrote to him whenever I sojourned for any length of time in one place. Faithful to the promise he had given me, he had abstained from mentioning her whom I hoped to forget entirely. He wrote me about my daughter and little Eugène; he said that my Henriette was as fascinating as ever; he had seen her several times. Did that mean that he had been to her mother’s house? That was something that I did not know. Ah! how I longed to see my daughter again, and to embrace her! It was for her that I had determined to return to Paris; I would hold her in my arms just once, and then I would set out on my travels again; I should have laid in a store of happiness which would last for some time. As for my--as for little Eugène, I could not think of that child without reviving all my suffering. I should have taken such pleasure in loving my son, in dividing my affection between him and his sister! and that happiness I was destined never to enjoy! Poor Eugène! what a melancholy future for him!

The last letters which I had received from Ernest had seemed to me different from the first ones; the style was no longer the same, and I detected embarrassment and reticence in them. In the last of all, I had noticed this sentence:

“There has been a great change here of late, my friend; you would not recognize the person from whom you fled. I dare not say more for fear of breaking my promise and being scolded. But come back soon, my dear Henri; your children long to see you and your friends to embrace you.”

My children--he persisted in saying my children. But I had only one. As for the change that he mentioned, what did it matter to me? Did he want to arouse my interest in that woman? No, I could not believe that. I did not mention the subject in my reply.

I was anxious, before returning to Paris, to see Auvergne, that mountainous and picturesque province, the Scotland of France, which those Frenchmen who rave over cliffs and glaciers and precipices would visit oftener if it were not so near them. We admire only what is at a distance; our only ambition is to see Scotland and Italy, and we do not give a thought to Auvergne, Bretagne, and Touraine.

I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and the Puy-de-Dôme. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I would turn to Pettermann and say:

“What do you think of this?”

But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his face; he would shake his head and reply coldly:

“It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn’t come up to the views in Munich.”

Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own country.

As we passed near Mont-d’Or, I determined to go there to taste the waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know what to do with their time.

I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of guests there; many foreigners, especially Englishmen, but many Frenchmen too, notably those _chevaliers d’industrie_, men with refined manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go to Mont-d’Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a result of yielding to the passion for play.

I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties. Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pass my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness and amiability which seemed to say: “I am a flirt but I can’t help it; you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never change.”

Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest a _demoiselle_; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still unmarried,--it was probable that it was her own choice.

She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and attentive to the fair sex; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover, he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.

Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of a _petite-maîtresse_. One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was enough.

Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent, or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his favorite companion.

“Monsieur Dalbreuse,” he said to me on the day after my arrival at Mont-d’Or, “just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece that she would like to see Mont-d’Or, and crac! we had to start. I remember being at Plombières thirty-five years ago, with the famous Lekain. Did you know Lekain?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain’s presence the part of Crispin, in _Les Folies Amoureuses_.”

“Ah! you have acted, have you?”

“Because I enjoyed it,--with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to play the upper servants.”

“And your niece?”

“My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a contractor’s country house. We had a pretty little theatre, on my word, and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know Mademoiselle Contat?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Ah! you haven’t seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and such a face! One day--I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that it was _Tartufe_. No, it wasn’t _Tartufe_.”

Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in no wise regretted. She took her uncle’s arm and said:

“This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me then whether I was mistaken or not.

I went to drive with Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. A pretty calèche was awaiting them at the door. I noticed that the male visitors, as they bowed to Caroline, gazed at me with an envious eye as I took my seat opposite her in the carriage. I could understand that a charming woman of twenty-five, who had her own carriage, was likely to make numerous conquests everywhere. Some were in love with the woman, and others with the carriage. But I, who coveted neither, took my seat with the utmost tranquillity opposite Mademoiselle Derbin, and enjoyed the drive at leisure, because I was not occupied in making eyes at my vis-à-vis.

At times, Mademoiselle Derbin raved over the landscape; then, all of a sudden, she would begin to laugh at the costume of a water-drinker who passed us. While laughing at her remarks, I pretended to be listening attentively to her uncle, who described the effect he had produced playing Mascarille before Molé.

The drive seemed short to me. We returned to the hotel, and in the evening we met again in the salon. I amused myself watching Mademoiselle Derbin. In company she was more coquettish and therefore less agreeable than in private. As I was not paying court to her, I discreetly walked away when I saw a number of adorers coming her way. So that, as a result of that eccentricity which is not uncommon in women, Mademoiselle Derbin seemed to seek my company, and often came to my side.

“You do not dance?” she asked me toward the end of the evening.

“No, I no longer care for dancing.”

“And you do not play cards?”

“They play for very high stakes here. I have an income which is sufficient for my needs; I do not care to endanger it with men who would consider it the most natural thing in the world to rob me of it.”

“You are a wise man!”

“Oh, no!”

“And you have no love-affairs here?”

“Do you think then that one must absolutely have love-affairs when one goes to a watering-place?”

“I don’t say that, but I think you are a most original person.”

“Original? no, I assure you that there are many men like me.”

She left me, after glancing at me with a singular expression. Did she desire to number me among her numerous conquests? It was possible; what she had just said to me might give me a poor idea of her virtue. An unmarried woman who considers it strange that a man has no love-affairs! And yet, I preferred to think that that was simply due to her original character.

I had been a fortnight at Mont-d’Or, and I had intended to pass only one week there. But I was enjoying myself; the company was agreeable; however, if Caroline and her uncle had not been there, I should have gone away; I was becoming accustomed to their society. There was nothing to do there but converse, so that we were together almost all day. I was not making love to Caroline, but she was very pretty; her black eyes alternated in expression between gentleness and mischief. Although one be not in love, there is always a charm attached to the presence of a pretty woman; it was probably that charm which detained me.

There was not a ball or a concert in the assembly room every day; when there was none, we remained at the hotel, and those guests who were congenial met in the salon in the evening. Some played cards, but the greater number conversed. There were some titled persons, and they were not the most agreeable; but we left them to bore one another in their corner, and we chatted with the clever artist, who always had a store of amusing anecdotes in reserve, or with the lady’s man, who told us of his latest adventures. In that circle, Monsieur Roquencourt was not among those who talked least. If anyone mentioned a city, he had acted there; if anyone mentioned a famous personage, he had known an actor who had mimicked him to perfection, and he would proceed to give us a specimen.

I enjoyed listening; but I talked very little, and in what I did say, I did not mention myself. Caroline, who, for all her frivolous and coquettish air, observed very closely everything that took place in the salon, said to me one day:

“Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody here tells us his or her own experiences; you alone have kept silent thus far. Why is it?”

“Presumably, I have none to relate, mademoiselle.”

“Or that you don’t choose to relate them. However, you are your own master. For my part, I tell everything that concerns me, because hitherto I have had nothing to keep secret. I am an orphan; my father, who was an army contractor, left me twenty-five thousand francs a year. I live with Monsieur Roquencourt, my mother’s brother and my guardian; and he lets me do just as I choose, because he knows that I have been accustomed to that from my childhood. That is my whole history, and you know me as well now as if we had been brought up together.”

She thought perhaps that her confidence would provoke mine; but I replied simply:

“How does it happen that, being as rich and lovely as you are, you have never married?”

“Ah! I was certain that you would ask me that question; I am asked it so often! Bless my soul! monsieur, is there such a terrible hurry about being married, and placing myself under the control of a man who perhaps would not let me do as I wished? I am so happy with my uncle and he is so good, especially when he doesn’t talk about his Crispins and his Lafleurs! really, I tremble at the thought of losing my liberty; and then, I tell you frankly, I have never yet met any man who deserved that I should sacrifice so much to him.”

“You are happy, mademoiselle; believe me, you are very wise to remain so; do not risk the repose of your whole life by binding yourself to someone by whom you think that you are loved, and who will betray you in the most dastardly way! No, do not marry.”

Caroline gazed at me in amazement; she was silent for a few moments, then she began to laugh, saying:

“You are the first person who ever talked to me like that; I was right in thinking that you did not resemble the rest of the world.”

On the day following this conversation, after listening, and laughing heartily the while, to the gallant remarks of a number of young men, Mademoiselle Derbin came, as she was accustomed to do, to the window from which I was gazing at the landscape which stretched out before us.

“Always admiring these mountains, are you not, monsieur?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I consider this region very interesting.”

“Are you a painter, monsieur?”

“No, mademoiselle; I paint a little, however, but simply as an amateur.”

“Ah! you paint? in what line?”

“Miniatures.”

“Do you paint portraits?”

“I have tried it occasionally.”

“Oh! it would be awfully good of you to paint mine. We have a great deal of time to ourselves here. I will give you sittings as often as you choose. I have been painted many times, but I have never thought the likeness good. Will you do it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

How can you refuse a lovely woman when she addresses a request to you, with her charming eyes fixed upon yours? Indeed, I had no reason for refusing what she asked.

“I will paint your portrait, mademoiselle, but I do not flatter myself that I shall be more fortunate than those who have done it before.”

“Oh! perhaps you will; at all events, what does it matter? It will amuse us, and occupy the time. When shall we begin?”

“Whenever you choose.”

“Right away then; we will have a sitting in my uncle’s room; but I must have my hair dressed first, I suppose?”

“No, I prefer to paint you as you are, and not in a ball dress; do not make any preparations at all.”

“As you choose.”

“I will go for my box of colors.”

“And I will go to tell my uncle. Oh! it is awfully good of you.”

On going to my room, I found Pettermann humming a tune as he brushed my clothes, which he was always careful to look over to see if there were any buttons missing, or any holes in the pockets; and he always repaired the damage.

“Is monsieur going to paint?”

“Yes, Pettermann; and I fancy that we shall stay here a few days longer. You are not bored here, I hope?”

“No, monsieur, I am never bored anywhere, myself; besides, the wine is good here. By the way, what day of the month is it?”

“The seventeenth.”

“The deuce! only the seventeenth! this month is very long!”

I guessed why he asked me the question, and I said to him:

“As you consider the wine good here, as I am enjoying myself, and as it is fair that you should do the same, act as if it were the end of the month.”

“Oh, no! a bargain is sacred, monsieur. Since I have been with you, I have learned to respect myself; and if I do get drunk once a month still, it is because I should be sick if I should stop drinking entirely. But never mind; if the wine is good here, the women are terribly inquisitive! prout!”

“The women are inquisitive? How do you know that?”

“Because these last few days they have done nothing but hang round me to try to make me talk.”

“Who, pray?”

“At first it was the landlady and the servants in the inn; but when they found that that didn’t work, there was a good-looking young woman who came to me herself, as if by accident.”

“A lady who lives in the hotel?”

“Yes, the one with the little uncle who talks all the time.”

“Mademoiselle Derbin?”

“Just so.”

“What did she ask you?”

“She acted as if she just happened to pass through the yard where I was; she asked me first: ‘Are you in Monsieur Dalbreuse’s service?’

“‘Yes, mademoiselle.’”

“You should have told her, Pettermann, that you were travelling with me, but not as my servant.”

“Why so, monsieur? I consider myself very lucky to belong to you; and as there must always be one who does what the other says, it is right that you should be the one to give the orders; therefore you are the master.”

“What then, Pettermann?”

“Then, that young woman--or rather that lady--continued: ‘Have you been with Monsieur Dalbreuse long?’

“‘About two years.’

“‘He seems like a very agreeable man, Monsieur Dalbreuse?’

“‘He isn’t cross, mademoiselle.’

“‘What does he do in Paris?’

“All those questions began to tire me, and I replied rather short:

“‘He does what he chooses, mademoiselle; it doesn’t make any difference to me.’--At that she went away. But in a minute she came skipping back, and said to me almost in my ear, as she tried to slip a gold-piece into my hand:

“‘He is a bachelor, isn’t he?’--I didn’t take the money, but I touched my hat and said:

“’ Yes, mademoiselle, he is a bachelor.’--At that she began to laugh, and went away, saying:

“‘The servant is almost as unique as the master.’--Upon my word, if she isn’t inquisitive, I don’t know who is.”

So Mademoiselle Derbin was determined to find out who I was, what my rank and position were in society. My silence had piqued her. But to go so far as to ask if I were married--that was decidedly peculiar. Pettermann believed me to be a bachelor; I had never said anything in his presence which would lead him to suppose that I had ceased to be one. What did it matter to that young woman whether I was married or not? Could it be that she had taken a fancy to me? I could not believe it; I had never said a word of love to her. So that it was probably the whim of a coquette who desired to subject everybody to her empire. She had known me only a fortnight. Moreover, it seemed to me that I was no longer likely to inspire love, that no one could ever love me again.

I said all this to myself as I looked over my box of colors. But it did not prevent me from going to Mademoiselle Derbin, for she expected me; and even if I did attract her, that would be no reason for avoiding her. We must leave such noble acts to the patriarchs of Genesis, whom we are by no means tempted to imitate.

They were waiting for me. The uncle was there; he congratulated me on my talent, and thanked me for my good-nature. Caroline was much perplexed as to the position she should take. I begged her to act as if I were not painting her portrait, so that there should be no affectation in the position, and I set to work.

My model was very docile; she looked at me and smiled very affably. The uncle walked about the room, and soon said:

“She will make a very pretty portrait, monsieur. I was painted once in the costume of Scapin. It was an artist of great talent--I have forgotten his name but it will come to me directly. It was at Bordeaux, at Madame la Comtesse de Vernac’s, who entertained the leading artists of Paris--Molé, Saint-Phal, Fleury, Dugazon. In fact, it was at her house that I met Dugazon. Oh! the rascal! as amusing in society as he was on the stage. You must have seen Dugazon?”

“Yes, monsieur, I think so; but I was so young that I hardly remember. Mademoiselle, raise your head a little, if you please.”

“To return to my portrait,--the artist considered me so amusing in _Les Fourberies de Scapin_, my face was so absurd when I came out of the bag--You know _Les Fourberies de Scapin_?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Oh! how can you keep asking monsieur such questions, uncle? Does he know Molière? You would do much better to see if the picture looks like me yet.”

“Are you crazy, my dear love, to expect that it will look like you after fifteen minutes?--So I was painted as Scapin, and it was an excellent likeness. That wasn’t my favorite part, however; I won my triumph as Pasquin in _Le Dissipateur_. I made them cry, monsieur, yes, I made them cry, by the way I said: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are a great many ways of saying that. I had heard Dugazon say it, and if you please, monsieur, I gave it an entirely different expression: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are some who declaim it; Dugazon always declaimed it, but I maintain that you should simply put truth and soul into it: ‘The little that I possess!’--And I saw tears in people’s eyes!--‘The little that----’”

“Oh! for heaven’s sake, uncle! are you trying to make us cry too? You distract monsieur’s attention; you will be responsible for my portrait not looking like me.”

“Your uncle may talk, mademoiselle; I assure you that it doesn’t interfere with my work at all.”

Caroline gave a little pout of vexation, which I would have liked to reproduce on the ivory, because it was very becoming to her. I thought that she wanted her uncle to leave us; but Monsieur Roquencourt had no such intention.

After walking about the room several times, he came to watch me work, then looked at his niece and exclaimed:

“Upon my word, Caroline has in her face, especially in her eyes, much resemblance to Mademoiselle Lange. You did not know Mademoiselle Lange, who used to act at the Français, did you?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Ah! Monsieur Dalbreuse, she was perhaps the one actress who had more truth, more charm in her way of speaking than any other; and a charming woman besides! I knew her well; she taught me to put on my rouge. It is a very difficult thing to put on one’s rouge well; I used to daub my face all over with it. She said to me one evening when I had just done Gros-René--you know, Gros-René in _Le Dépit Amoureux_:

“‘La femme est, comme on dit, mon maître, Un certain animal difficile à connaître, Et de qui la nature est fort encline au mal; Et comme un animal est toujours animal, Et ne sera jamais----’”

“Oh! we have seen _Le Dépit Amoureux_, uncle! That speech isn’t the best thing in Molière, in my opinion.”

“As I was saying, I had been playing Gros-René, and with great success, on my word! I had made the audience laugh until they cried. Lange led me aside after the performance, and said to me: ‘You acted like a god! you acted divinely; but, my friend, you don’t know how to put on your rouge; you make big daubs everywhere; that isn’t the way; you must put on a lot under the eyes; your eyes are very bright already, but you will see how much brighter that makes them; then, put on less and less toward the ears, and almost none at all on the lower part of the face.’--I followed her advice, and I gained greatly by it.”

“Uncle, weren’t you to play a game of backgammon this morning with that Englishman who challenged you yesterday?”

“It isn’t this morning, my dear girl, but to-night that we are to play.”

“I thought that it was this morning.”

“You are mistaken.--Backgammon is a very fine game; do you play it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

“A little, monsieur.”

“It was Dazincourt who taught me; he was a very fine player. I remember that one evening we played for one of his wigs; it was the wig that he wore in--wait a minute--a beautiful wig, and that counts for a great deal on the stage. It was the wig he wore in----”

Caroline rose and exclaimed impatiently:

“That will do for to-day; I do not want to tire monsieur; let’s go to drive; it is a fine day and I long for the fresh air. Uncle, will you be good enough to fetch my bonnet?”

Monsieur Roquencourt went to fetch the bonnet, scratching his ear and muttering:

“Strange! I can’t remember the name of the part.”

When he had left the room, Mademoiselle Derbin said to me:

“To-morrow, if you choose, we will have a sitting earlier, when my uncle is reading the papers; for really he is terrible with his actors and his acting. One forgets what one is doing; it seems to me that you must be able to work better when there is no one beside you, talking; that is to say, monsieur, unless you are afraid to be alone with me.”

She smiled as she said that; but there was a touch of sadness in her smile. “Really,” I thought, “this young woman is able to assume every sort of expression. Sometimes laughing, playful, mocking; sometimes serious, thoughtful, and languishing; she is never the same for two minutes.”--Was it art, I wondered, or was it that the different sensations that she felt were instantly depicted upon her features? It mattered little after all. However, I had not yet answered her question; I felt almost embarrassed. At that moment her uncle returned with her bonnet, crying:

“This much is certain, that I won the wig by a _carme_, which gave me twelve points. Dazincourt jumped from his chair in vexation, and said: ‘I won’t play with you again.’”

Mademoiselle did not care to listen to any more; she took my arm, and we left the room. She took me to drive, without even asking me if I would like to go with them; she evidently divined that it would give me pleasure. She was successful at divination: I was never bored with her.

The next morning I went to her uncle’s room at the hour she had appointed; I found her alone; I had no feeling of confusion or embarrassment, for I had no declaration to make to her; even if she had attracted me, I should not have told her so. I was not free, and I did not propose to deceive her; but I had nothing to fear. My heart would never know the sensation of love again; I liked Mademoiselle Derbin’s company, I liked her disposition, her wit, her unreserve; I did full justice to her charms; but I was not in love with her.--I could never love again.

We set to work at once. I labored at her portrait with pleasure; but sometimes a cruel memory awoke in my heart; I remembered the delightful sittings which my wife had given me. What a joy it was to me to paint her! Ah! her smile was very sweet too, and her eyes were filled with love for me.

When such ideas assailed me, a very perceptible change took place in my expression, no doubt, for my model said to me for the second time:

“What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Dalbreuse? Don’t you feel well?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“You assumed such a melancholy expression all of a sudden! If it is a bore to you to paint me, monsieur, there is no reason why you should go on.”

“No, mademoiselle, on the contrary it is a great pleasure to me.”

“Oh! you say that in a very peculiar tone.”

I did not reply but went on with my work. Caroline became very serious and did not say another word.

“Would you mind smiling a little, mademoiselle? You do not usually have such a serious expression.”

“It’s because you say nothing to amuse me, and you yourself have sometimes an expression--oh! mon Dieu! what an agreeable man you are!”

“I may have memories which are not very cheerful; and what I am doing at this moment reminds me----”

“Of what?”

“Of a person whose portrait I once painted.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“A woman whom you loved, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes!”

Caroline changed color and rose abruptly, saying:

“That’s enough for to-day; I won’t pose any more.”

“But, mademoiselle, we have just begun.”

“I am very sorry, but I am tired; besides, I don’t care any longer about having my portrait painted!”

“What new whim is this?”

“Well, monsieur, if I choose to have whims----”

“I am very sorry too, but I have begun your portrait, and I want to finish it.”

“I tell you that I don’t want a portrait; you would be obliged to keep it, and I should like to know what good it would do you? A man doesn’t wear a portrait. Oh, yes! in a locket sometimes, I believe.--Well, well! now you are assuming your solemn expression again. Well, here I am, monsieur, here I am, don’t be angry; great heaven! I will pose as long as you wish.”

She resumed her seat. I glanced at her; she had hastily wiped her eyes, and yet I saw tears still glistening in them. What an extraordinary woman! What a combination of coquetry and sensibility! What on earth was going on in her heart? I was sometimes afraid to guess.

We worked for a long time, but I made little progress with my task, for I was absent-minded; the past and the present engrossed me in turn. Caroline herself was thoughtful. Sometimes she talked to me about Paris, and I divined that she was anxious to learn what my business was. I saw no reason why I should not tell her that I was an advocate. She seemed pleased to learn that I practised that profession. Why did she take so much interest in my concerns? I had not addressed a word of love to her.

Our second sitting was more cheerful; we were becoming accustomed to each other. When I sighed, she scolded me and told me to work more carefully. When she was pensive, I begged her to smile, to play the coquette as she did in society. Those sittings passed very quickly. Really I could hardly recognize myself; there were times when I was afraid that I was becoming too thoroughly accustomed to Caroline’s company. Ernest was quite right when he urged me to paint pretty women, in order to obtain distraction from my troubles.

XX

THE GAZETTE DES TRIBUNAUX

We had had ten sittings and the portrait was almost finished. In fact it might have been left as it was, for Caroline was delighted with it, and her uncle considered it as good a likeness as that of himself as Scapin; but I desired to do something more to it; and Caroline herself wished for some slight changes in the dress and in the hair. I thought that we should both be sorry when the sittings came to an end.

One evening, when the weather was bad and we had remained in the hotel with several other guests, the conversation became general. An old gentleman who was almost as loquacious as Monsieur Roquencourt, but much less affable, told us about a scandalous lawsuit which was reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux. It was a husband’s petition for divorce on the ground of his wife’s infidelity.

“There are many interesting details,” he said, “which the newspaper gives with its own reflections thereon.”

The old gentleman went up to his room to get the paper, which he was determined to read to us. I would gladly have dispensed with that favor. Whenever that subject was discussed I felt ill at ease. Those gentlemen laughed and jested freely concerning betrayed husbands. To no purpose did I pretend to laugh with them; I could not do it. I would have liked to change the subject, but I dared not; it seemed to me that they would fathom my motive. Luckily, Mademoiselle Derbin was beside me, and she did not seem to pay much attention to the trial reported by the Gazette des Tribunaux.

“Messieurs,” said an Englishman, “among us, the subject is viewed in a different light. It becomes almost a business transaction. We make the co-respondent pay very heavy damages.”

“Can damages restore the honor of an outraged husband?” demanded an old Spaniard. “In my country, the reparation is swift, but it is terrible!”

“Messieurs,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “I remember acting in _Le Mariage de Figaro_ with a friend of mine who was in the plight of the husband in the Gazette des Tribunaux. He was playing Almaviva. As everybody knew what had happened to him, you can imagine the personal applications of his lines that were made during the performance. There was much laughter; but for all that he acted very well. I was Figaro. I had the prettiest costume it is possible to imagine; white and cherry colored, all silk and embroidery and spangles. It cost me a great deal! But Dugazon, who saw it, was so delighted with it that he asked me to lend it to him so that he could have one made like it.”

At that moment I was overjoyed to hear Monsieur Roquencourt talk about the parts he had acted; I hoped that that would change the subject permanently, and I was about to ask him for some more anecdotes of Dugazon when the infernal old gentleman arrived, newspaper in hand, crying:

“Here is the Gazette; I assure you that there are some very amusing details, which one may safely read before ladies, however.”

“Does this conversation amuse you?” I asked Caroline in an undertone.

“Do you suppose that I listen to these chatterboxes? No indeed; I think that my thoughts are worth quite as much as their words.”

As she spoke, she cast a tender glance at me and laid her hand on my arm, for I had taken a seat beside her. I lowered my eyes; I was entirely engrossed by the Gazette des Tribunaux.

The old gentleman put on his spectacles and drew near a lamp. We were definitively condemned to listen to the newspaper. There are people who insist upon amusing you against your will.

“This is the article, messieurs; it is in the Paris news; and the names are in big letters.”

“That is very pleasant for the husband!” said the Spaniard, under his breath; “all Europe will know that he is a cuckold!”

“When a husband is foolish enough to go to law about such a bagatelle,” said a young Frenchman, “he well deserves to have the whole world laugh at him.”

“Bagatelle!” repeated the Spaniard, “when a man’s honor is involved!”

“What a devil of a place has he put his honor in? Ha! ha! It was Beaumarchais who said that, and Beaumarchais had a devilish lot of wit! When I acted his Figaro, I was with----”

“I say, messieurs, don’t you want to hear the newspaper?”

“Yes, indeed; we are listening.”

“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very interesting in its details and in the course of the trial, was heard to-day in the Court of First Instance. Monsieur Ferdinand-Julien Bélan married in June, 1824, Mademoiselle Armide-Constance-Fidèle de Beausire. For several years----’”

“Ferdinand Bélan?” I exclaimed, waking from my reverie. All eyes were turned upon me, and someone exclaimed:

“Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours? What sort of man is he? Tell us about him.”

“I do know a person of that name, but perhaps it is not the same man. My Bélan is married, it is true, but I lost sight of him a long while ago. I know nothing whatever about him.”

“Oh! it’s probably this man.”

“He must look a fool!” cried a young guest.

“It seems to me that to be a betrayed husband must give a man a queer look!”

“That is a young man’s reflection,” said the Englishman. “If such things could be read on the face, the French would laugh much less at them.”

“Messieurs, I once played Sganarelle in _Le Cocu Imaginaire_; it was at Bordeaux. I played it afterward at Paris; but this that I am going to tell you about happened at Bordeaux. It was a performance that had been planned long before, and I was not to be in it. But all of a sudden the amateur who was to play Sganarelle became involved in a disastrous failure; he lost two hundred thousand francs. You can imagine that he didn’t care to act in theatricals then. The company was in dire perplexity, when Molé, who was one of them, said: ‘Pardi! I know a man who can help us out of the scrape if he will; he is a friend of mine, who acts like a little angel, and he happens to be in Bordeaux at this moment.’ And everybody said: ‘Oh! bring us your friend! Bring us your friend!’ Molé came to me and said: ‘Will you play Sganarelle in _Le Cocu Imaginaire_?’ I answered: ‘Why not?’

“‘You will restore life to some charming women, whom you will embrace--Do you know the part?’

“‘No.’

“‘It is very long.’

“‘I will know it to-morrow.’

“‘I defy you to do it!’

“‘What will you bet?’

“‘A truffled turkey!’

“‘Done.’--The next day I played Sganarelle and I had a tremendous success!”

“I believe, messieurs, that I brought this newspaper in order to read it to you; and if you will permit me----”

That devil of a man would not be denied; and although I knew very well that it was about the Bélan whom I knew, I was not at all curious to hear the report of his suit. Luckily, the mistress of the house entered the salon at that moment. After saluting everybody, she went to Mademoiselle Derbin.

“Mon Dieu! if I dared, mademoiselle--if it would not offend you, I----”

“What is it, madame?”

“We have a new guest, a French lady who has been here since morning. She has come to take the waters, and anyone can see that she is not travelling for pleasure solely, for she seems to be very ill, to suffer a great deal.”

“Is it the young lady whom I saw this morning?” asked the Englishman.

“Yes, my lord.”

“She has a very interesting air.”

“But what can I do, madame?” asked Caroline.

“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, it’s like this. This lady, who has very good style and excellent manners, has nobody with her but her maid. She has not left her room since morning, and I am afraid that she is bored. I went up to her room for a moment just now, and told her that the guests were assembled in the salon this evening, and that she ought to come down, that it would divert her. She neither consented nor refused. She seems very shy; but if anyone of the party, like yourself, mademoiselle, should go up and urge her to come, I am certain that she would not refuse. Poor woman! she seems so miserable! I am convinced that in company she would forget her suffering a little.”

Several of the guests added their entreaties to the landlady’s. I myself, well pleased that the newspaper should be forgotten, urged Mademoiselle Derbin to bring us the invalid.

“Since you are so curious to see this lady, messieurs,” said Caroline, rising, “I will go to her as your ambassador. But do not rejoice overmuch beforehand, for I do not agree to succeed; and you will perhaps be obliged to content yourselves with addressing your compliments to the ladies who are in the salon now.”

Having said this with fascinating gayety, she left the salon with the landlady. That incident cast Bélan’s lawsuit into the shade, and I hoped that no one would recur to it; but I noticed that the old gentleman, who did not admit that he was beaten, had gone to a corner of the salon in evident ill humor, with the Gazette des Tribunaux still in his hand.

Several moments passed.

“Mademoiselle Derbin will not succeed,” said the Spaniard; “if that lady is ill, she will not leave her room.”

“Why not?” said a young man; “need a person become a hermit because she comes here to take the waters?”

“I believe that my niece will succeed, messieurs; for in truth she succeeds in everything that she undertakes, and if she has taken it into her head to bring this new guest here, be sure that she will not return alone. My niece takes after me; I have played perhaps thirty parts in my life--what am I saying? I have played more than fifty!--Well, I assure you that at least a dozen of them I have learned in twenty-four hours, on the spur of the moment, like that of Sganarelle. But that was very long!--By the way, I haven’t told you the effect that I produced on Molé. He had never seen me except in a servant’s part; to be sure, Sganarelle is a servant’s part, if you choose, but----”

“Here comes Mademoiselle Derbin, and she is bringing the lady,” said a young man who had opened the door of the salon.

Instantly in obedience to a natural impulse of curiosity, we formed a circle and all eyes were turned toward the door.

Caroline appeared, leading the newcomer by the hand. Everybody bowed to the lady, and I, as I was about to do the same, stood as if turned to stone; then I fell back upon my chair. In that pale, thin woman, evidently ill and suffering, who had entered the room, I recognized Eugénie.

She had not seen me; for, as she came in, she bowed, without looking at all the people assembled in the room; and then, guided by Caroline, she went to a seat at once. I was almost behind her; I dared not move or breathe.

“Messieurs,” said Mademoiselle Derbin, “madame has consented to accede to my entreaties; but I had a vast deal of difficulty in inducing her to leave her retreat, and you owe me much gratitude.”

The gentlemen thanked Caroline, who had seated herself near Eugénie. The conversation began anew. Eugénie took little part in it; she talked with no one but Mademoiselle Derbin, who questioned her about her health. I heard one of the young men say to Monsieur Roquencourt:

“I recognize that lady, I saw her at a party in Paris two years ago. Her name is Madame Blémont, and her husband has deserted her; he was a good-for-nothing, a gambler, a rake.”

“Poor woman!” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “there are so many of those rascals of husbands who act in that way! to say nothing of the Beverleys, the Othellos, the--I was asked once to play Beverley, and it is the only part that I ever refused!”

I glanced at the young man who had named my wife. I was quite certain that he did not know me, for I could not remember that I had ever met him in society. But I cannot describe what I suffered; the sight of Eugénie had revived all my pain. I would have liked to fly, but I dared not; I was afraid to move hand or foot; if she should turn her head slightly, she would see me.

However, that situation could not last long. Caroline, having ceased to talk to Eugénie, turned to me and said:

“Well, Monsieur Dalbreuse, why do you stand so far away? You look as if you were sulking. Pray come and talk with us a little.”

I did not know what reply to make. But Eugénie had pushed her chair back as if to make room for me beside her neighbor; at the same moment she turned her eyes in my direction. Instantly I saw her sway from side to side, and her head fell against the back of her chair.

“This lady is ill!” cried Caroline, leaning over her. “Some salts, messieurs, quickly! Open the window; perhaps she needs air.”

There was a general movement. I rose with the rest and was about to leave the salon, but Caroline called me, detained me, begged me to help her to carry the invalid to the window, which had been opened. How could I avoid doing what she asked? And then too, the sight of that woman, whose eyes were closed and whose pale lips and emaciated features indicated great suffering, caused me profound emotion, and a sentiment which almost resembled pleasure. I was not hardhearted, but she had injured me so deeply! It seemed to me that I was beginning to have my revenge. Why then should I leave that salon? Was it for me to fly? No, I proposed to see how she would endure my presence.

While these ideas flitted through my mind, Caroline pushed me toward the chair in which Eugénie was sitting, saying:

“Well! for heaven’s sake, monsieur, do you propose to stand there without budging? Oh! how awkward men are under some circumstances!”

We carried the chair to the window, and someone brought salts.

“Hold the lady’s head,” said Caroline to me. “Come this way. Upon my word, I don’t know what you can be thinking about to-night, but you act as if you did not hear me.--Poor woman! how pale she is! But she is pretty, for all that, isn’t she? Tell me, don’t you think her pretty?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“I am very lucky to be able to get that out of you. Ah! she is coming to herself.”

Eugénie opened her eyes. She seemed to be trying to collect her thoughts. At last she looked slowly about her, and I was the first person whom she saw. She instantly lowered her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.

“You frightened me terribly, madame,” said Caroline. “How do you feel now?”

“Thank you, mademoiselle, it was an attack of vertigo; I am better. But I would like to go back to my room.”

As she spoke, she tried to rise, but fell back in her chair, faltering:

“I feel quite helpless!”

“Pray stay with us; this will pass away; it comes from the nerves. You will be comfortable by the window. Solitude causes ennui, and ennui increases one’s suffering. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Dalbreuse?--Well! he isn’t listening to me; I can’t imagine what is the matter with him to-night.”

While Caroline was speaking, I had walked away from Eugénie’s chair. She remained seated there, with her face turned toward the window; she did not look into the salon again.

“I never had an ill turn but once in my life,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “and that was caused by the heat. I had agreed to play the part of Arlequin in _Colombine Mannequin_; I was not very anxious to do it, for I dreaded the mask; but the company begged so hard that I had to yield. It was Madame la Marquise de Crézieux who played Colombine. A fascinating woman, on my word! I had a weakness for her. When I saw her as Colombine, she looked so pretty, that I made it a point of honor to do my best, and I played Arlequin magnificently. I performed a thousand capers and tricks; I was a regular cat! At the end of the play they threw flowers to me; the audience was in transports, in delirium! But I, bless my soul! I could stand it no longer! I fell when I reached the wings; and if they hadn’t torn my mask off at once, it would have been all over with me; I should have suffocated!”

Several persons went to Eugénie to ask her how she felt. I did not hear her replies, but she did not move.

She was afraid of meeting my eyes again, no doubt, if she turned her head. She had not brought her daughter with her. What a pity! And yet, if she had brought her, should I have been able to conceal my affection? Ah! I felt that I had remained there too long! I should have returned to Paris to see my daughter long before.

For several moments the conversation had lagged; some persons were talking together in undertones, but there was no animation. The old gentleman who had remained in a corner, with his newspaper in his hand, deemed the moment favorable, and drew his chair toward the centre of the room, saying:

“Gentlemen and ladies, I believe that we were talking just now of the trial which is reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux, which I have in my hand; in fact, I was about to read what the paper says, when someone went to bring madame here. I imagine that you will not be sorry to hear the report now, and I will begin. Hum! hum!”

“It is very hard to read well,” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “we have many authors who don’t know how to read their works. Larive was the one who could read well; yes, he read perfectly! For my part, when I had a letter to read on the stage, I would not have the prompter give me a single word! But once a very amusing thing happened to me. It was in _L’Etourdi_, I believe.”

“Monsieur,” said the old gentleman angrily, coming forward with his newspaper, “do you or do you not wish me to read you the Gazette?”

“Oh! beg pardon! Read on, I pray you. I will tell you my story afterward; it will make you laugh.”

I was on thorns. Was I to be compelled to listen to the report of that trial? And yet, was it not the beginning of my revenge? Eugénie would suffer terribly on listening to all those details. But it seemed to me that I should suffer as much as she. The pitiless reader had unfolded the journal and put on his spectacles; we could not escape him.

“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very interesting in its details, and in the course of the trial----’”

“You have read us that, monsieur.”

“That is so; let us come to the trial. ‘Monsieur Bélan seeks to obtain a divorce from his wife Armide de Beausire, for infidelity. The facts which led Monsieur----’”

At the first words that he read, I watched Eugénie; she tried to rise and leave the room; but she had taken only a few steps when a low groan escaped from her lips, her limbs stiffened, and she fell at Mademoiselle Derbin’s feet.

“It is a nervous attack!” people exclaimed on all sides; “she is very ill; we must take her to her room.”

Several of the gentlemen offered their assistance; Eugénie was taken from the room, and Caroline followed. I remained there, and walked to the window. That sight, that groan which I seemed still to hear, had rent my very soul. I felt that I desired no more revenge at that price. I would leave that very night. I did not wish to kill her. If it depended only upon me, she would speedily be cured. People went and came in the salon. Some discussed that second swoon; others went to inquire about the invalid’s condition. The old gentleman alone had returned to his corner, with an ill-humored scowl, and had put his paper in his pocket.

Caroline returned at last and everybody crowded about her. “The lady is a little better,” she said, “but really I am afraid that all the waters of Mont-d’Or will not restore her health.”

“I say, I can guess what caused that second fainting fit,” said the young man who had mentioned Eugénie before. “Poor Madame Blémont! That is the lady’s name----”

“Yes, I remember that the landlady called her so. Well! you were saying that the lady----”

“She was very unfortunate in her marriage; her husband left her, deserted her; she probably thought of all that, when she heard something about a husband bringing a suit against his wife.”

“What, monsieur!” said Caroline; “that lady has been deserted by her husband?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I have seen her several times at parties in Paris. I recognized her at once, although she is greatly changed.”

“And her husband?”

“I did not know him; it seems that he was a monster! a gambler, dissipated and jealous--all the vices, in short; he left his poor little wife with two children on her hands, a boy and a girl.”

“Oh! mon Dieu! There are some shameless men! That young woman has such a sweet and amiable manner! Certainly she is well adapted to make any man happy who is able to appreciate her! and perhaps she still loves him; for we are so soft-hearted, we cannot hate you, even when you most deserve it! Uncle, I certainly shall never marry.”

Having said this, Caroline looked at me as if to read in my eyes what I thought about it. But I looked away and did not say a word.

Everybody prepared to retire. We bowed to one another and said good-night. Suddenly I felt a hand on my arm; it was Caroline, who said to me with an offended air:

“So it seems that I must wish you good-night this evening, monsieur! You can certainly flatter yourself that you have made yourself very unpleasant!”

That reproach brought me to my senses; I reflected that I proposed to go away before dawn, and that perhaps this was the last time that I should see Mademoiselle Derbin; so I stepped forward to take her hand; but she drew it back, saying in an offhand tone:

“I do not forgive so quickly; to-morrow we will see whether you deserve that I should make peace with you.”

She left me, and I returned to my room. I felt that I must go away, that I must leave that house, that town. I felt that I could not endure to be in Eugénie’s presence; moreover, she was ill and I must have compassion for her. But why had she come to disturb the happiness which I was enjoying in that spot? I had almost forgotten the past, Mademoiselle Derbin was so attractive! But after all, I should have had to leave her a little sooner or a little later. Suppose that she should find out that I was that Blémont, that man who was called a monster in society!--How they abused me! But that did not offend me in the least; on the contrary, I was overjoyed that people were deceived; I would rather be looked upon as a scoundrel than to air my grievances before the courts, like Bélan. Poor Bélan! I suspected that he would come to that.--But Caroline believed that I was a bachelor; an additional reason for going away. What could I hope for from that acquaintance? To have a friend? Oh, no! at Caroline’s age, a husband is what is wanted; love is the essential sentiment; friendship is not enough for a heart of twenty-four years. She would eventually fall in with the man whom she was looking for, and she would forget me as quickly as she had made my acquaintance. And I--oh! as soon as I had my daughter in my arms, I was quite certain that I should forget the whole world.

“I will call Pettermann,” I thought, “and send him to the post-house to order horses, and tell him to pack our trunks.”

I called my faithful companion several times, but I received no reply. He was not in the habit of going to bed before I did. I went up to his room, but he was not there. I asked the people in the hotel if they had seen him; a maid-servant remembered that about noon he had gone into a small cabinet adjoining a building at the end of the garden, and that he had had brought to him there, with an abundant luncheon, several bottles of Burgundy. She assured me that he had not come out since morning. I remembered then that it was the first of the month, the day which Pettermann ordinarily selected to divert himself; so I guessed what he was doing in the cabinet. I requested the maid to show me the way. We went with a light toward the building which the ex-tailor had selected for his celebration.

We saw no light through the window, so we went in. Pettermann, who evidently was as conscientious about getting completely drunk once a month, as in keeping sober the rest of the time, was stretched out, dead drunk, by the table, at the foot of a bench upon which he was probably sitting when he was able to sit erect.

“Mon Dieu! is he dead?” cried the servant; “he doesn’t move!”

“No, don’t be alarmed, he is only drunk; and as that happens only once a month now, he doesn’t get drunk by halves. What an unfortunate chance, when I wanted to go away to-night.”

“Go away! Why monsieur has not ordered horses.”

“Can I not obtain horses at any hour at the post-house?”

“Oh, yes! but your servant here is in a fine state to start! I did not suppose that monsieur was thinking about going away.”

I went to Pettermann, I seized his arm and shook him, and called him by name.

“Prout! I am asleep,” murmured the tailor at last.

“But, my friend, I need you, so try to wake up.”

“Prout! I propose to drink enough to-day for a month; let me sleep; you can wake me when I am thirsty.”

It was utterly impossible for me to obtain a word more from him.

“I advise you, monsieur, to let your servant pass the night here,” said the girl; “he will be left in peace, nobody will disturb him. Anyway, you see that it would be hard to make him stir. You can’t take him away in this condition!”

The girl was right; I could not hope for anything from Pettermann that night. If I left Mont-d’Or, he was in no condition to accompany me. Should I go without him, or wait until the next day before leaving the town? The latter course seemed to me the more reasonable. Besides, I remembered that I was in possession of Mademoiselle Derbin’s portrait; after all the courtesies which she and her uncle had lavished upon me, would it not have been boorish to send the portrait to her without so much as bidding her good-bye? I determined to remain until the morrow; and to see to it that I did not meet Eugénie again before my departure.

I returned to my room and went to bed. I longed to go away, and yet I believe that I was not sorry to be obliged to remain.

XXI

A CHATTERBOX

On waking the next morning, my first thought was that Eugénie was under the same roof with me. How changed she was! How pale and sad! Was it remorse, repentance, that had caused that change? Ah! it was very good of me to assume that it was; had she shown any remorse when I wrote to her to inform her that we must part and to ask her for my daughter? Had she shown any when she passed me so haughtily in the Bois de Boulogne? No; and moreover the sin that she had committed is the one for which repentance is least frequently felt; this is not a moral truth, but it is the truth none the less.

No matter, I was determined to go. I did not propose to have a repetition of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame Blémont again, and I did propose to return to my daughter. Poor child! With whom had she been left? And Ernest did not write to me! But I forgot that I had not let him know that I had made a prolonged stay in that town, where I expected to remain only a day or two.

I rose and was about to ring for Pettermann, when, happening to glance at my mantel, I saw a note and a memorandum book which were not there the night before.

I walked toward the mantel. That memorandum book was mine; it was the one that I had handed to Ernest when we parted; by what chance did I find it there? I took up the note. Ah! I recognized that writing. It was Eugénie who had written: “For Monsieur Dalbreuse.” It was she who had sent me that book. The idea of her wanting me to have her portrait! What insolence! Should I not send it all back to her, without reading her note? Yes, I should have done it; but as one does not often do what one should do, I did not resist my curiosity, but I opened the note.

“I have learned, monsieur, that you wished to leave this hotel last night. Let not my presence cause you to leave a place where you seem to be enjoying yourself; I swear to you, monsieur, that you will not meet me again; I shall not leave my room again, and if my strength had allowed, I should have gone away instantly. I have left your daughter with Madame Firmin. She and her husband consented to undertake to act as parents to your children. I think that you will approve of my having left your Henriette with them; however, you will be at liberty to dispose of your daughter as you choose; I give her back to you, I no longer desire to retain anything except my tears and my remorse.”

How weak we are! I was incensed with her when I opened the note, and when I had read it I was deeply moved, completely upset! That letter was still wet with her tears. What a difference between it and the one with which she answered mine two years before! If she had written thus to me then--I did not know what I would have done. She gave me back my daughter, she had left her with Marguerite; how did it happen that she had entrusted her daughter to her? What change had taken place in her in two years? I was utterly at sea; but I was delighted to know that my little Henriette was with my loyal friends.

As for the memorandum book, I could not understand with what purpose she had sent it to me. Did she hope to force me to love her again, did she hope to obtain forgiveness by restoring that portrait to me? Oh, no! I had loved her too dearly to forgive her. Why had Ernest given her that souvenir? I determined to send it back to her.

I took the book in my hands and turned it over and over, as if to make sure that it was really mine; finally I opened it, to see if the painting had faded much in two years.

What did I see? The portrait of Eugénie was no longer there, but the portrait of my daughter, of my Henriette! Dear child! Yes, it was really she; there was her smile, there were her eyes. It seemed to me as if I had her before me! I kissed my child’s image. “Dear book,” I thought, “you shall never leave me again now; for although a child may tire of seeing her father, a father always takes pleasure in gazing at his child’s features.”--Ah! how grateful I was to Eugénie for sending me that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake that duty better than her daughter?

I desired to know who had placed those things on my mantel. I rang and Pettermann appeared, still rubbing his eyes.

“Pettermann, you were drunk yesterday?”

“Yes, monsieur, it was my day.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“Why, not very long. I had a downright good one yesterday. Prout!”

“I know it, for I saw you and spoke to you.”

“Faith, I didn’t see you or hear you, monsieur.”

“Then you haven’t told anybody in the inn that I intended to go away last night?”

“Go away last night?”

“And it wasn’t you who placed this memorandum book and this note on my mantel this morning?”

“No, monsieur, I haven’t been into your room since yesterday morning.”

“Pettermann, send me the little maid-servant, whose name I believe is Marie,--a stout, short girl.”

“Oh! I know, monsieur, she is the one who brought me my breakfast yesterday.”

The maid appeared. She denied having brought the note and the book; but she confessed that she had said that morning, before the other servants, that I had wanted to go away in the night.

What did it matter by whom Eugénie had sent me those things? I was no longer angry with her for doing it; but as I did not wish to compel her to keep her room, I would go away. And yet, if I should go at once, she would think that I could not endure to be near her, and I did not want to convey that idea to her, as a reward for the presents she had made me. I did not know what course to pursue.

I had ordered breakfast served in my room, and was about to sit down, when Monsieur Roquencourt appeared.

“Good-morning, Monsieur Dalbreuse.”

“Monsieur, accept my respects. What happy circumstance affords me the honor of this early visit?”

“My dear friend, my niece has sent me to ask you to come to breakfast with us and to drink a cup of tea. She hurried me, she hurried me so! Luckily, I dress very fast. When one has acted in theatricals, one is so accustomed to change one’s costume! By the way, my dear Monsieur Dalbreuse, what is this that my niece tells me? You attempted to go away last night, to leave us without even bidding us good-bye?”

“It is true, monsieur, that----”

“The idea of skipping scenes like that! of running away! I don’t understand that anyone is pursuing you, like Monsieur de Pourceaugnac. Ha! ha! ha! how I have made people laugh playing that devilish Pourceaugnac! It is a terribly hard part; many people have acted it, but the man whom I rank above all others in it is Baptiste Cadet. Ah! such admirable fooling, monsieur! For Pourceaugnac is not stupid, he’s a fool, but a well-bred fool; he shouldn’t be made an idiot with no manners. Baptiste Cadet grasped perfectly all those delicate shades of character, and----”

“But, monsieur, if mademoiselle your niece is waiting for us----”

“Yes, you are right, she is waiting for us. I warn you that she is terribly angry with you. That’s why she wants you to come to breakfast with us. She said that you were a horrid man. Ha! ha!”

I followed Monsieur Roquencourt. So Caroline proposed to scold me because I had intended to go away; had she a right to do it? To my mind, she had not.

Mademoiselle Derbin was sitting down and drinking tea; she honored me with a slight nod; I saw plainly enough that she was angry, but that she did not mean to appear so.

Monsieur Roquencourt took my hand and presented me to his niece with a comical expression on his face.

“‘Bourguignon, here is Lisette; Lisette, here is Bourguignon.’”

“What does all this mean, uncle?” said Caroline testily. “What are you talking about, with your Bourguignons and your Lisettes?”

“What! what does that mean? Do you mean to say that you never saw _Les Jeux de l’Amour et du Hasard_?”

“Did you bring monsieur here to act? I thought that it was to breakfast with us.--Pray sit down, monsieur; my uncle is unendurable with his theatricals!”

“In other words, you are cross this morning; that’s the real fact.”

“I, cross? Upon my word! why should I be cross? What reason have I for being cross?”

“I tell you that you are. However, I warned Monsieur Dalbreuse; I said to him: ‘My niece is mortally offended with you!’”

“Really, uncle, I don’t know what is the matter with you to-day. Did I tell you to say anything like that? Why should I be offended with monsieur? Because he intended to go away last night without even bidding us adieu? But after all, is not monsieur his own master? We are nothing more than mere acquaintances of his; people with whom he is content to amuse himself when it does not put him out, but of whom he ceases to think as soon as he has left them.”

“Oh! I trust you don’t think that, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, monsieur, I do think it; in fact I am convinced of it; if you had looked upon us in any other light, if you had had ever so little regard for us, you would not have wanted to leave us thus, and we should not be indebted solely to the drunkenness of your servant for the pleasure of seeing you again to-day.”

“Mademoiselle, an unexpected circumstance sometimes forces us to part from those persons who are most attractive to us.”

“Yes, to be sure, when there are other persons whom we are in a hurry to see, and for whom we forget even the simplest rules of courtesy.”

“My dear fellow, I warned you--she is very angry with you.”

“Mon Dieu! how disagreeable you are to-day, uncle!”

Monsieur Roquencourt laughed and drank his tea; I did the same. Caroline said nothing more, and did not turn her eyes in my direction. The uncle bore the whole weight of the conversation.

After a few moments, Caroline said to him:

“Have you heard from Madame Blémont this morning, uncle?”

“No, not yet.”

“That lady has a most distinguished air; I like her appearance very much.”

“Yes, she has very beautiful eyes; she reminded me of Mademoiselle Contat in----”

“Uncle, would it not be polite for you to go in person to ask how she passed the night?”

“I! why my dear girl, that lady is all alone; would she care to receive a visit from a man?”

“Oh! you have reached the age, uncle, when visits from you are of no consequence.”

“What do you say, niece? Do you know that I am still quite capable of making conquests? And if I chose----”

“But I am sure that you do not choose, my dear uncle. Go up to that lady’s room, I beg you.”

“I will go, but I will not answer for the consequences.”

When her uncle had left us, Caroline turned to me, and said in a tone which denoted a depth of feeling that I had not supposed her to possess:

“Why were you going away so suddenly and without seeing me? Tell me why, I beg you.”

“Urgent business summoned me to Paris.”

“I do not believe that; you had no letter yesterday. What had I done to you to cause such an abrupt departure? Had I said anything which hurt you? I am sometimes so foolish, so thoughtless----”

“No, mademoiselle, far from it. I am overwhelmed by your kindness, your indulgence.”

“My kindness! my indulgence! anyone would think that you were talking to your tutor! But why were you going, then?”

“I cannot tell you, mademoiselle.”

“Aha! so monsieur has secrets. All right! I prefer to have you tell me that. But my portrait--did you intend to carry that away?”

“No, mademoiselle, I should have had it delivered to you.”

“You would have sent it to me! but it is not finished; there is a great deal still to be done on it.”

At that moment the uncle returned and said:

“The lady is not visible yet. I expected as much. But she is greatly touched by our thoughtfulness and feels a little better this morning.”

“I am glad of that. I will go to see her.--By the way, uncle, when do we return to Paris?”

“When! upon my soul! that is a sensible question! I do exactly as she wishes, and she pretends to wait upon my desires. Ha! ha! that’s a good joke!”

“Well, it seems to me that we might pass another week here. And if Monsieur Dalbreuse’s business were not so urgent, we would invite him to accept a seat in our carriage, and take him to Paris with us.--Well, monsieur, will you tell us what you think of my uncle’s proposition?”

“Yes, my dear fellow; for although my niece always arranges everything to suit her own whim, I must needs pretend to have done it. However, be sure that I shall be most delighted to have you for a travelling companion.”

I did not know what to say, what to decide upon; it seemed to me that I ought to go, and yet it would be most agreeable to me to remain. A week soon passes. I should not come into contact with Madame Blémont, since she would remain in her room, and she herself had entreated me not to go away.

While I made these reflections, Caroline came to my side. At last she tapped me lightly on the shoulder.

“Whenever you are ready, monsieur,--we are waiting for your reply.”

“Oh, excuse me, mademoiselle; I was thinking----”

“Will you return to Paris with us?”

“I am afraid of incommoding you. I have someone with me.”

“Your German? There is a seat behind the carriage.”

“Very well, I accept, mademoiselle.”

“Ah! that is very kind of you!”

Once more Mademoiselle Derbin was in a charming humor. She arranged a drive for the day, intending to visit some points of view in the neighborhood of which someone had told her. We must be ready in an hour; she left us to attend to her toilette; we were to have no sitting for the portrait that day.

Caroline was a spoiled child; that was evident from her wilful manner, from her fits of impatience when her whims were not gratified; but she was so attractive, so fascinating when she chose to be agreeable, that it was really difficult to resist her. I believed that she had an affectionate, susceptible heart, a little inclined to enthusiasm perhaps. The interest that she manifested in me troubled me sometimes; I dreaded lest she should be in love with me. I dreaded it, because that love could not make her happy; but in the depths of my heart I should have been flattered, yes, enchanted; for our self-esteem is always more readily listened to than our reason.

To divert my mind from such ideas, I gazed at my daughter’s portrait, I asked her pardon for not returning to her at once; but I knew that she was with Ernest and his wife, and I was certain that she was well and that they often talked to her about me.

The hour for our drive arrived and I joined Mademoiselle Derbin and her uncle. Caroline wore a lovely costume; her great dark eyes shone with a deeper light than usual; they expressed pleasure and satisfaction.

“Do you think that I look well in this dress, monsieur?” she asked.

“I think that you always look well, mademoiselle.”

“Is that true? Do you mean what you say?”

“To be sure I do. Besides, I am only the echo of the whole world.”

“I do not like to have you an echo; I don’t ask you what other people say; that is entirely indifferent to me.”

We were just about starting when Caroline exclaimed:

“By the way, suppose I should invite Madame Blémont to go with us?”

“You know very well that she is ill, mademoiselle; she will refuse.”

“A drive cannot fail to do her good. I am going to ask her.”

“You are taking useless trouble, mademoiselle.”

“We will see about that, monsieur.”

She paid no heed to me and left us. But I was not alarmed; Eugénie certainly would not accept.

Monsieur Roquencourt came up to me and, pointing to his waistcoat, which was made of white silk, with colored flowers, and cut after the style of Louis XV, said to me:

“What do you think of this waistcoat?”

“It is very original.”

“I wore it in the part of Monsieur de Crac.”

“I can well imagine that it must be very effective on the stage.”

“All the ladies raved over it; but I played Monsieur de Crac very nicely too. In the first place, I talk Gascon as well as if I were a native of Toulouse, and Dugazon gave me a few lessons for that part. My first lines were admirable:

“‘Enfants, pétits laquais qué jé né logé pas, Jé suis content; allez, je paîrai vos papas. On né mé vit jamais prodigué dé louanges, Mais ils ont rabattu commé des pétits anges.’”

Monsieur Roquencourt might have recited the whole play if he pleased, for I was not listening to him; I was awaiting Mademoiselle Derbin’s return most impatiently. At last she appeared, and, as I hoped, alone; there was an expression of something more than annoyance on her face.

“Let us go, messieurs,” she said; “Monsieur Dalbreuse predicted that my trouble would be thrown away; Madame Blémont refuses to come with us.”

We entered the carriage and began our drive. I was most anxious to know what those ladies had said to each other, but I dared not question Caroline. She saved me the trouble, for she said, gazing earnestly at me:

“Monsieur Dalbreuse, do you know Madame Blémont?”

“I, know that lady? Why,--no, mademoiselle.”

“You act as if you weren’t quite sure.”

“I beg your pardon, but why did you ask me that question?”

“Because she did nothing but talk about you all the time I was with her; asking me if I had known you long, if we had ever met anywhere before. That struck me as rather strange. When I told her that we intended to return to Paris together, she made a wry face. Ha! ha! it is very amusing.--And you say that you never met her in Paris?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

“Then you apparently made a conquest of her last night; isn’t that so, uncle?”

“My dear girl, what would there be so extraordinary in that? I myself made ten conquests in the part of Figaro. To be sure, my cherry and white costume was very elegant.”

“It seems that Monsieur Dalbreuse does not need to be dressed as Figaro in order to fascinate the ladies. I confess that this particular one does not attract me so much as she did. I looked closely at her this morning. Great heaven! such thinness! such pallor! She certainly can never have been very pretty.”

I was on the point of contradicting her, but I restrained myself and said nothing.

After a drive of several hours, we returned to the hotel. We noticed much commotion among the people of the house, and a servant informed us that new guests had arrived: two English lords and their ladies, and a gentleman from Paris, who alone made as much fuss as four people.

Caroline went at once to change her dress, in order to outshine the Englishwomen, and perhaps also to turn the heads of the Englishmen and the Parisian.

I returned to my room and reflected upon what Mademoiselle Derbin had told me of her conversation with Madame Blémont. What did my intimacy with Caroline or with any woman matter to Eugénie? Was I not at liberty to dispose of my heart as I chose? But women have so much self-esteem that even when they no longer love you they are vexed to see that you follow their example. Men are much the same too.

I went without apprehension to the evening reception, being fully persuaded that Madame Blémont would not be tempted to appear.

There were many people in the salon. The English party was already there; the two young women were young and pretty and their travelling companions--I did not know whether they were their husbands--paid no attention to them, but were already deep in politics with the Spaniard and some Frenchmen. Several young men were already playing the gallant with the young women. I joined Mademoiselle Derbin, who was almost deserted for the new arrivals, although they were not to be compared with her.

I sat down beside her; I was pleased to see that she was not annoyed at the desertion of her little court.

“So you don’t do like the rest?” she said with a smile; “you don’t go to offer incense to the strangers?”

“I have no inclination to do so; why should one change when one is well off?”

“That often happens, however.”

“Alas, yes! but apparently it may be that one is well off and does not realize it.”

“I trust that I shall never have the experience.”

I do not know how it happened that at that moment Caroline’s hand was under mine. She did not take it away, and we sat thus for a long while, paying no heed to what was taking place in the salon. But the touch of that hand reminded me of Eugénie and of the time when I was paying court to her. Doubtless Caroline had no suspicion that the pressure of her hand made me think of another woman, and that it was that which made me pensive. But we very often deceive ourselves with respect to the sensations which we arouse. And the thing which flatters our self-esteem would sometimes cause us naught but vexation if we knew its real cause.

Suddenly the door of the salon was noisily opened and someone entered, talking very loud and making a great uproar. I turned, for whenever anyone entered the salon, I felt a thrill of uneasiness.

“This is the gentleman from Paris, no doubt,” said Caroline.

I looked at the newcomer, who was just saluting the company; it was Bélan!

He had already turned in our direction; he bowed to Mademoiselle Derbin, and, in spite of the signals that I made to him, exclaimed when he saw me:

“I am not mistaken! it is Blémont! dear Blémont, whom I have not seen for two years! Ah! my dear friend, embrace me!”

He opened his arms; it seemed to me that I could choke him with great good will. All eyes were turned upon us. I could not conceal my embarrassment, my irritation. Bélan seized me and embraced me in spite of myself, still exclaiming:

“Dear Blémont! how pleasant it is to meet a friend when travelling, isn’t it?”

“Hum! may the devil take----”

“What’s that? He has not yet got over his surprise.”

Caroline, her attention attracted by the name of Blémont, gazed steadfastly at me and said to Bélan:

“Why, are you not mistaken, monsieur? It is Monsieur Dalbreuse whom you are speaking to. Am I not right, monsieur? Pray answer!”

I did not know what to say. Bélan rejoined:

“So his name is Dalbreuse now? Faith, my dear fellow, I never knew you by that name, but I understand--ah! the rascal!--it was when he left his wife that he changed his name, in order to play the bachelor.”

“His wife!” cried Caroline.

“His wife!” several others repeated.

“Monsieur,” I said, with great difficulty restraining my anger, “who requested you to go into details which concern nobody but me?”

“Mon Dieu! I had no idea that it was a secret, my dear Blémont; and then, I have just met your wife in the garden; and now I find you here; so I suppose that it’s all settled, that you have come together again, and----”

“That is enough, monsieur.”

“Your wife in the garden! what! is she your wife?” said Caroline, under her breath.

I lowered my eyes. At that moment I wished that the earth would open and conceal me from every eye; I heard people saying on all sides:

“He is the sick woman’s husband!”

Bélan, observing my embarrassment and the effect his words had produced in the salon, gazed at me with a stupid expression, muttering:

“If you are angry, I am very sorry; but I could not guess! you ought to have warned me. Of course you know what has happened to me? Parbleu! there is no mystery about that; my case was reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux a few days ago. I am--oh! it is all over; I am--I don’t care to say the word before these ladies. But see how unlucky I am! the court has decided that there were no proofs; it condemns me to continue to live with my wife, and insists that I am not a cuckold.--Bless my soul! the word slipped out after all!”

“Cuckold!” repeated several young men with a laugh. “Can it be that monsieur is the Monsieur Ferdinand Bélan of whom the Gazette des Tribunaux had something to say recently?”

“I am the man, messieurs: Julien-Ferdinand Bélan, who sought a divorce from Armide-Constance-Fidèle de Beausire. They have condemned me to keep my wife, but I shall appeal. I am certain that I am a cuckold; my judges were bribed.”

They surrounded Bélan, they examined him, exchanging smiles, and questioning him. The result was that attention was diverted from me. I took advantage of that fact, and without raising my eyes, without noticing Caroline’s condition, I hurried from the salon.

I went up to my room, I sent for Pettermann, and ordered him to make everything ready for our departure. I determined to go away at the earliest possible moment. Ah! how I regretted that I had not followed my plan of the day before! If I had gone then, I should have avoided that scene, and no one would know--But I should never see all those people again. And Caroline--and her uncle--in what aspect should I appear to their eyes? As a villain, a schemer perhaps! people always form a bad opinion of a man who conceals his name. That infernal Bélan! what fatal chance led him where I was?

I went downstairs to pay my bill. I determined to return to Paris by post, and not to stop _en route_, for fear of other encounters. The landlady was very sorry, she said, at my sudden departure; but I paid her and ordered my horses.

While I was waiting for the post-chaise to be made ready, and the horses to arrive, I paced the courtyard of the hotel in great agitation. I did not wish to go into the garden, for fear of meeting Madame Blémont, who, Bélan said, was there alone; I did not wish to return to the house either, for I feared to meet someone from the salon. So I sat down on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard. It was dark and I could not be seen from the house. I abandoned myself to my thoughts; there were some persons there whom I regretted to leave, but I tried to console myself by thinking that I was going back to my daughter, and that I should soon see her.

Someone passed me; it was a woman. She stopped, then walked toward me. Had she seen me? Yes, she came to where I was and sat down beside me. It was Caroline! I could not see her features; but from her tremulousness of voice and her hurried breathing, I divined her agitation.

“I was looking for you, monsieur; I wanted to speak with you.”

“And I myself, mademoiselle, was distressed that I was unable to bid you adieu. But I am waiting for the post horses; I am going away.”

“Going away? I suspected as much. You are right, monsieur; indeed, you should have gone away before. I am very sorry that I detained you this morning. Ah! I can understand now why you wished to shun Madame Blémont’s presence! So it is true, monsieur, that you are her husband?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“You are married, and you concealed it from me, and you--oh! your behavior has been shocking! I hate you, I detest you, as much as I esteemed and liked you before. You are married! Why didn’t you tell me so, monsieur?”

“As I had ceased to live with my wife, it seemed to me, mademoiselle, that I was at liberty to----”

“At liberty, yes, of course you were at liberty. What do you care for the distress, the torture you may cause others? Perhaps you laugh at it in secret. I see that there was no mistake in what people said of you. And yet the portrait was not flattering. However, you must have heard it yourself yesterday. Was it the truth, monsieur?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“So you abandoned your wife without cause, without lawful reason?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And you saw her condition, her suffering--and it did not touch you? you did not throw yourself at her feet and ask her pardon for your wrongdoing?--Oh! you are a monster!”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and wept and sobbed. I could do nothing but sigh and hold my peace. At last she continued:

“You must go back to your wife, monsieur; it is your duty. Won’t you do it? Remember what an effect the sight of you had upon her! Poor woman! how far I was from suspecting! And that does not make you repent of your conduct? Mon Dieu! your heart is pitiless! Ah! I had not formed that opinion of you.--But, Monsieur Dalbreuse--that name alone comes to my mind--promise me, swear to me that you will go back to your wife.”

“No, mademoiselle, I cannot make you a promise which I have no intention of keeping. We are parted forever.”

“Forever! In that case, monsieur, I must bid you adieu, and forever also; it would not be proper for me to see again a man who has represented himself to be what he is not. You had not enough confidence in me to tell me.--But, after all, what could he have told me? That he had abandoned his wife and children. Oh, no! such a confidence would have aroused my indignation; it was much better to be agreeable, to try to please me, to conceal the fact that he was bound for life; for that is the way you behaved toward me. And yet, monsieur, if I had loved you, if I had allowed myself to be seduced by these deceitful appearances, would you have made me unhappy too?--Well! why don’t you answer me, monsieur?”

“I believe, mademoiselle, that I have never said a word to you which could lead you to believe that----”

“No, that is true, you have said nothing to me. I am a coquette, a foolish girl. Oh, no! you have never tried to please me.--But you have my portrait, and it seems to me that it is useless, to say the least, for you to keep it: for I trust that we shall never see each other again, monsieur.”

“Here it is, mademoiselle; I intended to send it to you from the first post-office.”

Caroline took, or rather, snatched the portrait from my hands; at that moment a servant called me and Pettermann shouted that the horses were ready.

I rose: Caroline did the same; but at the first step that I took she seized my arm and said to me in an imploring tone:

“Monsieur, I cannot believe that your heart is deaf to the names of husband and father. Perhaps your departure will cause the death of her who came here, I doubt not, in the hope of being reunited to you. Oh! do not disappoint her hope. Give her back a husband, give your children a father. Will all the pleasures of which you are going in search equal those which await you with the wife who adores you? For she does adore you, I am sure, and she will forgive you. Just think that she is here, in yonder garden. She hears you, perhaps. Look, see that white shadow which I can make out near the garden gate.”

In truth, despite the darkness, I fancied that I saw a woman. I instantly disengaged my arm and hurried away from Caroline; I ran across the courtyard and jumped into the carriage which was awaiting me; Pettermann followed me and we drove away.

XXII

THE CHILDREN

We made the journey without stopping. The farther I left Eugénie behind, the more relieved I felt. I could not understand how I had ever consented to remain where she was. Mademoiselle Derbin must have had great influence over me to make me forget all my resolutions. Should I ever have reached the point of standing in Madame Blémont’s presence without emotion? Oh, no! that could never be. When she defied me, I was angry; but now that she seemed to be suffering, I was more embarrassed than ever before her.

We arrived in Paris. When we left the chaise, poor Pettermann could not walk, his trousers were stuck to him; despite all his efforts to conceal his suffering, he made wry faces, which would have amused me if I had not been in such haste to reach Ernest’s house. I hired a cab and assisted my companion to enter it; he sat opposite me, exclaiming:

“Prout! this is what one might call travelling fast: two relays more and my rump would have been cooked.”

I was going to see my daughter again, to embrace her at my ease. How slow that driver was! how lazily his horses went! At last we arrived in front of Firmin’s house; I jumped from the cab before Pettermann had succeeded in moving.

Another disappointment: Firmin and his wife were at Saint-Mandé, where they had bought a little house; they passed the whole summer there. So I must go to Saint-Mandé. I procured their address, I returned to the cab, and we started again, to the utter despair of Pettermann, who had risen and could not sit down again.

Luckily, Saint-Mandé is not far from Paris. When we reached the village, I alighted, for I could go more rapidly on foot; I hurried forward and soon spied the house that had been described to me: two floors, gray blinds, an iron gate, and a garden behind; that was the place. I rang, or rather jerked, the bell. A servant came to the door.

“Monsieur Firmin?”

“This is where he lives, monsieur.”

I asked no more questions, but hastened up the first flight of stairs that I saw; I paid no attention to the maid, who called after me: “Monsieur is at work and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”--I was sure that Ernest would forgive me if I interrupted him in the middle of a scene or of a couplet.

I reached the first floor and passed through several rooms; at last I found my author. He opened his mouth to complain of being disturbed; but on recognizing me, he threw down his pen, and rushed to embrace me.

“So you have come back at last, my dear Henri! We have been expecting you every day.”

“Yes, here I am, my friend, and in a terrible hurry to see my daughter.”

“She is here. Your--your wi--Madame Blémont placed her in our charge.”

“I know it.”

“You know it? And I hoped to surprise you! Who told you?”

“Eugénie herself.”

“You have seen her?”

“At Mont-d’Or. I will tell you all about it. But pray tell me where Henriette is.”

“All the children are in the garden with my wife.”

“Come, show me the way. But I beg you, say nothing to her; I want to see if she will recognize me; a child forgets so quickly at her age!”

“My friend, it isn’t the children alone who forget quickly. I am sure your daughter will recognize you.”

We went down into the garden; my heart beat fast with pleasure. At the end of a path I saw Madame Firmin seated on a grassy bank; a little beyond was a patch of turf, on which four children were playing. My eyes sought my daughter only, and I recognized her at once. She had grown, but she had changed very little.

The children were engrossed by their play, and they did not hear us coming. Marguerite caught sight of us, and on recognizing me she started to meet us. I motioned to her to stay where she was and to say nothing. I walked softly to the patch of turf; I crept behind Madame Ernest, to where a lilac bush concealed me from the children. Then I called Henriette aloud.

She raised her head and looked about her in amazement, saying:

“Who called me? It wasn’t you, was it, my dear friend?”

“No,” said Marguerite, “but perhaps it was my husband, for here he is now.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t his voice. It is funny, but it was a voice that I know.”

I called again without showing myself. Henriette seemed startled; her face flushed and she trembled; she looked about in all directions, crying:

“Why, I should think that it was papa’s voice!”

I could hold out no longer; I stepped from behind the bush; Henriette saw me, uttered a shriek, and rushed into my arms, saying again and again:

“Oh! it is my papa! it is my papa!”

“Dear love! how happy it makes me to hold you in my arms again! how could I have delayed my return so long!”

I sat down beside Madame Ernest and took my daughter on my knee.

“So you recognized me, did you?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes, papa; I recognized your voice too.”

“Have you thought of me sometimes?”

“Yes, papa, and I said that you were an awful long time away.”

“My dear love, after this, I won’t leave you any more.”

Ernest’s two children had left their play and had drawn near to look at me. A little boy, about three years old, alone had remained on the grass; he looked at us with a timid air. Suddenly my daughter left my knee and ran to the little boy, took his hand, and led him to me, saying:

“Come, Eugène, and kiss papa.”

I had guessed that it was he. I examined him closely: he had pretty chestnut hair, lovely eyes, a pink and white complexion, and a gentle expression; he looked very much like Eugénie; that was all that I could discover in his features.

Doubtless my face had grown stern, for the child seemed to be afraid to come forward. I could not help smiling, however, when he said to me with a comical gravity:

“Good-morning, papa.”

I kissed him on the cheek, but sighed as I did so, with a heavy weight at my heart. Then I put him down and he returned at once to the grass. It seemed that the poor little fellow noticed that I had kissed him against my will.

I took my daughter on my knee again; she jumped about and clapped her hands for joy, saying:

“Now, when mamma comes back, I shall be happy; she will come soon, won’t she, papa? Why didn’t you bring her back? She told me that she was going to get you.”

I turned my eyes away and made no reply. Ernest said to me in an undertone:

“My friend, you forbade us to mention your wife to you; but you must expect now that Henriette will mention her very often. You certainly would not want your daughter to cease to think of her mother?”

“No, of course not; besides, I am more reasonable now than I used to be. I am now curious to learn--Henriette, go and play with your little friends.”

My daughter went back to her brother and Ernest’s children. I sat between Marguerite and Ernest and said to them:

“Tell me what has occurred since I went away, and how it happened that my daughter was placed in your charge.”

“Yes, we will tell you all about it,” said Marguerite. “But first--I say, Ernest, have you told him?”

Ernest smiled but said nothing.

“What is it?” I inquired.

“We are married!” cried Marguerite, jumping up and down on the bench. “It is all settled--three months ago. Ah! I am not afraid of his leaving me now; I am his wife.”

She ran to Ernest, took his head in her hands, and kissed him; he extricated himself, saying:

“Stop! you are rumpling my shirt.”

“You see, Monsieur Henri, he is less agreeable already!--Oh! I only said that in fun.”

“My dear friends, you have done well to be married, since that was your wish. I do not think that you will be any happier than you were, but I hope that you will be as happy. You have pledges of happiness.”

I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest, who said:

“That is enough about ourselves, now let us come to your matters.--When you had gone, I determined to ascertain how Madame Blémont was behaving. But she appeared in society very little; and yet--for you know how just the world is--people pitied her, praised her highly, and blamed you for deserting her. One night she came to a large party where I was. Her costume was as elaborate as ever; but I thought that she had lost color, that she had greatly changed. I fancied that her gayety was forced, and I noticed that she relapsed constantly into a gloomy reverie, from which she emerged with difficulty. You know what sentiments Madame Blémont aroused in my breast. I was the only person in the world who looked at her with a more than severe expression, and I am convinced that she felt that I was the only one to whom you had confided your misfortunes; so that my presence always produced a magical effect upon her; she ceased to talk, and it seemed to me that in my presence she dared not even pretend to be light-hearted.

“Bélan came to that same party with his wife and his mother-in-law. I do not know whether it was from malice or from stupidity, but on seeing me, he said to me:

“‘Well! so poor Blémont was nearly killed! He was knocked down in the Bois de Boulogne by some people riding. I heard about it from a young man who helped to pick him up.’

“Your wife happened to be standing behind us. I glanced at her and found that her eyes were fastened upon mine with an expression which I could not interpret. They seemed to implore me to listen to her. At once I turned my back and left the party. The next morning, at seven o’clock, your wife was at my house.”

“At your house?”

“Imagine my surprise when she entered my study, trembling and hardly able to stand.--‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I am convinced that you know of all my wrongdoing toward Monsieur Blémont; I have read in your eyes the contempt which you feel for me, and it has required much courage for me to venture to call upon you; but what I heard last night has made it impossible for me to enjoy a moment’s rest. Monsieur Blémont was hurt in the Bois de Boulogne by some people on horseback. I remember very well that I passed him; can it be that I was unconsciously the cause of that accident? Have I that crime also to reproach myself with? Can it be that Monsieur Blémont has not recovered? For heaven’s sake, take pity on my anxiety and conceal nothing from me.’

“I told your wife how the accident happened. She could not doubt that she was the original cause of it. She listened to me without a word; she seemed utterly crushed. I felt bound to take advantage of that opportunity to tell her of the repulsion that you felt for your son, of your intention not to see him; and I concluded by handing her the memorandum book which you had left with me and which contained her portrait. When she saw it, a cry of despair escaped her, and she fell unconscious to the floor. Marguerite came and I placed her in her care. She will finish the story now.”

“Mon Dieu! I have little to add,” said Marguerite. “I found the poor woman unconscious; I did what I could for her, but when she came to herself she was in the most horrible state of despair. She desired to die, she tried to end her own life. She called upon you and her children, and gave herself the most odious names. Ah! I am sure that if you had seen her then, you would have had pity on her; for my own part, as I saw that she had an attack of fever, and that her mind wandered at times, I would not let her go home alone, but I went with her; then I sent and asked my husband’s permission to stay with her until she was better, and he consented.”

“Oh! what a kind heart you have, madame! you forgot the way that she treated you.”

“Oh! I forgot that long ago, I promise you. In this world we must forget much, I think, and forgive often. Madame Blémont, in her lucid intervals, looked at me and pressed my hand without speaking. When she was really better, she thanked me for taking care of her, as if what I had done was not the most natural thing in the world; she asked me to forgive her for the evil opinion she had had of me. Oh! I forgave her with all my heart. She confessed that I had always made her very jealous, and I scolded her for suspecting you; I told her that you used to come to my little room solely to talk to us about her, and she wept as she listened to me. But she wept much harder when she told me about her wrongdoing; and I too shed tears while she was telling her story, for I saw that she had always loved you, and that, except for her insane jealousy, her anger, and the bad advice she received----”

“Well, madame?”

“Well, she told me that she regretted having refused you your daughter, and, notwithstanding the grief it would cause her to part with her, she had decided to comply with your slightest wish. She begged me to take charge of little Henriette until she returned. You can imagine that I consented. She also recommended your son to me--yes, your son, and she repeated the words several times. She told me that she was going to live in retirement, and to turn her back on society forever.”

“And in fact,” said Ernest, “she did abandon altogether the sort of life she had been leading formerly; she lived in the most complete solitude. But I learned a few days ago that she had gone to Mont-d’Or to take the waters, because her physician had prescribed that journey, her health being much impaired.--That is what has happened, my dear Henri. In telling you this story, we have not tried to move you by dwelling upon your wife’s repentance, although we believe it to be sincere. We know that her fault is not one a husband can forget, especially when he loved his wife as you did yours; but, even without forgetting, one sometimes forgives; and there are many guiltier women in the world. We cannot help pitying Madame Blémont, and sighing over the future of your children.”

“My dear friends,” I said, taking a hand of each, “when I went away two years ago, your only wish was that I should forget a guilty wife; you had witnessed my despair, the tortures of my heart, and then you were perhaps more angry than I with the author of all my woes. To-day, the sight of Eugénie in tears, of her remorse, which I am quite willing to believe is sincere, has moved you, has touched you to the heart. You would like to induce me to forgive her; but do not hope for it. Although two years of absence have partly cicatrized the wounds in my heart, do not believe that it can ever forget the blow which was dealt it. Even if I should forgive her who destroyed my happiness, that happiness would not be revived, her presence would always be painful to me, I could never hold her in my arms without remembering that another also had enjoyed her caresses; such an existence would be a constant torment; I will not condemn myself to it. I cannot give my daughter a mother at that price; I think that I have done enough by maintaining her honor. Let us never return to this subject. As for little Eugène, I will do my duty. If I have not a father’s heart for him, it is because I must have some enlightenment to banish from my heart the suspicions which have found their way thither. Ah! I am greatly to be pitied for not daring to love the child whom I called my son.”

Ernest and Marguerite looked at each other sadly, but could find nothing to reply. I rose, thinking of Pettermann, whom I had left in the cab.

“Your house strikes me as a charming place; can you give me a room here?” I asked Ernest.

“It is all ready, and it has been waiting for you a fortnight.”

“Very good; but I don’t need Pettermann here; have I my apartment in Paris still?”

“Yes, I would not give it up on the last rent day, because I expected you.”

“In that case Pettermann can go there; and I, as you consent, will board with you; I shall go to Paris as little as possible.”

Pettermann was still sitting in the cab which was waiting in front of the house. I told him that he was to return to my apartment in Paris, to take up his quarters there, and to be always ready to bring what I needed to Saint-Mandé. Pettermann bowed, and drove away, saying:

“I am very glad that I didn’t have to get out of the carriage.”

Ernest and Marguerite showed me to the room which they had set apart for me. It looked on the garden, and I found it very much to my liking, especially when they pointed out to me, opposite my room, the room in which Henriette and her brother slept; I was very glad to be able to kiss my daughter as soon as I woke, and without disturbing anyone.

It only remained to show me the property. That was a joy for a landed proprietor, and Ernest and his wife were enchanted to do it. The house was not large, but it was pleasant and convenient. Moreover, Ernest was a genuine poet; he had no ambition; he would have been bored to death in a palace, and he agreed with Socrates. As for Marguerite, she fancied herself in a château, and she was never tired of saying, “our property.” But she would add at once: “When I used to live in my little room under the eaves, I hardly expected that I should have a house of my own some day.”

“A person is worthy of having a house of her own, madame, when it does not make her forget that she once lived under the eaves,” I would rejoin.

Only the garden remained to be inspected. It was quite large, and at the farther end there was an iron gate leading into Vincennes forest. At the end of the wall I saw a small summer house with two windows, one of which looked into the forest; they were both secured by shutters.

“What do you do with this summer-house?” I asked Ernest.

“I expect--I intend it for a study.”

“True, it will be a quiet place for you to work in.”

“But it isn’t arranged for that yet,” said Marguerite; “and as we have spent a great deal of money on our estate already, we shall wait a while before furnishing the summer-house; shan’t we, husband?”

“Yes, wife.”

Ernest smiled as he said that, and so did I, for Madame Ernest emphasized the word _husband_, which she uttered every instant, as if to make up for the time when she dared not say it.

I took my daughter by the hand to walk about the garden. Henriette was seven years old; she was not very large, but her wit and good sense amazed me. All the evening I kept her talking; her answers delighted me, for they denoted no less sense than goodness of heart. I could not tire of looking at her and of listening to her. More than once I had been terribly bored in a fashionable assemblage, but I was very sure that I should never be bored with my daughter.

The days passed quickly at Ernest’s house. Painting, reading, walks with my daughter, occupied the time. In the evening we talked; a few friends and neighbors dropped in, but informally and without dressing; the men in their jackets or blouses, the women in their aprons. That is the proper way to live in the country. Those who carry to the fields the fashion and the etiquette of the city will never know the true pleasures of country life.

I had been a fortnight at Saint-Mandé, and I had not once been tempted to go to Paris. Pettermann brought me all that I desired and did my errands with exactness. I always asked him if anybody had called, although I never expected visitors. In society no one knew that I had returned from my travels. Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece did not know my address in Paris, and even if they had known it, I could not expect a visit from them. Doubtless Caroline had ceased to think of me. She did well. For my part, I confess that I very often thought of her, and sometimes I regretted that I had given her her portrait. But a smile or a word from my daughter banished such ideas.

There was another person of whom I often thought, although Ernest and his wife never mentioned her. I continually saw her, changed and pale as I had seen her at Mont-d’Or; and at night, in the woods or in the garden, I fancied that I still saw sometimes that white spectre, the sight of which had caused me to fly so hurriedly from the hotel at which I was living.

How could I forget Eugénie? Did not my daughter talk to me every day about her mother? Did she not constantly ask me if she would come home soon? I tried in vain to avoid that subject, Henriette recurred to it again and again; I dared not tell her that she made me unhappy by speaking to me of her mother; but could I hope ever to enjoy perfect happiness? Was there not always someone whose presence would prevent me from forgetting the past?

Poor child! it was not his fault that his mother was guilty. That was what I said to myself every day as I looked at him; but in spite of that, I could not conquer my feelings and conceal the depression which his presence caused me. I did not hate him, and I felt that I should love him if I dared think that he was my son; but those cruel suspicions hurt me more than the certainty of the worst, for then I could have made up my mind with respect to Eugène, whereas now I did not know what course to pursue.

The poor boy had never seen a smile on my face for him; so that he always held aloof from me, and never came near me except when his sister brought him. Sometimes, as I walked in the garden, I saw Eugène in the distance playing with Ernest’s children. Then I would stop, and, standing behind a hedge, would watch him for a long while. I passed hours in that way. He did not see me and abandoned himself without restraint to the natural gayety of his age, which my presence seemed always to hold in check. He feared me, no doubt, and he would never love me. Often that thought distressed me; at such times I was seized with a wild longing to run to him and to embrace him, to overwhelm him with caresses, for I said to myself: “Suppose he were my son?” but soon the painful thought would return, my heart would turn to ice, and I would hurry away from the child’s neighborhood.

My daughter noticed that I did not caress her brother as I did her; for a child of seven makes her own little observations, and children notice more than we think. Henriette, who considered herself a woman beside her brother, because she was four years older than he, seemed to have taken little Eugène under her protection; she told him what games to play, scolded him, or rewarded him; in short, she played the little mamma with him. But when I called Henriette, I did not call Eugène; when I took her on my knee, I did not take her brother. Having observed all this, she said to me one morning as I had my arms about her:

“Tell me, papa, don’t you love my brother? You never kiss him, you never speak to him; but he is a nice little fellow. He loves you too, my brother does; so why don’t you take him in your arms?”

“My dear love, because we don’t treat a boy as we do a girl.”

“Ah! don’t people kiss little boys?”

“Very seldom.”

“But, papa, Monsieur Ernest kisses his little boy as often as he does his daughter.”

I did not know what to reply; children often embarrass us when we try to conceal things from them. Mademoiselle Henriette, seeing that I did not know what to say to her, exclaimed:

“Oh! if you didn’t love my brother, that would be very naughty!”

To avoid my daughter’s remarks and questions, I determined to kiss her less frequently during the day. However, as I desired to make up to myself for my abstinence, I always went into the children’s chamber when I rose. They were still asleep when I went in. Eugène’s cradle was by a window, and Henriette’s little bed at the other end of the room, surrounded by curtains, which I put aside with great care in order not to wake her. I never went to the cradle, but I left the room softly and noiselessly when I had kissed my daughter.

I had been doing this for several days. Henriette said no more to me about her brother, but glanced furtively at me with a mischievous expression; it seemed that schemes were already brewing in that little head.

One morning I went as usual to the children’s room; I drew the curtains partly aside and kissed my daughter, and I was about to steal away on tiptoe when I heard a burst of laughter behind me; I turned and saw Henriette in her nightgown, crouching behind a chair; she came from her hiding-place, and began to hop and dance about the room, saying:

“I knew that I would make you kiss my brother.”

I looked at her in surprise, then hastily pushed aside the curtains of her bed; it was her brother who was lying there; she had put her little cap on his head, and his face was turned to the wall. He was the one whom I had kissed, as his sister had put him in her place. I was deeply moved. At that moment Eugène’s little voice was heard; he called out without moving or turning:

“Can I move now, sister?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all over,” Henriette replied.

“What? What does he mean by that?” I asked.

“Oh, papa, he wasn’t asleep, he was only making believe; I turned his face to the wall and I said to him: ‘if you move, if you turn your head, papa will know you, and he won’t kiss you.’--He was very good, you see, he didn’t move at all.”

I could hold out no longer; I took Eugène in my arms and covered him with kisses, as well as his sister, crying:

“After this you will both receive the same caresses from me; my heart shall know no difference between you; you shall be alike my children. Ah! it is better to love a stranger than to run the risk of spurning my son from my arms.”

XXIII

THE MARRIAGE BROKER

Ernest and his wife very soon noticed the change that had taken place in my manner toward my son, and they seemed overjoyed. I told them what Henriette had done, and that the change was due to her. They lavished caresses upon her, and I did the same, for I owed it to her that I was much happier. Arriving one day from Paris, with books for me and toys for the children, Pettermann remained standing in front of me; it was his custom when he wished to say something to me to wait for me to question him; I had become used to that peculiarity.

“What is there new, Pettermann?”

“Nothing, monsieur, except that I met someone on my way here this morning.”

“Met someone? Does that interest me?”

“Yes, it was some acquaintances of monsieur, some people who were at Mont-d’Or at the same time that we were; that pretty young lady with such a fine figure and the thin, lively, good-natured little man.”

“Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you see them?”

“On the boulevard, as I was on my way to Faubourg-Saint-Antoine.”

“You did not speak first to them, I fancy?”

“Prout! as if I would ever have thought of such a thing! I didn’t even see them! All of a sudden I felt someone tap me lightly on the shoulder; I turned; it was the uncle. He was all out of breath; his niece was some distance behind. He said to me first of all: ‘You walk terribly fast, my friend! Ouf! you made me run.’--I answered: ‘Bless my soul, monsieur, I didn’t know that you were following me.’--Just then his niece joined us. She seems to be as inquisitive as ever, the young woman; you remember, don’t you, monsieur, that she asked me a lot of questions at Mont-d’Or?”

“Well, what did she ask you to-day?”

“First of all, how monsieur was; then as I had a package under my arm, she said: ‘Where are you going with that?’--‘To Saint-Mandé, mademoiselle.’--‘Does Monsieur Dalbreuse live at Saint-Mandé?’--‘Yes, mademoiselle.’--‘And is that bundle for him?’--‘Yes, mademoiselle.’--At that she began to laugh, with a queer expression, and I noticed that the head of a jack-in-the-box was sticking out of the bundle. The uncle asked me: ‘Is Monsieur Dalbreuse running a marionette theatre?’--‘No, monsieur; there are some books in the bundle for my master, but the toys are for the children.’--‘What! has he children with him?’ cried the young woman.--‘Prout!’ I said to myself at that; ‘there seems to be no end to these questions.’--So I took off my hat and saluted them, and told them that I was in a hurry.”

“Is that all, Pettermann?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

So Caroline had not forgotten me, although we had not parted on very good terms. But that was no reason why we should cease to think of each other; so many people part on most excellent terms and forget each other at once! That reminder of Mademoiselle Derbin caused me a pleasant emotion; she had such a strange temperament, a way of thinking that was not like other people’s; and in spite of that, she had all the charm of affability of her sex.

If Pettermann had still been there, I would have asked him whether Mademoiselle Derbin had changed, whether she seemed as bright and cheerful as formerly. I would have asked him--I don’t know what else. But he had gone. He had done well too. What occasion was there for me to think of Caroline? I had determined thenceforth not to love anybody except my children. It was a pity, however, for love is such a pleasant occupation!

It was three days after Pettermann had told me of that meeting. I was walking in Vincennes forest with my children. Eugène had become less timid with me; he smiled at me and kissed me, although he was not yet so unreserved as his sister, who made me do whatever she wished. I held a hand of each of them. I was listening to the chatter of Henriette and her brother’s lisping replies, when my daughter mentioned her mother, and my brow darkened.

“Papa, why doesn’t mamma come back?”

“She is ever so far away, my child. It may be that you won’t see her for a very long time.”

“But I don’t like that. Why don’t we go to fetch her?”

“That is impossible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know where she is now.”

“Oh dear! suppose she was lost!”

Henriette’s eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugénie had returned, I felt sure that she would have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugénie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had.

Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last:

“Why, papa, what are you thinking about?”

“About you, my child.”

“I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn’t say anything. And Monsieur Eugène never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He’s a hardhearted little wretch!”

Eugène looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses:

“Papa, tell me about mamma, please.”

I kissed Eugène, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarrassment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette:

“My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.”

“Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!”

“Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?”

“Yes, papa. So I must never speak to you about mamma, eh?”

“At all events, do not ask me questions that I can’t answer.”

“But I can still think about mamma, can’t I?”

“Yes, my dear Henriette; and be very sure that as soon as she returns to Paris, her first thought will be to come to embrace you.”

My daughter said no more. That conversation seemed to have saddened both the poor children. They said nothing more, and I myself sat beside them, lost in thought.

A few moments later a gentleman and lady came toward us. I had not raised my eyes to look at them, but I had heard my own name. It was Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.

They stopped in front of us.

“Yes, my niece was right, it is our dear friend Monsieur Dalbreuse!”

I rose and bowed to the uncle and niece. Caroline’s manner was cold but polite.

I did not recognize that animated and playful countenance which attached so many people to her chariot at Mont-d’Or; she had assumed a much more serious expression. Her glance was almost melancholy; but how well that new manner became her! How great a charm that change gave her in my eyes!

“My niece said a long way off: ‘There is Monsieur Dalbreuse;’ but I admit that I didn’t recognize you; and yet my sight is very good, I have never used spectacles. But who are these lovely children?”

“They are mine.”

“Yours? Oh yes! I remember now--my niece told me that you were married. They are charming; the little girl has magnificent eyes, and quite a little manner of her own. We shall make many conquests with those eyes.--And you, my fine fellow. Oh! you will play the handsome Leander with great success some day; you would be amazing with a club-wig.”

While Monsieur Roquencourt was looking at my children, his niece drew near to me and said in an undertone:

“So you have your children with you now?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

Then she stooped over Henriette and said:

“Will you give me a kiss, my dear love?”

My daughter made a dignified curtsy, then allowed herself to be embraced. Mademoiselle next took Eugène in her arms and kissed him. I do not know why I took pleasure in watching her do it.

“So you live at Saint-Mandé? We learned that from your servant, whom we happened to meet.”

“Yes, monsieur, I am passing the summer here; I am staying with a friend who was kind enough, with his wife, to take charge of my children while I was travelling.”

“There is one thing that you don’t know, and that is that we have been neighbors of yours since yesterday.”

“What?”

“Yes, I mean it. We have hired a little house, all furnished, at Saint-Mandé and we have installed ourselves there for the rest of the summer. It was an idea that came into my niece’s head. After we met your servant, she said to me: ‘I am not feeling very well, uncle.’--It is true that she has been out of sorts ever since we returned from Mont-d’Or.”

“Dear me, uncle! all this has very little interest for monsieur. What is the use of giving him all these details?”

“Anything that concerns you, mademoiselle, cannot fail to interest me.”

Caroline turned her face away. Her uncle continued:

“Yes, my dear girl, you are not well; it is of no use for you to try to conceal it, for anybody can see it; and this solemn, melancholy expression which has taken the place of your former gayety--for you have lost all your gayety and----”

“Why, you are mistaken, uncle; I am just the same as always.”

“Well, you insisted on coming here for your health--at all events you told me so; and when you insist upon a thing--you know, my dear Dalbreuse, it’s just as it was when she made us go to drive at Mont-d’Or--it has to be done on the instant. And so, inside of twenty-four hours, we came, we saw, and we hired a house! And we must needs take possession of it at once.”

“It was because I was bored to death in Paris; and then I--I did not know this neighborhood----”

“Well, I know it; but I am very fond of it. Dugazon had a country house at Saint-Mandé! I will show it to you when we return. We used to come here to have little supper parties and theatricals, and to enjoy ourselves. I played _L’Avocat Patelin_, and Petit-Jean in _Les Plaideurs_; and by the way, in _Les Plaideurs_, I played a wicked trick! You know, when----”

“But we are detaining monsieur, uncle; we are taking his time, perhaps!”

“Oh! by no means, mademoiselle; I was just going back to Saint-Mandé.”

“We are going back there too; we will go together. As I was saying, it was in _Les Plaideurs_. In the third act, you know, some little dogs are brought on. Dugazon had said to me: ‘Will you undertake to provide some little dogs?’ I already had my plan in my head, so I said: ‘Yes, I will.’ Very good. The performance began and the moment came when the unfortunate orphans are called for. I brought on a large open basket. Guess what came out of it: a dozen mice, which I had concealed inside and which instantly ran about all over the stage, and jumped down into the orchestra; and the men laughed and the women shrieked, for everyone of them thought that she had a mouse under her skirt! I held my sides with laughter! After the play, those ladies said that I was a monster! That affair was worth three conquests to me!”

Monsieur Roquencourt chattered on, and in due time we reached the village. Caroline had held Eugène’s hand all the way, and had talked frequently with my daughter.

“Here is our hermitage,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, stopping in front of a pretty house within two gun shots of Ernest’s. “I trust that you will come to see us, Monsieur Dalbreuse. In the country one must be neighborly,--isn’t that so, niece?”

“If monsieur chooses to give us that pleasure, if he would bring his children to see us, I should be delighted to see them again.--Would you like to come, my dear love?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And you, my little man? you must like sweeties and I always have some.”

Eugène replied with great solemnity that he would like to come to see the sweeties. I thanked her for the children and took my leave, promising to bring them the next day.

So Caroline wished to see me again; her fiery wrath against me was allayed; doubtless it was because the sentiment that had given birth to that wrath had also vanished. But why had she lost her former playful humor? Upon my word, I was very conceited to think that it had anything to do with me. Might not Mademoiselle Derbin have some heartache, or some secret, with which I was absolutely unconnected? I would have been glad to know if she had seen Madame Blémont again before leaving Mont-d’Or. However, I was not sorry for the meeting. When Ernest was at work, it was impossible to talk with him; and his wife was constantly busy with her children and with her household cares. So I thought that it would be pleasant to go sometimes to Monsieur Roquencourt’s for a chat.

At dinner I informed my hosts of our meeting.

“If they are pleasant people, ask them to come to see us,” said Ernest.

I noticed that his wife did not second that invitation. I had said that Caroline was lovely, and wives sometimes dread the visit of a lovely person; Marguerite was a wife now.

“My friend,” she said, “if they are people with twenty-five thousand francs a year and a carriage, I shall never dare to receive them.”

“Why not, pray, my dear love? I am an author, and genius goes before wealth. Isn’t that so, Henri?”

“It ought to be so, at all events.”

“But, my dear, I am not an author, I have no genius----”

“That doesn’t follow, my dear love; one is often found without the other.”

“At all events, I shall not dare, or I shall not be able--you yourself say that we must not make acquaintances which will entail expense.”

It seemed to me that Marguerite was getting mixed up; I fancied that I could see her making signals to her husband; but he was trying to compose the concluding lines of a quatrain, and was not listening to Marguerite. I comforted the little woman by telling her that she was under no obligation to receive Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.

“But you will go to see them?” she asked.

“Yes, I don’t see what should prevent me.”

“No, of course not. But you see, according to what I have heard of this young lady, who does not choose to marry, I have an idea that she is a flirt.”

“Even if that were so, so long as her company is agreeable, I do not see that I have anything to fear.”

Madame Ernest said no more; I saw plainly that she was not pleased with her new neighbor, and I could not imagine the reason; I did not propose that that should prevent me from going to see the new arrivals.

The next day I took my children to Monsieur Roquencourt’s house. I found the uncle walking in his garden, with several people from the neighborhood. Rich folk soon become popular; the neighbors vie with one another in becoming intimate with people who own a carriage. Monsieur Roquencourt was telling his new acquaintances about a scene from _Monsieur de Crac_; he took my son and daughter by the hand, and offered to show them his garden and to let them taste his peaches. I let them go and went into the house to pay my respects to Caroline. I heard the notes of a piano. A piano! how many things that instrument recalled to my mind! Those chords caused me a sharp pang now. I remembered that Mademoiselle Derbin had told me that she played the piano. I strove to overcome my emotions, and I entered the salon where Caroline was. I listened to her for some time without speaking; I cannot describe my sensations. She stopped at last and I approached her.

“Were you there?” she asked me.

“Yes, I have been listening to you.”

“Didn’t you bring your children?”

“I beg pardon, they are with your uncle.”

“Your children are lovely, and I congratulate you, monsieur, upon having them with you. It is a proof that your wife has forgiven your wrongdoing, since she entrusts to you her dearest treasures. That leads me to think that before long she herself----”

“Did you see her again before leaving Mont-d’Or, mademoiselle?”

“No, monsieur; she left the hotel where we were staying, on the day after you. Don’t you know where she is now?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

“Upon my word, monsieur, I utterly fail to understand your conduct. You seem to love, to be devoted to your children, and you abandon their suffering, unhappy mother! If I had never seen you, and anybody had told me about you, I should have imagined you as hideous physically as morally; but when one knows you, one cannot think that.”

Caroline smiled and I held my peace; that was the best course that I could pursue when that subject was broached. Henriette and Eugène came in from the garden. Caroline ran to them and embraced them and lavished toys and bonbons upon them; then, as I still remained silent, she sat down at the piano again and allowed her fingers to run over the keys for a few moments. Eugène was sitting in a corner, engrossed by his bonbons; Henriette was gazing in admiration at a lovely doll which had just been given her; but I noticed that, at the first sound from the piano, she stopped playing and listened. I listened too, for it seemed to me that it was Eugénie to whom I was listening; there were the same talent and the same expression. Soon my illusion was intensified, for Mademoiselle Derbin, after a brilliant prelude, began a tune which I recognized: it was Eugénie’s favorite. I was convinced that it was Eugénie who was playing, as in the early days of our married life. I was roused from that illusion by sobs; I looked up and saw that my daughter was sobbing bitterly and that the doll had fallen from her hands. I ran to Henriette, and Caroline did the same.

“What is the matter with you, my dear child?” I asked, taking her in my arms. “Why are you crying?”

“Oh! papa, it was because--because I thought that it was mamma playing!”

Poor child! I pressed her to my heart and I hid in her hair the tears which fell from my eyes.

Caroline was still standing before us, and I heard her say in an undertone:

“You see this child’s tears, and still you do not give her back her mother!”

I came to my senses and comforted my daughter; Caroline overwhelmed her with caresses; but, despite her efforts to detain me, I went away with the children; for I heard Monsieur Roquencourt coming, and at that moment it would have been impossible for me to endure a stranger’s presence.

I paid several visits to my neighbors, but Caroline did not play the piano again when I was there. She lavished caresses and presents upon my children, which they could not refuse; with me she was sad and silent, but she always declared that I went away too soon.

I saw that at Ernest’s house the new neighbors were not liked; that seemed to me very unjust, because they did not know them. They cast disdainful glances upon the toys that my daughter and Eugène received from Caroline; was it from jealousy, because her own children had not so many, that Madame Ernest cried down the presents that were given to my children? No, I knew Marguerite’s warm heart; it was not susceptible of envy. Why was it then that she showed so much prejudice against Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece?

On going one day to call upon Caroline, I was greatly surprised to meet Monsieur Giraud there. But I soon learned that he had been presented by a neighbor with whom he was passing the day. In the country one friend brings another to call, and Giraud was one of those people who ask nothing better than to be brought. He seemed delighted to see me; one always likes to find acquaintances in a house to which one goes for the first time; it puts one more at ease. When he discovered that I was a welcome guest in the house, that the uncle and niece manifested much regard for me, Giraud redoubled his cordiality toward me. I guessed his motive; he had not come there without a purpose; he must have heard that Mademoiselle Derbin was a marriageable person. A lovely and rich young woman--what a fine chance to negotiate a marriage! He desired to establish friendly communications in the house. He overwhelmed Caroline with compliments, which, I thought, did not touch her at all; but he listened with imperturbable patience while Monsieur Roquencourt recited the rôle of Mascarille; that might obtain him an invitation to come again.

But the neighbor who had brought him expressed a wish to go home. Giraud took his leave regretfully, asking permission to pay his respects to the uncle and niece when he happened to be driving at Saint-Mandé. They made a courteous reply, and he went away enchanted. I went at the same time, for I saw that he wished to speak to me. In fact, we were no sooner outside the house, than he put his arm through mine, slackened his pace, calling to his friend to go ahead, and plunged at once into conversation with me.

“My dear fellow, it seems to me that you are very intimate, received on very friendly terms at Monsieur Roquencourt’s?”

“Why, Monsieur Giraud, I flatter myself that I am well received wherever I go. If it were otherwise----”

“That isn’t what I mean. Bless my soul! I know your merit, my friend, although you no longer live with your wife; but that doesn’t prove anything. Look you, this young Derbin woman is a magnificent match, if what they tell me is true. But I shall make inquiries. Twenty-five thousand francs a year, unencumbered, and expectations from her uncle! and with all the rest, a pretty face, a fine figure, and talents! She plays the piano; does she play anything else?”

“I never asked her.”

“Never mind! she is a most excellent match, and I have just the man that she wants.”

“Indeed! you have----”

“Yes, you know very well that I always have husbands to offer. And so when Dupont, who is ahead of us there, spoke to me about this young lady, I said to him at once: ‘You must take me there.’--He has brought me, and I shall come again. Are they always at home?”

“Except when they go out.”

“But I mean, are they going back to Paris?”

“I have no idea.”

“In that case, I shall come again soon; it is too good a chance not to make haste; somebody else will get ahead of me. Luckily Saint-Mandé isn’t far away, and there are the omnibuses. But you must help me a little, my dear fellow. Sound the uncle and niece and mention my young man to them.”

“What young man?”

“The one whom I shall propose as a husband; a fine young fellow of twenty-two, an only son, with some money, who wants to buy a drug shop. However, if he doesn’t suit, I have others. The important thing is to find out whether the girl has any previous attachment.--Do you know whether she has?”

“By what right, Monsieur Giraud, should I ask that young lady such a question?”

“Bah! one can always find that out, without asking; however, never mind, help me a little inside the house; and I will try to have Dupont help too. I must overtake him now. My friend, sound the young lady, I beg you. You can offer a very good-looking fellow, with a hundred thousand francs, and two handsome inheritances in prospect. By the way, if she doesn’t like the idea of a drug shop, which is very likely when she has twenty-five thousand francs a year, he will buy a solicitor’s practice--that will suit her better; or, if necessary, he won’t buy anything at all.--Hallo! I say, Dupont, here I am!--The deuce! he is quite capable of dining without me.”

Giraud left me. I could not help laughing at his mania for marrying everybody; I had an idea that it was his only business, and that in addition to ordering the wedding banquet, he obtained a commission from the husband.

If he relied upon me to speak to Mademoiselle Derbin, he would be disappointed in his expectations. Fancy my speaking in favor of a person whom I did not know! Indeed, I did not see that it was so necessary for people to marry at all.

Three days had passed since that meeting. I had forgotten Giraud, and I am inclined to think that they thought little about him at Monsieur Roquencourt’s.

I had gone out for a moment without my children; I did not intend to see Caroline, but she was at the window when I passed; she saw me and beckoned to me to come in. Her uncle was in the garden and she was alone in the salon. Since our parting at Mont-d’Or, for some reason or other I was always embarrassed when I was alone with her.

For some time we did not speak. That is what often happens when two people have a great many things to say to each other. Caroline was sitting at her piano, but she did not play.

“Why do I never hear you play now?” I asked.

“Because it depresses you, and I do not see the sense of causing you pain.”

“There are memories which are painful and sweet at the same time. I would like to hear once more that tune which you played the last time.”

“And which made your daughter cry? Poor child! how dearly I love her!”

Caroline turned to the piano and played Eugénie’s favorite piece. I abandoned myself to the charm of listening and to the illusion of my memories. My heart was swollen with tears, and yet I enjoyed it. Caroline turned often to look at me, but I did not see her.

Suddenly a great uproar roused us from that situation, which had much charm for us both. The doorbell rang violently. Soon we heard several voices and the barking of a dog.

“What a nuisance!” cried Caroline; “one cannot be left in peace here a moment; my uncle receives all his neighbors! I absolutely must lose my temper with him.”

The noise kept increasing, and it seemed to me that I heard familiar voices. At last they came toward the salon, and lo! Giraud entered, with his wife, his daughter, one of his sons, and a tall young man dressed as if for a ball, who dared not move for fear of disarranging the knot of his cravat or rumpling his shirt collar.

Caroline watched the entrance of all those people with wide-open eyes. Giraud came forward with an offhand air and introduced his wife, saying:

“Mademoiselle, I have the honor to offer my respects, and to introduce my wife. Wife, this is mademoiselle, the niece of Monsieur Roquencourt, from whom I received such a cordial welcome last Sunday, and who urged me to call again when I was driving in this direction. These are my eldest son and my daughter. Bow to the lady, my children. Monsieur is one of our intimate friends; he was in our party and I took the liberty of introducing him.--Good-day, my dear Blémont; delighted to find you here again!”

Caroline bestowed a decidedly cool salutation upon the party; she contented herself with pointing to chairs. The Giraud family seated themselves; the young dandy took his seat on the edge of a couch, and Giraud at once continued:

“But where is our dear uncle, the amiable Monsieur Roquencourt? Bless my soul! how I did enjoy hearing him recite the part of Mascarille in _L’Etourdi_! and Monsieur de Crac! Ah! how good he was! I made my wife laugh heartily by telling her about it.--Didn’t I, my love?”

“Yes, my dear.--But, mon Dieu! what does Azor mean by searching under all the chairs like that? Come here, Azor.--Monsieur Mouillé, just give him a kick, if you please, to make him keep still.”

Monsieur Mouillé--that was the dandified young man’s name--rose and tried to catch the dog. Being unable to do it, he gave him a kick, which made Azor fly from the salon yelping just as Monsieur Roquencourt entered. Everybody rose once more. Once more Monsieur Giraud introduced his family and his young man, adding:

“Monsieur Mouillé does not come to the country often; he has so much business to attend to since he inherited from his uncle the merchant, who left him a hundred and fifty thousand francs and a buggy.--Was it a buggy or a tilbury that your uncle had?”

“It was a jolting affair,” replied Monsieur Mouillé, without turning his neck.

Giraud made a wry face and continued;

“Yes--in short, a carriage. That is very well for a young man of twenty-three. But when I told him that we were going to pay a visit to such agreeable people, he no longer hesitated to accompany us. Wife, this is Monsieur Roquencourt, who, as I was saying just now, used to act so well! Dieu! how you did make me laugh when you recited Mascarille!”

Monsieur Roquencourt seemed at first rather surprised to find so large a party, brought by a man whom he had seen but once; but the instant that the subject of acting was mentioned, his features dilated, his eyes gleamed, and he exclaimed:

“Yes, pardieu! I should say that I have acted! and before Dugazon, Larive and many others!”

“That is what I told my wife and Monsieur Mouillé, that you acted before Dugazon. My dear, monsieur acted before Dugazon!”

“Mascarille is a fine part, very long; but, although I was very good in it, especially when I said: _‘Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator----’_”

“Ah! charming! delightful! isn’t it, wife? What did I tell you? _Fourbum imperator_!--Stop your noise, children!”

“I had other parts that I preferred. First of all, Figaro. Ah! Figaro! the costume is so pretty, and it was so becoming to me!”

“Yes, the costume must have been very becoming to you. Monsieur Mouillé, didn’t you disguise yourself as Figaro once, to go to a magnificent ball given by a contractor?”

“No, monsieur, I went as Pinçon, in _Je fais mes Farces_.”

“Oh! that is different.”

“To return to my costume,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “it was white and cherry, and made of silk throughout. I believe I have it yet.”

“White and cherry; and you have it yet! Ah! if you would put it on, how kind it would be of you!”

Caroline, who had not uttered a word during this whole conversation, now leaned over to me and whispered:

“Have these people come here with the purpose of making fun of my uncle?”

“No, there is another motive, which I will tell you.”

Monsieur Roquencourt looked at Giraud a moment, but replied good-naturedly:

“Oh, no! I can’t wear that costume again. It was twenty-five years ago when I wore it, and since that time I have taken on flesh, a great deal of flesh!”

“Yes, it is true, in twenty-five years one does change, one does grow fat.--Monsieur Mouillé, it seems to me that you have grown since last year.”

“Three lines,” replied Monsieur Mouillé with a bow.

“Three lines! the deuce! You will make a fine man! Mademoiselle has a fine figure too, one of those graceful and slender figures which make it impossible for a small man to offer her his arm.”

It was Caroline to whom this complimentary speech was addressed. She glanced at me with an impatient gesture, but Giraud, who thought that he had done the most graceful thing in the world in praising fine figures, had not thought of Monsieur Roquencourt, who was very short. The uncle stepped forward into the centre of the circle and said:

“Monsieur, you are greatly mistaken when you say that a man of medium height should not offer his arm to a tall woman; Mademoiselle Contat was by no means short, and she certainly found me a most satisfactory escort.”

“Oh, Monsieur Roquencourt! Why, that is not what I said, or what I meant to say! The devil! let us understand each other. Little man! deuce take it! why, everybody knows that the heroes, the Alexanders, the Fredericks, the Napoléons, were all men of short stature. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Mouillé?--Wife, for heaven’s sake, make your daughter stop her noise.”

“And on the stage, monsieur, it is much better to be short than tall, for the stage makes everyone appear taller.”

“That is what I have said twenty times to my wife,--the stage makes people taller; and you know something about it, Monsieur Roquencourt.”

“Yes, indeed I do. A tall man cannot play Figaro, or Mascarille, or Scapin.--Ah! how quick and active I was as Scapin! I had my portrait painted in the character.”

“Your portrait as Scapin! Was it exhibited in the Salon?”

“They wanted to paint me as Monsieur de Crac too.”

“Monsieur de Crac! My wife is still laughing because I repeated some scenes to her, after you. Ah! Monsieur Roquencourt! if you would only be good enough--Monsieur Mouillé has never seen Monsieur de Crac,--Have you, Monsieur Mouillé?”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man, “I think that I have seen it acted at Bobino’s.”

“Ha! ha! at Bobino’s, eh?” cried Monsieur Roquencourt. “Pardieu! that must have been fine! A difficult rôle like that! In the first place, you must be careful about the accent:[2]

“Dé façon qué dé loin sur lé pauvre animal Lé perdreau, sans mentir, semblait être à chéval, Et fût resté longtemps dans la même posture, Si mon chien n’avait pris cavalier et monture. Eh donc, que dites-vous?”

[2] That is, the Gascon accent.

During this declamation, Giraud stamped on the floor and pretended to writhe with pleasure on his chair; Madame Giraud was occupied solely in keeping her children quiet, and Monsieur Mouillé did not stir.

“Ah! bravo! bravo!” cried Giraud. “I say, wife, you never heard such acting as that, did you?--Monsieur Mouillé, you should consider yourself very fortunate to have come to Saint-Mandé with us! very fortunate in every respect, indeed, for there is everything here that can seduce and fascinate!--Oh! Monsieur Roquencourt, something else--just a fragment or two.”

“I wonder if this sort of thing is going to last long,” Caroline whispered to me. I smiled but said nothing. Monsieur Roquencourt did not wait to be asked twice. He stepped forward again to the centre of the salon:

“Here is a passage from the scene in which he is asked about his son; and it is his son himself who questions him, unrecognized by him.”

“Ah, yes! I see.--Wife, somebody asks him about his son. Attention, Monsieur Mouillé! And it is his son himself. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand at all,” replied the young man.

“Yes, you do; yes, you do.--Hush! be quiet, children!”

“.... Il sert contré lé Russe; Mais il sert tout dé bon. Ah! lé feu roi dé Prusse, Savait l’apprécier; et lé grand Frédéric, En fait d’opinion, valait tout un public. Il admirait mon fils--J’en ai----”

Monsieur Roquencourt was interrupted in his declamation by the cook, who rushed into the room, exclaiming:

“Mon Dieu! what on earth is this dog that’s just come here, mademoiselle? He came into my kitchen and jumped at everything there is there; he ate at one gulp the remains of the chicken that was on the table, and he’s just carried off the leg of mutton that was for your dinner.”

“Oh! it’s because he’s thirsty!” cried Giraud; “give him some water; he was very hot, give him some water, if you please, and then he will fawn all over you.”

“Monsieur,” said Caroline, rising and walking forward, with a very decided air, toward Giraud, “I am very sorry, but you really must give your dog water somewhere else; my uncle should remember that we have to go out this morning, we have very little time, and we cannot have the pleasure of detaining you any longer.”

As she said this, Caroline gave her uncle a glance which he understood very clearly, and he faltered:

“Yes--yes, I believe that we have to go out.”

Giraud seemed thunderstruck; he looked at his wife, who looked at Monsieur Mouillé, who looked at his trousers to see if they were creased.

However, the family rose; the dandified young man followed their example, and Giraud bowed low, saying:

“As you have an engagement, of course we do not desire to detain you; another time I trust that we shall be more fortunate, and that we may form a connection of which the fortunate result--Monsieur Mouillé, present your respects to mademoiselle. Bow, children.--Monsieur Roquencourt, we shall not forget your great amiability.--Azor! here, Azor! Azor! Oh! he will certainly come.--Au revoir, my dear Blémont.”

The family backed out of the room, bowing, and Giraud whispered in my ear:

“Has she a previous attachment? If this young man doesn’t suit her, I have others to offer. Write me what she has said to you.”

They left the salon at last, and they succeeded in finding Azor, who rushed out of the house with a mutton bone in his teeth.

When the visitors had gone, Caroline said to the maid and the gardener:

“If those people ever show their faces here again, don’t forget to say that we are not at home. Really, their impertinence is beyond bounds.”

“Never fear, mademoiselle,” said the cook; “I don’t want to see the masters again any more than the dog. I’ve got my dinner to prepare all over again now.”

“It’s my uncle’s fault; he invites everybody he sees; so long as they talk of the theatre and acting to him, that’s enough for him; he would declaim before chimney sweeps!”

“You go too far, niece; did I go in search of this gentleman, and tell him to bring his wife and children and dog? He thinks that I act well, and I see nothing extraordinary in that; many other people besides him have thought the same. But as to declaiming before chimney sweeps! However, chimney sweeps may have a very keen perception; the common people aren’t such bad judges as you seem to think, and Dugazon told me several times that at free performances the applause never came except when it was deserved. But you have no appreciation of acting, and before you it would be useless to have talent.”

Monsieur Roquencourt was offended; he left us and went to his room. I also attempted to leave, but Caroline detained me, saying:

“Just a moment, if you please. You know this Monsieur Giraud, who seemed determined to plant himself here with his whole family and his friends too. He spoke to you in an undertone. You told me that you would tell me the purpose of his visit; will you be kind enough to do so, monsieur?”

I sat down again beside Caroline, and I could not help smiling as I said to her:

“Mademoiselle, this Monsieur Giraud has a mania, or a vocation for arranging marriages. When he learned that you were still unattached, he at once conceived the plan of finding a husband for you.”

“The impertinent fellow! Why should he mix himself up in the matter?”

“As he is convinced that everybody must always come to that at last, he displays the most incredible perseverance in his schemes. He had already requested me to speak to you in favor of the young man whom he brought here to-day.”

“What! that great booby?”

“He was an aspirant for your hand, yes, mademoiselle; and, despite the unflattering welcome that you bestowed upon Giraud and his protégé, I should not be at all surprised if he returned to the charge again soon, with a new _parti_.”

“I assure you, monsieur, that I shall not receive him again. What you have told me makes the man more intolerable to me. The idea of attempting to arrange a marriage for me! Can one imagine such a thing?”

Caroline’s face had become serious. She lowered her eyes and seemed to be lost in thought; after a moment she continued:

“Marry! oh, no! I shall never marry. For a moment I thought that it was possible. It was a delightful dream that I had, but it was only a dream. I deceived myself cruelly!”

Those words distressed me greatly, and yet, could I be sure that they were addressed to me? I could not try to ascertain; but in spite of myself, I moved nearer to Caroline, who had dropped her head sadly upon her breast, and I took her hand, which I had never done before; but she seemed so depressed that I longed to comfort her. I did not know what to say to her. I dared not ask her the reason of her determination. We sat a long while thus without speaking; my hand gently pressed hers, but that did not comfort her, for tears poured from her eyes. Then I put my arm about her waist; I felt her heart beat beneath my fingers. I almost breathed her breath.

Suddenly she pushed me away, moved her chair away from mine and exclaimed:

“Ah! I did not believe that I was so weak; but at all events I will not be wicked; no, I will not add to the grief of a woman whom I pity, whose happiness I would like to restore. And since I am unable to conceal my feelings from you, we must meet henceforth only in company, only before strangers; yes, I swear to you that this is the last tête-à-tête that we shall have.”

Having said this, she hurried from the salon, and I left the house, realizing that we should in truth do well to avoid each other.

XXIV

THE SPECTRE

After my last tête-à-tête with Caroline I went less frequently to her house, and never went there without my children. The season was advancing; we were to stay in the country but a short time, and I took them to walk with me in the woods every day. Sometimes Madame Ernest went with us; I noticed that she was more friendly with me, that she was in better spirits since I had ceased to pass so much time at Monsieur Roquencourt’s. I concluded that she must have something against her neighbors. But as she was as kind and attentive as always to me and my children, and as her husband’s affection for me showed no diminution, I asked them for nothing more.

I often noticed that Madame Ernest seemed to want to speak to me. I could read faces well enough to feel sure that she had something to say to me. But if that was so, what prevented her? When I was lost in thought, I saw her scrutinize me furtively, then look at my children; but she either said nothing or talked about things which could not interest me.

One afternoon we all went into the forest of Vincennes together. I led Henriette and Eugène by the hand, and Madame Ernest led her little son and daughter. Night was approaching. As we entered a shaded path, Eugène cried:

“Oh! I’m afraid of the spectre here!”

“Of the spectre?” I said, taking him in my arms. “Who has told you anything about a spectre, my dear?”

“The nurse,” cried Madame Ernest’s little girl; “she says there’s a spectre in our house, and that she’s seen it in the garden.”

“Your nurse is a silly creature, and so are you, mademoiselle,” said her mother hastily; “I shall forbid her to talk to you about such things.”

“Oh! I have heard about it too,” said Henriette, “and the nurse declared that she has seen, or heard, the spectre near the little summer-house.”

“Mon Dieu! what idiots those people are! And how can you repeat such things, Henriette--such a sensible girl as you are?”

Madame Ernest seemed very much irritated that there had been any talk of spectres. I began to laugh.

“Why, really,” I said, “it almost seems as if you took the thing seriously. Do you imagine that I am going to run off as fast as I can because these children say that there’s a spectre in your house?”

“No, of course not; but don’t you agree with me that it’s wrong to make children timid by talking to them about such things?”

“That is the very reason why it is better to laugh with them than to be angry. I am very sure that you are not afraid of the spectre, Henriette, because you understand that there are no such things.”

“Oh! papa, I don’t know whether there are any such things, but I’m a little bit afraid too. And the other night I woke up and thought I saw something white going out of my room. Oh! I wanted to shriek; but I just put my head under the bedclothes.”

“But, my dear love, you ought to find out first of all what you’re afraid of. What is a spectre? Tell me.”

“It is--I don’t know, papa.”

“Oh! I know,” cried little Ernest, “a spectre is a ghost.”

“Indeed! and what is a ghost?”

“A spectre.”

“Bravo! you are quite capable of explaining the Apocalypse!”

“A spectre,” cried the little girl in her turn, “is a devil with a red tail and green horns, that comes at night and pulls naughty little children’s toes.”

That definition made Marguerite and me laugh; but I agreed that she would do well to scold the nurse for telling the children such tales. Young imaginations should never be terrified and darkened. The time when things cease to look rose-colored to us comes quickly enough.

We returned to the house talking of spectres. I kissed my children, who went off to bed; then I walked in the garden. It was a magnificent evening and seemed to me to invite one to breathe the cool, moist air. I soon found myself near the summer-house, which was not occupied. The moon was shining on that part of the garden; but its light always inclines one to melancholy. As I glanced at the clumps of trees about me, I remembered the spectre of which we had been talking, and although I am not a believer in ghosts, I realized that, by assisting one’s imagination a little, it was easy to see behind that foliage ghostly figures which moved with the faintest breeze.

I seated myself on a bench by the summer-house. The night was so soft and still that I did not think of returning to the house. The image of Caroline, the memory of Eugénie, presented themselves before my mind in turn. I sighed as I reflected that I must fly from the first because she loved me, and forget the other because she did not love me. But she was the mother of my children. They had spoken of her again that day, and had asked me if she would come home soon. I did not know what reply to make. Ernest and his wife never mentioned Eugénie, and their silence surprised and disquieted me. Not a word of her--nothing to tell me where she was, what she was doing, or if she were still alive. She was so changed, so ill, at Mont-d’Or! I would have liked to hear from her. I could not love her, but she would never be indifferent to me.

In these reflections I forgot the time. A sound quite near me caused me to raise my head. It was like a faint sigh. I saw nobody, so I stood up. It seemed to me that I could distinguish, through the leaves, something white running toward the other end of the garden. I remembered the spectre. My curiosity was aroused; I walked to the path where I thought that I had seen something; but I found nothing, and I decided to go to my room; for it was late and everybody else had already retired, no doubt.

I certainly did not believe in ghosts; but I recalled Madame Ernest’s impatience when the children mentioned the subject, and I suspected that there was some mystery at the bottom of it all. I determined to solve it, for something told me that I was interested in it.

I went to bed, but I could not sleep. Tormented by my thoughts, I decided to rise again, and I was about to open my window when it seemed to me that I heard a noise at the end of the corridor, in my children’s room. I opened my door very softly. At that instant a sort of white shadow came out of the other room. I confess that my heart fluttered slightly at first. I was on the point of rushing toward that mysterious being; but I restrained myself and waited silently, without moving a hair, to see what was the meaning of it all.

After closing the door of the children’s chamber, the shade stopped and picked up a lantern; then it walked slowly toward me. It was a woman; I could see that.--But I recognized her: it was Eugénie!

She walked very softly, apparently afraid of making a sound. Her white dress, and the long muslin veil that was thrown back from her head, gave her a sort of ethereal, unsubstantial aspect at a distance. I had no doubt that she was the spectre that had frightened the nurse and children.

Poor Eugénie! her face was almost as pale as her clothes. What a sad expression in her eyes! what prostration in her whole person!--She stopped; she was standing at the head of the stairs. She turned her face toward the room she had just left, then looked in my direction. I trembled lest she should see me; but no, I had no light and my room was very dark. She made up her mind at last to go downstairs; I ran to my window and saw the little lantern pass rapidly through the garden and disappear near the summer-house.

So it was Eugénie who occupied that building, which was always carefully closed; Ernest and Marguerite had given it to her so that she could readily go to the house to see her children. So she was there--very near me--had been there a long while perhaps, and I had no suspicion of it. What was her object, her hope? Was it because of her children only that she had concealed herself there?--But Ernest and his wife knew perfectly well that I would not prevent her from seeing them.

I determined to learn the motive of Eugénie’s conduct, and the plans of Marguerite and her husband. To that end, I must be careful not to let them suspect that I had seen the pretended spectre; and I must try to learn something more the next night.

The intervening time seemed terribly long to me. During the day, I involuntarily walked toward the summer-house several times; but everything was closed as usual. I noticed that the door, which was on the side of the building toward the forest, was very conveniently situated for anyone to go in and out of the garden unseen.

The night came at last. I kissed my children and they were taken to their room. When I supposed that they were asleep, I bade my hosts good-night and withdrew to my room, on the pretext that I had a violent headache; but I had no sooner entered the room than I stole forth again softly, without a light, and went to that occupied by my children. The key was in the door; I went in, and sat down by my daughter’s bed to wait until somebody should come; both she and her brother were sleeping quietly.

At last, some time after everybody was in bed, I heard stealthy steps outside. I instantly left my chair and hid behind the long window curtains. I was hardly out of sight when the door was softly opened, and Eugénie entered the chamber, carrying her little lantern, which she carefully placed at the foot of her son’s cradle.

She threw her veil back over her shoulders, and, stealing forward on tiptoe, leaned over Henriette’s bed and kissed her without waking her; she did the same with Eugène, then sat down facing the children and gazed long at them as they lay sleeping.

I dared not move; I hardly breathed; but Eugénie was almost facing me; I could see her face and count her sighs. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, which were filled with tears, and I heard broken sentences come from her lips.

“Poor children! What an unhappy wretch I am! But I must deprive myself of your caresses--you will never call me mother again. And he--he will never more call me his Eugénie!--Oh! cruelly am I punished!”

Her sobs redoubled, and I had to summon all my courage to refrain from flying to her, wiping away her tears and pressing her to my heart as of old.

We remained in those respective positions for a long while. At last Eugénie rose and seemed to be on the point of taking leave of her children, when someone softly opened the door. Eugénie started back in alarm; but she was reassured when she recognized Marguerite. The latter carefully closed the door, then seated herself by Eugénie’s side; and although they spoke in low tones, I did not lose a word of their conversation.

“My husband is working; I did not feel like sleeping, and I thought that I should find you here; so I came as quietly as possible. However, there’s no light in Monsieur Blémont’s room, and I fancy that he has long been asleep.--Well! still crying! You are making yourself worse--you are very foolish.”

“Oh! madame, tears and regrets are my lot henceforth. I cannot expect any other existence.”

“Who knows? you must not lose hope; if your husband could read the depths of your heart, I believe that he would forgive you.”

“No, madame, for he would always remember my sin; nothing would make my motives less blameworthy in his eyes. And yet, although I am very guilty, I am less so perhaps than he thinks. You have understood me, for women can understand one another. But a man! he sees only the crime, without looking to see what might have driven a woman to forget her duties. And yet, heaven is my witness that, if I had loved him less, I should never have become guilty. If he should hear me say that, he would smile with pity, with contempt; but you--you know that it is true.”

Eugénie laid her head on Marguerite’s shoulder, and sobbed more bitterly than ever. For some minutes they said nothing. At last Eugénie continued:

“I know that my jealousy did not justify me in becoming guilty; but, my God! as if I knew what I was doing! I believed that I was forgotten, deceived, betrayed, by a husband whom I adored. I had but one desire--to repay a part of what he had made me suffer. ‘Play the flirt,’ I was told, ‘and you will bring your husband back to your arms; men soon become cold to a woman whom no one seems to desire to possess.’--I believed that; or, rather, I believed that Henri had never loved me; and then I tried to cease loving him. You know, madame, how jealous I was of you. That ball at which you were--at which he danced with you--oh! that ball fairly drove me mad. Before that, my jealousy had banished peace from our household. Alas! it was never to return! I plunged into the whirlpool of society; not that I was happy there; but I tried to forget, and I was pleased to see that he was distressed by my conduct.

“Fatal blindness! I preferred his anger to his indifference! When I had once sinned, I cannot attempt to tell you what took place within me; I tried to deceive myself as to the enormity of my sin; I lived in a never-ending whirl of dissipation, afraid to reflect, doing my utmost to put Henri in the wrong, to convince myself that he had betrayed me a hundred times, and, for all that, realizing perfectly that I had destroyed my own peace of mind forever. When my husband learned the truth, I did not stoop to try to obtain forgiveness by tears. No, I preferred to try to deceive myself still.--Great heaven! what must he have thought of my heart on reading the two letters that I wrote him! A woman who detested him would not have written differently. But, as if I were not already guilty enough, I tried still to make him believe that I felt no repentance for what I had done. I continued to go into society. ‘He will know it,’ I said to myself; ‘he will think that I am happy without him;’ and that thought strengthened me to hold myself in check in the midst of the crowd and to affect a gayety which was so far from my heart. But I knew nothing of his duel and his illness. Those two things, which I learned at almost the same time, made it impossible for me to put any further constraint on myself; it seemed to me that a bandage fell from my eyes. The thought that I might have caused his death terrified me. From that moment the world became hateful to me! I realized the depth of my wrongdoing; when I knew you and heard what you said, I found that I had suspected Henri unjustly, that he really loved me when I believed that he was unfaithful to me. He loved me, and it was by my own fault that I lost his love! Oh! madame, that thought is killing me--and you expect me to cease weeping!”

“But why shouldn’t you consent to let us mention you to him, to let us try to move him?”

“Oh, no! that is impossible; somebody else has tried it already, and to no purpose, as I have told you. That young woman, Mademoiselle Caroline Derbin, whom he met, I believe, at Mont-d’Or,--that young woman, who thought that he was a bachelor at first, learned, I don’t know how, that he was my husband; then, believing that it was he who had abandoned me, she begged him, implored him, to return to me. I was near them, without their knowing it, in the courtyard of the inn; I overheard all their conversation. He was kind enough also to allow himself to be blamed for wrongs of which he was not guilty; he did not try to disabuse her with regard to me. But, when she begged him to return to me, I heard him say: ‘We are parted forever!’--Ah! those cruel words echoed in the depths of my heart, and I cannot understand why they did not kill me, although I had lost all hope of obtaining forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to prove that his answer to Mademoiselle Derbin represents his opinion to-day. I told you how he had changed to his son, poor little Eugène, whom he would hardly look at when he first came here; now he seems as fond of him as of his daughter.”

“Oh! since I first sinned, I have known but one moment’s happiness--that was when I learned that he no longer refused to take his son in his arms! Poor child! because your mother was guilty, could your father treat you as a stranger all your life? But I solemnly swear that I was without reproach when my son was born, and Henri can safely take him in his arms!”

What I had heard caused me such intense pleasure that I cannot describe it; I had to lean against the window; for joy often takes away all our strength. Luckily Marguerite continued the conversation; they did not hear the movement that I was unable to restrain.

“What makes me hope that Monsieur Blémont may yet forgive you, madame, is the pains that he has taken to conceal your wrongdoing. Nobody knows anything about it; he alone has incurred all the blame.”

“Oh! he has done that for the honor of his name, for his children; but do not infer from that that he will forgive me. Henri loved me too dearly--and I wrecked his life! No, I entreat you again, never speak to him about me! Let him forget me--but let him love his children! Is not that all that I can ask? Thanks to your kindness--to your compassion for me--I can at least see him. Hidden in the summer-house which you have given me, I can look into the garden through a hole in the shutters. Henri often walks there; sometimes I hear his voice, I see him with his children.--Then--oh! madame, such joy and such agony as I feel!--Had I not a place between my children and him?--And I can never occupy it again!”

“Poor Eugénie! Calm yourself, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, yes! I must restrain my sobs, for I don’t want to disturb my children’s sleep. I can kiss them every night; that is my sole consolation; but they do not call me their mother any more. Oh! madame, it is ghastly never to hear that name!”

“You could come to see them if you chose. You could send for them to come to you. Monsieur Blémont has never had any idea of depriving you of their caresses.”

“No, I am no longer worthy of them. Besides, they will grow up. What can you reply to children who ask you why you do not live with their father? It is much better that they should not see me; that they should forget their mother!”

After another interval, filled only by Eugénie’s subdued moans, she continued:

“Alas! my heart is torn by still another pang. You have guessed it--you who can read my heart so well, who are so kind to me, and whom I misunderstood and blamed for so long!”

“Hush!” said Marguerite, embracing her; “haven’t I forbidden you to mention that again? But I have some good news for you: for some days Monsieur Blémont has been to see Mademoiselle Derbin much less frequently; he passes less time with her.”

“He goes there less? Is it possible? Oh! I no longer have any right to be jealous, madame, I know; I have no claim to his heart; and yet I cannot reconcile myself to the thought that he loves another. And this Caroline is so lovely; and then she loves him--I am perfectly sure of that.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Oh! women are never mistaken about such things, you know. I discovered it at Mont-d’Or; I was certain of it when I overheard their conversation on the evening that he left. To be sure, she begged him to come back to me; but her voice trembled, she could hardly restrain her tears. In short, she spoke to him as one speaks to a person whom one loves, even when one is trying to pretend to hate him. Poor Caroline! she had thought that he was free and a bachelor. She had abandoned herself without fear to the pleasure of loving him.”

“Very well; but now when she knows perfectly well that he is married, and above all, when she thinks that it was he who deserted you, why does she bring her uncle here to Saint-Mandé, and settle down within two steps of us? Why does she invite Monsieur Blémont to come to see her? Is that the way for a woman to act with a man whom she is determined not to love, whom she is trying to forget? I confess that that has not given me a very favorable opinion of that young lady, and Monsieur Blémont must have noticed more than once that I don’t like her, although I don’t know her.”

“What can you expect? She still loves him--she longed to see him again. But if only he might not love her! Since I have seen him every day, since, thanks to you, I have been living so near him, I have indulged in illusions; I have fancied sometimes that I still reigned in his heart; and the awakening is very bitter!--No, I am nothing more than a stranger now; I can never recover the place that I once filled in his heart. Others must have his love.”

“Why forbid us to speak to him of you sometimes?”

“Oh! never, never, I implore you! My children speak of me to him; I often hear them ask about their mother. If he is deaf to their voices, do you think that he will be moved by yours? Wait until he himself--but he will never ask what has become of me!”

“I cannot believe that he has entirely forgotten you.--But it is late; you must go; it is time for you to be in bed.”

Marguerite took the light, while Eugénie went to look at her children and kiss them once more. But Marguerite led her away and they both left the room, closing the door with great caution.

I listened to their footsteps for a few seconds, until I could no longer hear them. Then I left my hiding-place, and I too kissed my children, but with a keener delight than usual; and, taking equal precautions to make no noise, I returned to my room. The conversation that I had overheard was engraved on my memory, and my course was already resolved upon, my plan of action formed.

XXV

LUCILE AGAIN

On the day following that night which was to change my destiny, I wrote to Pettermann to come to Saint-Mandé to receive some commissions to which I wished him to attend. My faithful German speedily appeared; but he seemed to me to act with some constraint, and when he stood in front of me he did not speak.

“Well, Pettermann, what is there new?” I asked him. “I can see that you have something to tell me; why don’t you speak?”

“Yes, monsieur, yes, I have something to tell you, but I don’t know how to put it.”

“Explain yourself!”

“You see, I’m afraid that you’ll think I’m an idiot; when I say one thing and do another.--Faith, prout!--but never mind! Monsieur knows well enough that men are not phœnixes! Here goes! Monsieur knows that I am married?”

“Yes.”

“And that I left my wife because we didn’t agree. She beat me and didn’t want me to drink; I wanted to drink and not to be beaten.”

“Well, Pettermann?”

“Well, monsieur, a few days ago I met my wife, and she spoke to me; she was as sweet as honey--in short, we melted toward each other. She asked me if I still got drunk; I told her that it only happened once a month; she said: ‘Nobody can find fault with once a month.’--In short, monsieur--you see--I’ve promised to take my wife back. But what makes me miserable is that then I shall have to leave you; and I’m afraid monsieur is angry with me too.”

“No, Pettermann, no; take back your wife. Far from reproaching you, I approve your resolution. What is your wife doing now?”

“She’s a concierge, monsieur, in a fine house within ten yards of the one where we live.”

“Well! it is possible that you may remain with me.”

“Ah! ten thousand prouts! how I should like that!”

“Is there a pleasant apartment to let in your wife’s house?”

“Two magnificent ones--partly decorated; one on the second, one on the third; with wood-shed and cellar; plenty of mirrors. I know everything there is in the house.”

“Hire the apartment on the second floor for me. Is it empty now?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You will have my furniture moved there. Go to my upholsterer--here is his address. He will look over the apartment and do whatever he considers necessary, so that there may be nothing lacking. Everything must be finished and all ready for our reception in four days at the latest; for then--I am going to tell you something in confidence, Pettermann--then I am going to take back my wife too.”

“Your wife? Why, is monsieur married?”

“Yes, my friend; and like you, I have not always agreed with my wife, although the causes of disagreement were not at all the same.”

“Oh! I imagine not.”

“But to-day I realize that I have done wrong, and I hope to find happiness once more with my wife and my children.”

“Faith! it pleases me to know that, monsieur. As monsieur does the same thing that I do, my mind is at rest. And I shall still be in monsieur’s service?”

“Yes, my friend. You understand me, do you not? See that everything is ready in four days.”

“It shall be ready.”

“But until then not a word--no indiscretion!”

“I am as dumb as a dead man.”

Pettermann returned to Paris.

I felt more content with myself, better satisfied; and yet--I may confess it to myself--I had no love for Eugénie--no. But perhaps it was for the very reason that I had no love for her that it was possible for me to return to her. I saw in her the mother of my children, and I did not wish to condemn her to never-ending misery. We should never be to each other as we had been--that was impossible. I would treat her with consideration and affection, and time would do the rest. I should have to cease entirely to see Caroline. Ah! that was not the least of the sacrifices I should have made to my children. But, since everything was decided, since my resolution was irrevocable, I determined to go to see her on the next day for the last time, and to tell her that I was going back to my wife. She would think that I was influenced by her advice, her entreaties; I would not undeceive her.

I returned to the salon where all the others were assembled. I determined to forget myself, to be cheerful and merry. I played with the children, I kissed Madame Ernest, and I laughed with her husband.

“What’s the matter with him to-day?” Ernest and his wife asked each other; “how happy he seems!”

“I am happy.”

“What has happened to make you so cheerful?”

“I have had news that pleased me.”

“From whom?”

“Oh! you shall know later.”

The husband and wife exchanged glances; but I felt sure that they did not guess my purpose, and I continued at once:

“What is going on to-day? I feel strongly inclined to amuse myself.”

“Why, we might go to the ball,” said Ernest; “to-day is the last Saint-Mandé ball, and they say that it will be very fine.”

“I haven’t been to one of them since I have been living here; I should not be sorry to see it. We will go. Do you agree?”

“Oh! I don’t go to balls,” said Marguerite; “I don’t care for them; I prefer to stay with the children. You two may go. But don’t speak to any women; for there are women at all these balls in the suburbs of Paris.”

We promised to be good; and immediately after dinner Ernest and I started for the place where the local balls were held. As the weather was superb, there were in addition to the people from Saint-Mandé and from Vincennes, many Parisians, who desired to enjoy one more rural festivity. Numerous carriages were standing on the outskirts of the crowd.

“The deuce! this will be magnificent!” said Ernest. “I’ll bet that we shall find more than one actress here; the princesses of the wings delight in open air balls.”

“You know that you promised your wife to be good.”

“Oh! my friend, we always promise, and we keep our promise if we can!--Come, my dear Blémont, the music is striking up.”

In fact, the dancing had begun. There was a great crowd; many pretty dresses, some peasants, a few bourgeoises, and a large number of kept women. It is the same at all open air balls.

We had not walked ten steps when I heard my name called; I turned and saw Bélan, with his wife and his mother-in-law on his arm, apparently very proud to escort his superb Armide. He honored me with a gracious nod; then, after finding seats for the ladies, he came to me and led me away from the dancing.

“Well, my dear Blémont, as you see, everything is arranged and I have returned to the fold. I was a lost lamb, as my mother-in-law says; but everything is forgotten and I have once more become reconciled with my wife.”

“That is what I supposed when I saw you just now. But I confess that it rather surprised me. After taking your affairs into court, after having your name published in the newspapers----”

“What difference does that make? What do the newspapers prove? Besides, as the court decided that I was mistaken, that I wasn’t a cuckold, I can’t claim to know more than the judges.”

“If I remember aright, you talked in a very different tone at Mont-d’Or; you proposed to appeal from the judgment against you.”

“Do you think that I said that? It’s possible. It is true that I was excited then--anger, you know, and jealousy--a man often says foolish things. I am more reasonable now. On my return from Mont-d’Or her relations came to me; they told me that Armide was inclined to forgive me. At that, I said: ‘Let us forget all our disagreements.’--All my friends tell me that I have done well to take back my wife.”

“I am far from blaming you; but if I had been in your place, I would have made less noise about it.”

“Oh! I like to make a noise--to make people talk about me. As soon as I go anywhere nowadays, I hear people whispering when they look at me. They say: ‘That’s Monsieur Ferdinand Bélan,’ as they might say: ‘That is Voltaire, or Frederick the Great.’ I confess it doesn’t displease me. But au revoir, my dear fellow; the ladies await me, and I like dancing with Armide.”

I had no desire to detain Bélan. What a strange man! And yet not so strange after all; we meet with such characters not infrequently. But I did not enjoy his society at all.--He had caused me to lose sight of Ernest, and I set out to find him again.

I returned to the place where they were dancing. Ernest was performing with a lady from Saint-Mandé. As I did not care to dance, I was looking about for a seat, when my eyes met those of a young woman who beckoned to me. It was Caroline, sitting with her uncle, and she offered me a chair beside her. I hesitated, for before long I must cease to enjoy her society; but that would be the last time before bidding her adieu forever. To refuse would have been discourteous. So I stepped forward and took the proffered seat by her side.

“It took you a long while to decide,” she said with a smile, “although we are not alone here.”

I made no reply; I dared not even look at her; for I found her eyes very dangerous since coquetry had ceased to shine in them. Luckily her uncle put an end to my embarrassment.

“You do not dance, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

“No, monsieur; I don’t care for dancing now.”

“I used to be very fond of it myself; in fact, I was a very good dancer. I remember that, in _Amphitryon_, when I played Sosie--A very nice rôle, that of Sosie! Dugazon made me rehearse it very carefully.--You know the famous scene of the lantern. Dugazon used to leap over the lantern and cut all sorts of capers; but I proposed to do differently. I placed the lantern--look, like this chair, at about this distance. Then I ran forward, making a pirouette as I ran, and I executed a very neat _entrechat_ as I landed on the other side. It was very difficult. Look--I’ll just turn the chair over so that I can show you better.”

“What, uncle! are you going to jump over chairs now?”

“No, my dear, no, I don’t intend to jump; but I was explaining to Monsieur Dalbreuse what I did as Sosie; and I flatter myself that no actor at the Français ever jumped higher than I did.”

Luckily for Monsieur Roquencourt, one of his Saint-Mandé neighbors came to bid him good-evening, and seated himself in the chair that he was about to take. That saved Monsieur Roquencourt the trouble of showing me how he jumped, and he entered into conversation with the newcomer.

“You are not dancing?” I said to Caroline.

“Oh, no! I shouldn’t care to dance here, except with somebody whom I know very well. Besides, I am like you, I no longer care for dancing. I don’t intend to go to any balls this winter--or into society at all. All the things that I used to enjoy so much bore me terribly now. I shall stay at home--alone--with my thoughts. To be able to think at one’s leisure is such a great satisfaction sometimes!”

She looked at me, then we both lowered our eyes and relapsed into silence. Meanwhile Monsieur Roquencourt was almost quarrelling with his neighbor.

“I tell you, monsieur, that Dugazon never played Moncade in _L’École des Bourgeois_!”

“I beg your pardon, but I saw him.”

“You are mistaken--it was Fleury.”

“No, it was Dugazon.”

“But it is impossible; the part wasn’t in his line. It is as if you should say that you had seen me play Hamlet or Œdipe; it is absolutely the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you have played, but I saw Dugazon play the Marquis de Moncade.”

“Oh! that is enough to make a man jump to the ceiling!”

But the little uncle could not jump to the ceiling, as we were under the trees; so he contented himself with falling backward with his chair; which made me afraid that he proposed to play Sosie again. Caroline and I could not help smiling. That diverted our thoughts for a moment. Suddenly Mademoiselle Derbin, who was watching the dancing again, said to her uncle:

“Ah! there is my lace-mender; how finely she is arrayed! She hasn’t a bad style; really one would think that she was a lady of fashion. Look, Monsieur Dalbreuse--that woman in a lilac hat is she.”

I looked at the person she pointed out to me, and I felt a shock of terror, as if I had seen a serpent.

It was Lucile--Lucile, whom I had not seen since the fatal day. Her presence seemed to revive all the agony that I had felt then. I cannot describe the pain that the sight of her caused me.

My features must have expressed very clearly what I felt, for Caroline instantly said to me:

“Mon Dieu! what is the matter? You must know that woman.”

“Yes, I--that is to say, long ago, but not now.”

“What did she ever do to you that the sight of her should upset you to this extent?”

“Nothing; but for some unknown reason, when I looked at her, I remembered--Sometimes one cannot account for one’s sensations.”

At that moment the quadrille came to an end. Lucile and her partner came in our direction. Great heaven! she sat down a few feet away; she saw me and gazed fixedly at me. I could not endure that woman’s presence, her eyes; I rose abruptly, forced my way through the throng, left the ball, and did not stop until I reached a place where I was alone.

So I was destined never to be happy, never to lose the memory of my sufferings! When I had decided to forgive Eugénie, to give my children a mother, the sight of that Lucile must needs recall everything that I wanted to forget. How she stared at me! She seemed to enjoy the torture, the shame that her presence caused me. Malice gleamed in her eyes.--Ah! I had hoped that I never should see Lucile again!

I threw myself down on the turf and tried to be calm. After all, my chance meeting with that woman would make no change in my plans. I would learn to control myself better in the future; but I would travel a hundred leagues, if necessary, to avoid meeting Lucile.

I lay in that spot nearly half an hour. At last, feeling more tranquil, I rose; but I could not decide whether I would return to the ball. Ernest was waiting for me, no doubt. I walked a few steps, then stopped, for I did not want to see Lucile again. While I was hesitating, a woman came toward me from the direction of the dance. She was almost running. I waited anxiously.--Ah! it was Caroline.

She joined me and hung upon my arm, saying:

“I have found you at last! I have been looking for you everywhere.--Oh! how glad I am! But come--let us go into the woods, so that I may speak out to you at last. I have so many things to say to you! I told my uncle not to be worried, that you would bring me home.”

I listened to Caroline in amazement; some extraordinary change seemed to have taken place in her; she was not at all the same person whom I had left a short time before. She took my arm and pressed it gently; she seemed intensely agitated, but it was evidently with joy.

We went into the woods, and Caroline said, gazing affectionately into my face:

“I must seem very mad, very reckless to you, my friend, but you have no idea of all that I have just gone through! Within a few moments, my destiny, my future has changed. Now I can be happy. I loved you--you know it, for I have not been able to conceal my feeling for you. Without telling each other so, we understood each other perfectly.--But that love was a crime; at least I thought so. I blamed myself for it; I tried to avoid you, to forget you.--Mon Dieu! how unhappy I was!--But now I know the whole truth; I know that I am at liberty to love you.”

“What? what do you mean?”

“That I know all.--Oh! forgive me for questioning that woman, but I could not resist my curiosity. Your confusion at the sight of her seemed so strange!”

“That woman! Have you talked with Lucile?”

“Yes, and I know now that, far from being guilty toward your wife, you were shamefully deceived by her.”

“Oh! hush! hush!”

“Never again, I give you my word, will I remind you of a thing that has caused you such pain. Now I can understand why you would not go back to her--why you fled from her. I blamed you; I thought that I was an obstacle to your reconciliation, and that is why I tried to go away from you. But, since things are as they are, why should I doom myself to everlasting misery? why should I not abandon myself to the sentiment which you have inspired in me?”

“What are you saying, Caroline? If my wife were guilty, am I the more free for that?”

“Free? no, I am well aware that I cannot be your wife. But what do I care for that title? it is your love alone that I want; as you know, I worry very little about the world and the proprieties. I am my own mistress; why should I not dare to love you? Because you are bound to somebody who has made your life wretched, must you drag out your whole existence in bitterness and solitude?--No! on the contrary, I propose, by my love, to make you forget your sorrows. It will be so sweet to me to be your only friend--to have all your thoughts, every moment of your life!--But you do not answer? Great God! have I made a mistake? Can it be that you do not love me? Oh! then there is nothing left in life for me--I can only die!--Henri! Henri!--He does not answer!”

She had placed her head on my breast. I cannot describe what took place within me. How could I spurn, how fly from a woman whom I loved? I had not the strength. I raised that lovely head. As I sought to comfort her, my face touched hers; our cheeks were burning, our lips met. We forgot the whole world, we existed only for each other.

I do not know how long we stayed there on that turf, the scene of our transports. I was happy, and yet something oppressed and saddened me. I was afraid to reflect. Caroline had thrown her arms about my neck; she was engrossed by her love. I looked about and listened; there was no sound to be heard.

“It is very late. I think that I must go home,” said Caroline; “you will go with me, won’t you, dear?”

“Of course.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know; but I should think that we were not far from Ernest’s garden. Yes--that wall----”

“True--and I think that I see a summer-house too.”

“A summer-house? Oh! let us go at once.”

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you, dear?--However, I shall see you every day now.”

“Yes, I will see you to-morrow--I will talk with you.”

“How strangely you say that! What is the matter?”

“Nothing. But come--let us go away from here.”

Caroline put her arm about me; mine was about her waist, and in that position we walked away from the spot that had heard our oaths. It was very dark, we had not taken ten steps when our feet tripped over something. Caroline stooped and exclaimed with a shriek of terror:

“O my God! it is a woman, my dear!”

“A woman!”

I shuddered from head to foot; I hardly dared to lower my eyes to examine the woman who lay at our feet.

“She seems to be dead!” cried Caroline.

“Dead! Ah! if it were----”

I fell on my knees, I raised the unfortunate creature’s head, I put aside the leaves that shut out what light there was in the sky. A low groan escaped from my breast. I was utterly overwhelmed. It was Eugénie, it was my wife, who lay inanimate before me.

Caroline had heard me murmur Eugénie’s name, and she too recognized the unhappy woman; thereupon she fell on her knees beside her and abandoned herself to despair, for she guessed that it was she who had caused her death. For my part, I could neither speak nor act. I was dumb, turned to stone, before that shocking spectacle. Suddenly Caroline cried:

“Ah! her heart is still beating! She is not dead!”

Those words revived me. I stooped and took Eugénie in my arms, while Caroline held the branches aside. But where could I find help so late? Ernest’s garden was the nearest place. I went to the little gate; it was open and we entered. There was a light in the summer-house, the door of which also was open. It was plain that she had gone out in haste. We went inside and I laid Eugénie on the bed. Caroline looked about and brought me water and salts; then she ran to the house, to summon help.

I was left alone with Eugénie; I poured water on her forehead and temples, while I tried to warm her ice-cold hands with mine. At last she moved; she opened her eyes, recognized me, and, taking my hand, put it to her mouth, murmuring:

“Ah! I am happy once more! You are with me!”

“Eugénie, return to life and happiness. I have forgiven you! I had made up my mind to restore a mother to her children.”

“Is it possible? But no; it is better that I should die. You love another; I heard you. I was here, your voice reached my ears; I hurried out into the forest, and I saw you in her arms. That killed me. And yet I deserved this punishment.--I pray that Caroline may make you happier than I have done!--Tell me again that you forgive me, that you will love your son---”

“Eugénie!--Great God! She is fainting again--and no one comes!”

Ernest and Marguerite rushed into the summer-house and ran to the bed. Eugénie opened her eyes again and held out her hand to me, murmuring:

“I have not seen my children.”

Marguerite started to go out, but Eugénie motioned to her to stop.

“No,” she faltered, “they are asleep, don’t wake them.”

Then she too fell asleep, but never to wake again.