Part 21

He hurried away from his friend's rooms, went home, shut himself in his office, paid no heed to his charwoman, who told him that several clients had come to inquire for him, neglected all the business that had been entrusted to him, and when the persons who had employed him came to find out how their affairs were progressing, he stared at them with a dazed expression and replied:

"What? what is it? what do you want?"

"That little matter of mine, monsieur--what condition is it in?"

"What's that?--what matter? I don't know anything about it."

"What! you don't know anything about it! Do you mean to say that you haven't attended to it?"

"Apparently not."

"In that case, monsieur, if you don't propose to attend to it, I will employ another agent."

"As you please; it's all the same to me."

"Indeed! it's all the same to you, is it? Then give me my papers, instantly!"

Chamoureau gave up the papers, the clients went away in a rage, and the office gradually became deserted. Chamoureau passed the day seated at his desk, with his head resting on his hands.

"My master certainly's got a screw loose," said Madame Monin to the concierge; "he's been cracked ever since the night he dressed as a Spaniard. The man's going crazy; I don't dare to buy charcoal for him, I'm afraid of finding him suffocated to death some fine morning."

A fortnight had passed since our widower had become as despondent as Werther, when Madame Monin brought him a letter one morning. Chamoureau took the letter with an indifferent air, broke the seal, still thinking of Thélénie, and read without at first paying much attention to what he was reading.

But soon his face changed, became animated; he rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he read the letter aright, then read it again, this time with the utmost care. A cry of joy escaped from his lips and he slapped his thighs, saying:

"Is it possible! I am not mistaken! Rich! rich! twenty thousand francs a year--left me by that cousin--my godfather--for he was my godfather, but I have never heard a word from him. And he leaves me his fortune, his whole fortune! and he had saved, in America, property worth twenty thousand francs a year!--I must read the notary's letter again; I am still afraid that I read it wrong, that I have made a mistake!"

Chamoureau had made no mistake: a distant relation, who had been his godfather, and whose name he had never heard mentioned since the day he was baptized, had made his fortune in America, and had never married. Suddenly a longing to see his native country once more had come to him; he had turned his fortune into cash and had sailed for France. On landing at Havre, he was taken violently ill; he had barely time to send for a notary, and as he did not know what to do with the fortune he had brought back with him, he remembered that he had a godson and made that godson his sole legatee.

Such was the information which a notary of Paris, who had been communicated with by a confrère at Havre, had transmitted to Chamoureau, requesting him to call at his office as soon as possible, provided with all the documents necessary to establish his identity.

Having read once more the letter that announced this unexpected, unhoped-for good fortune, which instantly changed his whole future, Chamoureau ran to his bedroom to dress to go out; and he jumped and danced and sang and did a thousand foolish things, so that his servant, seeing him waltzing about the room as he put on his suspenders, stopped short, terrified beyond words.

"What in the world's the matter with you, monsieur?" she cried; "here you are dancing, waltzing all by yourself!"

"The matter, Madame Monin, the matter! Ah! you see before you the happiest of men!

"Wealth, in this world Thou dost all for me!"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, you were so dismal this morning! you looked like an undertaker's mute!"

"But now I am rich, Mère Monin, very rich! I have inherited twenty thousand francs a year! This letter tells me of it."

"Good God! is it possible, monsieur? An inheritance you didn't expect?"

"No more than I expect to be elected to the Academy.--Rich! wealthy! Now I shall no longer be despised; my homage will no longer be spurned; that adored woman will be mine!

"What a new life for me! ah! blessed change! My grief has passed away like summer clouds."

My hat--my handkerchief--my gloves--I have all that I require. Ah! my certificates of birth and of baptism and marriage. No, I don't need the last; it's of no consequence. Now I'm off."

"Monsieur has not drunk his coffee."

"Drink it, Madame Monin, drink it; it is no more than fair that you should partake of my good fortune."

Chamoureau called on the notary, who confirmed what he had written and advised him to go at once to Havre, in order to obtain immediate possession of the fortune which was held at his disposal there.

That same day, our legatee took the express train for Havre. There he exhibited to the notary all the documents which proved that he was the Sigismond Chamoureau to whom Monsieur Eustache-Hector Chamoureau, his cousin and godfather, had bequeathed all his property.

Two days later the former business agent was back in Paris, armed with the well-filled wallet which his godfather had bequeathed to him. It had all come so suddenly and been done so quickly that, when he was in his own rooms once more, Chamoureau wondered if he were not the plaything of a dream, and if he had really become rich. But the rotund wallet was in his hands; he could feel and count the bank-notes, the government obligations, and several drafts accepted by the richest bankers in Paris. Thereupon he said to himself:

"No, I am not dreaming; I am really in possession of a very respectable fortune; therefore I may aspire to the woman whom I idolize. I must not delay; my fate must be decided at once."

He seated himself at his desk and wrote:

"Madame:

"It is no longer a humble real estate agent who lays his heart and his hand at your feet; my position has changed. An inheritance which I was far from expecting, but of which I have just come into possession, gives me an income of twenty thousand francs, in addition to twenty-five hundred which I already had.--I do not refer to my business, which I have abandoned.--I am therefore possessed of twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year. This fortune I place at your disposal, soliciting anew the title of your husband, which I should be proud to bear.

"If I have offended you, forgive me; I was absolutely innocent in the affair of the Champs-Elysées, where I went confident of my good fortune, and no less deceived than yourself. But since I have known you, my love for you has never diminished; on the contrary, it has grown greater and greater every day. I will not ask any questions concerning the past, and I shall always have the blindest confidence with respect to the present and the future. I await your reply."

Having signed this letter, Chamoureau went out and gave it to a messenger in whom he had confidence.

"Ten francs for you," he said, "if you bring me an answer. If she says that she will write, insist, implore her to give you a line on the spot. I will wait for you in this café, where I shall absorb much chartreuse, to give me patience and courage."

Since the adventure on the Champs-Elysées, the fair Thélénie's humor was uniformly morose; sometimes she passed whole days absorbed in her thoughts. Her friend Héloïse's society had not the power to divert her, and when that young woman said to her:

"Do you mean to pass your whole life regretting that little fellow?"

Thélénie would reply:

"I no longer regret him, I no longer love him; I hate him now! But I shall not be satisfied until I have had my revenge."

Chamoureau's messenger found Thélénie in this frame of mind. She read the letter which was brought to her, and to which she was told that an answer was expected. She read it a second time more carefully, then handed it to Mademoiselle Héloïse, saying:

"Here, read this proposal that is made to me."

Mademoiselle Héloïse punctured her perusal of the letter with many "ohs!" and "ahs!" and when she had read it through she exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! why, this is magnificent!--twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year! it's superb! And a man who will ask no questions concerning the past and will have blind confidence in the future! Why, that's a model husband! Is it possible that you can refuse all that?"

"I find it difficult to believe that it's true; I suppose it's another miserable joke on the part of those who played that detestable trick on me before. As for this Chamoureau, he is a downright idiot, who is quite capable of seconding the schemes of those men because he doesn't suspect them."

"But if it should be true! a splendid fortune, my dear!"

Thélénie rang for her maid.

"Who brought this letter, Mélie?"

"A messenger, madame."

"Is he still here?"

"Yes, madame, he absolutely insists on having an answer."

"Let him come in."

The messenger was ushered into the presence of the ladies. Thélénie examined him for some seconds, then asked him:

"Who gave you this letter?"

"Monsieur Chamoureau, madame."

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, madame, he often employs me. He keeps a real estate office; I know him well."

"Was he alone when he handed you this letter?"

"Yes, madame, he came to my stand for me; he was all alone."

"What did he say to you?"

"He said--Well! he seems to be very anxious to have a written answer from madame, for he promised me ten francs if I'd bring him just a line."

"Very well; you shall earn your ten francs."

Thélénie took her writing-case and wrote:

"I will receive you at my apartment this evening. But bring the proofs of what you tell me, or you won't leave my house with both your ears."

She handed the note to the messenger, who left the house with a radiant face. He had no sooner gone than the door opened again and Monsieur Beauregard entered the apartment, unannounced. At sight of him, Thélénie turned pale; then she motioned to her friend, saying:

"Go into the salon while I talk with monsieur."

Mademoiselle Héloïse rose and left the room, muttering:

"Well, well! I wonder if this is a brother, too! at all events, he isn't of the same type as the other!"

XXIII

CHAMOUREAU TAKES THE PLUNGE HEADFOREMOST

Beauregard threw himself upon a chair, facing Thélénie. When Mademoiselle Héloïse had left them alone, they gazed at each other for some time without speaking; but one could read on their faces that the same thought was not in the minds of both.

The beautiful courtesan pressed her lips together in a convulsive fashion, her eyes avoided her companion's and wandered about the room, and she opened and closed her hands with a sort of nervous contraction of the muscles that indicated an impatience which she could hardly control.

Beauregard, on the contrary, seemed perfectly calm and placid; he amused himself watching the woman before him, and the ironical expression of his eyes might have created the impression that he took a secret pleasure in the annoyance which his presence caused her.

"May I be permitted to know to what I owe the honor of seeing you, monsieur?" said Thélénie, breaking the silence at last.

"Ah! so you assume, madame, that I must have some special reason for coming to see you? Why should you not think that I am impelled solely by the desire to do homage to your beauty?"

"Because I know that my beauty has long been entirely indifferent to you; we have got beyond the complimentary stage!"

"Which may be interpreted to mean that we no longer tell each other falsehoods, may it not?"

"I don't interpret it so! When you told me that you thought me pretty, that I pleased you, I was pretty enough to justify me in believing that you meant it."

"Yes, we men sometimes tell the truth; I am convinced that, as a general rule, we lie less than women."

"Do you think so? it is quite possible! Did you come here to work out that problem?"

"No, indeed; it would take too long; I should prefer the labors of Hercules. Restrain your impatience, madame, I am coming to the purpose of my visit. The liaison which once existed between us two was not without result, as you know."

Thélénie turned paler and pressed her lips together more tightly; but she kept silent and waited.

"In short, to speak plainly, you had a child, whose paternity you chose to attribute to me; in fact, I do not deny it, as the step which I am taking at this moment sufficiently proves. Yes, we had a few months of ardent passion, of exalted sentiments! we even went so far as to live away from the world for some time, in a chalet, surrounded by goats and cheese. It was superb, but it didn't last long; things that are carried to excess never do last.--Briefly, you returned to Paris, and I had gone to Italy for a little trip, I believe, when you wrote me that you had given birth to a son--for it was a boy, was it not, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur, it was a boy; and you didn't even answer my letter."

"Because I was very much occupied then; but when I returned to Paris, nine months later, I lost no time in calling upon you; I had some difficulty in finding you; I had even more in obtaining an audience. You were so surrounded by adorers, courtiers, slaves! You had them in all ranks of life--bankers, Hungarian counts, speculators!--Oh! I must do you the justice to say that you have always had a very marked penchant for finance!--and you no longer cared to receive a visit from me."

"It was my turn, monsieur, to be very much occupied."

"My reign had gone by; I do not presume to make any complaint on that score, madame!"

"And you are wise, for you have no right to; didn't you leave me first--to go to Italy?"

"Possibly; it may be that I had reasons for leaving you. But let us not recriminate; that matter is not in question now. When I saw you again, my first remark was to ask you where my son was; and you replied that he died three months after his birth."

"I certainly did, monsieur; and as it was true, I could make no other answer."

"At first, I was satisfied with that answer; and I left you; but later, other ideas occurred to me, and I called on you again. I found the same difficulty in speaking to you, for you seemed to shun me, and to display the greatest persistency in avoiding my presence."

"Why should I have desired it, monsieur? For a long time we had ceased to have anything to say to each other."

"Pardon me, madame; I had certain questions to ask you concerning the particulars of the child's death; and those questions seemed to annoy you exceedingly, for only with the very greatest difficulty did I succeed in obtaining the answers I desired."

"There are subjects which it is painful to revive; that was one of them; it could not fail to renew my grief."

"Oh! as for your grief, madame, you will pardon me if I refuse to believe in it. I think that maternal love does not fill a very large place in your heart."

"Why do you think that, monsieur?"

"Because, if it were otherwise, you would have been the first to talk to me about our son, to give me a thousand and one details of his birth and death. Whereas, on the contrary, your answers on those subjects were so short and sharp that it was easy to see that you were in a hurry to put an end to the interview."

"Did you expect me to give you very many details of the life of a child that lived three months?"

"A mother would have found them."

"I was not a mother, then?"

"No, not in the full acceptation of the word. However, after making me repeat my questions many times, you told me that you had entrusted your child to a nurse who lived at Saint-Denis. I asked you the woman's name,--you had forgotten it; but I was so persistent that you finally remembered the name: it was Madame Mathieu, the wife of a farm hand. I asked you her address. Oh! then you jumped from your seat in your wrath, as if I had asked you where you had hidden a treasure! Again your memory was at fault. You finally told me that the woman lived near the church on the square, and that that was all you knew."

"Well, what then?"

"Then I went to Saint-Denis myself; I asked for Madame Mathieu, wife of a farm hand; nobody knew such a person. I visited all the houses near the church, and it was impossible for me to discover that nurse. I found two women named Mathieu at Saint-Denis, but one was eighty years old, the other sixty-six; so that neither of them could be the one I was looking for--quite uselessly, for you had lied to me."

"I beg you, monsieur, to choose your expressions more carefully."

"I have no need to be considerate toward you, madame, for I know you and I know what you are, what you are worth.--A melancholy knowledge, for which I have paid very dear!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur? It seems to me that you never ruined yourself for me."

"Thank God! I left that pleasure to others; but you know very well what I mean.--To resume, madame, you lied when you gave me the address at Saint-Denis of a nurse who never existed."

"I told you all that I knew, monsieur; it was not my fault if the woman had left the place where she once lived."

"Peasants don't move about like lorettes, and if they do happen to change their place of abode, everyone knows everyone else so well in a village, that it is easy to find them."

"Saint-Denis is not a village, monsieur, it's a town."

"Once more, madame, I am convinced that you lied in everything that you told me on the subject of that child."

"Why should I have lied to you, monsieur?"

"Because you did not wish to be a mother; because you had never manifested anything but regret at being one; because you were capable of sending the poor little fellow to the Foundling Hospital."

"That is a shocking thing for you to say to me, monsieur!"

"Very well! I do not propose that my son shall be brought up by charity; I want to take the child with me; I want to love him, and I want him to love me. Those sentiments in my mouth surprise you, do they not, madame? But it is all true. I have never had any great confidence in love or friendship, but there must be such a thing as filial love, for I feel the love of a father.--Moreover, for some time past I have suffered from ennui; I am weary of the pleasures one procures with money; it seems to me that if I had that child with me, it would occupy my mind, it would make a different man of me. My youth is at an end; I have carried everything to excess; but paternal love will afford me enjoyment of a new kind. You will say perhaps that I have waited rather long before having these ideas, and it is true; but each day carries away with it some illusion, my passions are dying out; I feel that I must have something to attach me to life.--Come, Thélénie, be honest for once. Tell me what you did with that child, who still lives, perhaps. Yes, I have a presentiment that he is alive. He must be seven years and a half old now. Tell me where he is, and don't be afraid; he will never ask you for anything, you will never have to spend a sou for him; more than that, I shall not tell him who his mother is, he will not know you! It seems to me that you can ask nothing more. Tell me, where is the child? I have a cab below, I will go and get him."

"I have told you, monsieur, all that I can tell you on the subject of your son; it is useless for you to ask me anything more."

"You have told me a parcel of infamous lies!" cried Beauregard, whose eyes assumed a threatening expression; and he sprang to his feet, pushing his chair back with such violence that he overturned it. Having made the circuit of the room two or three times, he confronted Thélénie once more, and demanded with renewed emphasis:

"What have you done with my son?"

"I tell you again, monsieur, that he died at the age of three months."

"Where?"

"At the nurse's."

"Then find that nurse for me, let me see her, speak to her, find out where the child was buried."

"I can only tell you again what I have already told you about the woman: she lived at Saint-Denis. It isn't my fault if she has left her house--and the neighborhood too, very likely. I could not answer for such things."

"But when a child dies, no matter how young it may be, there is always a certificate of death; that certificate the nurse should have sent you with a minute of the expenses for the child's burial, for which she was entitled to be reimbursed; such things as that, nurses never forget to do. Well! show me that certificate."

"I lost it when I moved."

"Ah! you are a villain, capable of anything!--Poor Duronceray! who lost his head because I took his mistress from him. Gad! he has no idea how much he owes me! But men never look beyond the present; they never foresee the future."

Beauregard paced the floor for some time longer; it was evident that he was trying to restrain his anger, to recover his tranquillity; but when his eyes rested on Thélénie, he turned them away as if he had seen a serpent. She, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the torments she inflicted on her former lover; it was her turn now to watch him with a sarcastic expression, affecting a calmness that she was far from feeling.

Some minutes passed thus, Thélénie contenting herself with picking up the chair Beauregard had overturned.

At last he halted in front of her once more, saying:

"Your mind is made up--you refuse to tell me anything more?"

"Because I have nothing more to tell you."

"Very good! now mark well what I say to you: I shall seek for that child, and if I succeed in finding him, I shall teach him to hate and despise the woman who has tried to deprive him of his father's affection! You seem to defy me. You make a great mistake; for I am your enemy now, and I shall act accordingly whenever I find an opportunity. I had forgiven your inconstancy, your conduct, which has been decidedly scandalous at times. One may be vicious without being really wicked; but now I see that everything about you is perverse--mind as well as heart. Your nature is complete!"

"It seems that yours consists now in making impertinent remarks; but I care little for them."

"Beware if you find me in your path! and as for that unhappy child, if I succeed in finding him, rest assured that, though you are in the midst of the most brilliant festivity, be it ball or reception, he will appear and present his respects to you. Adieu!"

Beauregard abruptly left the room after these last words, and Thélénie, who had turned pale at his concluding threat, soon recovered herself.

"Do what you please," she muttered, "you won't find your son! that would require a combination of chances,--so extraordinary--no, it is impossible! So I will simply forget Monsieur Beauregard, who will leave me in peace hereafter, I trust. The idea of that man--a ne'er-do-well, a confirmed rake, a man who believes in nothing and has passed his life making fun of everything--taking it into his head to feel a father's love for a little boy that he never saw, that he doesn't know! It is amusing, on my word!--I am very glad to avenge myself on this Beauregard; he was the cause of my missing a fine fortune; for Duronceray would have married me, I am sure; he loved me so passionately. Oh! I made a great fool of myself!--But I must forget the past and think only of this new and brilliant position which is offered me."

Thélénie recalled Mademoiselle Héloïse, who, in accordance with her habit, had not failed to listen at the door; that fact, however, did not prevent her from asking:

"What did that big bouncer, with his pretentious air, want of you? He always looks as if he were going to laugh in your face. I knew him by his yellow skin; he's the fellow who stalked into our box at the Opéra ball."

"Yes, that's the man."

"Was that man ever your lover?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?"