How happy I am! how——’”
I listened no longer; and although the fête was not to come off for ten days, I rid myself of Raymond by leaving Paris for Madame de Marsan’s country house, where I was not sorry to arrive in advance of the rest of the guests. I hoped there to find a more favorable opportunity; and opportunity is such a precious thing! Many people have owed their happiness to it; all that is necessary is to know enough to grasp it.
This time I had obtained such directions as were necessary to prevent my going astray, and in due time I arrived at Madame de Marsan’s estate. It was almost a little château; the situation was delightful, the surroundings beautiful; the gardens seemed quite extensive and very well kept, the apartments decorated with refined taste, and so well arranged that a large number of guests could easily be accommodated. But I postponed my examination of these details, being in haste to present my respects to the mistress of the house.
“Madame is alone,” said the maid; “none of the guests have arrived yet.”
I had hoped that that would be the case.
“And Monsieur de Marsan?”
“Oh! monsieur won’t come until the day of the party or the day before. He never meddles in such things.”
I could not have chosen my time better. I hastened to surprise her. The welcome I received satisfied me that she was flattered by my zeal.
“It is very good of you to come first,” she said; “we can rehearse a scene from Le Barbier together. Our parts are very long, you know, and, for my part, I have a very poor memory.”
“I will do whatever you please, madame.”
“Come first of all to look at our theatre. I am sure that you expect to find a cramped little place, where your head touches the flies, and the houses are smaller than the actors. Come, monsieur; I am determined that the sight of our playhouse shall arouse a spirit of emulation in you.”
She laughingly led me into the garden; the theatre was in the centre. It was large, convenient, and excellently arranged. The auditorium was tastefully decorated and would hold about three hundred people.
“Well, monsieur! what do you say to our theatre?”
“That it would put many provincial theatres to shame.”
“And we flatter ourselves, too, that we give better performances than one sees in the provinces. We do not shrink from anything: comedy, vaudeville, opéra-comique! We play everything except tragedy.”
“Why that exception?”
“You will agree that in the best amateur company at least half of the performers are good for nothing and provoke laughter, which in our theatre is never prohibited; but we noticed that the audience always laughed more at tragedies than at other plays; and as we could not mistake that for applause, we have ceased to play any but merry pieces; now, when we cause laughter we can persuade ourselves that it is a sign of approval. There is always some way of sparing one’s self-esteem, you see. At our last performance we had a most complete success! We gave Porceaugnac, with all the scenic accessories; nothing was forgotten; I fancy that we bought all the syringes in Montmorency. But it was charming, and it made a great sensation. It was spoken of in Paris; we even had an article in the paper. You will agree, monsieur, that our honor is involved now in maintaining our reputation.”
I promised Madame de Marsan to do my best to make myself worthy to appear upon her stage; and we left it, to stroll through the garden. It was almost a park; it was possible to lose one’s self there, and I hoped to take advantage of that fact. There was a little clump of trees, a grotto, a bridge, which lacked nothing but water, dense, bosky groves, shaded paths, turf that was always green, several pretty little elevations, a subterranean path, a cliff, a waterfall, and all the games that can be played in a garden. It was a delicious spot, into which it seemed to me that ennui could never find its way. Madame de Marsan gave me a small bedroom overlooking the fields. I should have been delighted with it, except that it was a long way from hers. I reproached her for it, and she answered with a jest. Patience! perhaps my turn would come.
Meanwhile, it was incumbent on me to learn my part. Madame de Marsan wished to rehearse some scenes that night, and she left me to study. No constraint, no etiquette in the country.
“Here,” she said, “everyone does what he pleases—rises in the morning, goes out to walk, stays in the house, goes away, returns, as his fancy bids him. So long as you are prompt at meals, and, above all, at rehearsals, you are absolutely your own master.”
I promised to conform to the established rules, and buried myself among the trees to study the rôle of Almaviva. But the thought that I was alone in that house with Madame de Marsan—for servants and workmen do not count—that thought made my mind wander. What! I was under the same roof with a pretty woman, who allowed me to make love to her without apparent displeasure, who seemed indeed to manifest something more than interest in me—and I could be satisfied with anything less than a complete victory!—I saw that I had to do with an accomplished coquette, who perhaps pretended to be sensible to my attentions in order to keep me bound to her chariot for a longer time.
I looked forward to dining tête-à-tête with Madame de Marsan, but a tiresome neighbor came to call, and he dined with us. I had an idea that his presence was as disagreeable to her as to me, but, of course, she must seem to be delighted to see him. Luckily, at the table the neighbor talked for three; we were able to think of whatever was in our minds, and still the conversation did not languish. The old gentleman hardly gave himself time to breathe: he described his property to us in detail, from the main entrance to the garden wall; we knew just how many acres of land he had, and what his kitchen garden brought him in; how many trees he had planted, the number of his hens, how many eggs they laid in a week, what they were worth in the market, and a thousand other details no less interesting to us. But while he was talking, my eyes carried on a very different sort of conversation with Madame de Marsan. The neighbor, engrossed by his crops and his betterments, did not notice it. I discovered that loquacious people are sometimes very convenient. At last, about half-past seven, the neighbor concluded to go home, to see how many eggs his hens had laid during the day. He took his leave, and I was alone with Madame de Marsan. We went out for a walk in the garden; the verdure, the shadows, the silence, everything was conducive to tenderness. I tried to speak of love; the coquette replied only by repeating some of Rosine’s lines. I continued, paying no heed to her. She rebuked me.
“That isn’t right, monsieur,” she said; “you haven’t studied your part; you don’t know a word of it.”
“But, madame, I am not talking about our play.”
“What’s that, monsieur! didn’t we agree to rehearse?”
“No; I have a bad memory.”
“Then you refuse to listen to me?”
“On the contrary, but give me my cue.”
“You have known a long while that I love you, that I adore you.”
“I know that all that is in your part, but you ought to say it differently.”
“I see, madame, that you take pleasure in tormenting me.”
“Anger—passion—that’s right! I assure you that you will act splendidly!”
What a woman! it was impossible to make her reply to the question that interested me. We returned to the salon; I was in an execrable humor. I rehearsed with the book in my hand, but I said my lines so badly that Madame de Marsan laughed at me incessantly. I left her and went to bed; I was almost tempted to remain no longer in that house. However, I did remain; but I cursed womankind, all of whom played fast and loose with me. The only one who combined all the estimable qualities, the only one who manifested genuine affection for me, was the very one of all who could neither be my wife nor my mistress.
The next day I decided to learn my rôle; perhaps that complaisance on my part would be considered worthy of recompense; at all events, as I was to act, I did not choose to make a more awkward appearance than the others; so I studied Count Almaviva. I went into the garden, my Barbier de Séville in my hand. I have always been able to learn easily when I chose; in less than four hours I was able to act almost the whole play. I said nothing at dinner; I wished to surprise Madame de Marsan, who asked me laughingly if I knew it as well as I did the previous evening. When it was dark, we went to the salon; she refused to rehearse in the garden, on the pretext that it was too cool there. Was that really her reason? She took her part; I did not need mine, as I knew it perfectly. We rehearsed our scenes; I acted with such vigor and earnestness, such truth to nature, that she was struck dumb. Now it was my turn to scold her; I was obliged to correct her, to show her what to do; but she was delighted with my talent, and did whatever I bade her—let me take her hand, squeeze it, kiss it, throw myself at her feet.
“What! is all this in the play?” she asked, deeply moved.
“Yes, madame, it’s all there.”
And, taking advantage of my position, of all the privileges that my rôle of stage lover gave me, I was in a fair way to make rapid progress, when we heard a commotion out of doors. In a moment the door of the salon opened and Raymond appeared.
“The devil take the man!” I muttered; “upon my word, he was born to be always in my way!”
Seeing me at Madame de Marsan’s feet, he whipped his part out of his pocket, and began to shout at the top of his lungs:
“‘Ah! malediction! that savage, piratical villain, Figaro! How can one leave his home one moment, and not be sure that on returning——’ Madame, I have the honor of presenting my respects; I am punctual, you see.—Good-evening, my dear Dorsan! Why on earth did you start off yesterday afternoon without me? I would gladly have come with you. Well! I know my lines already, you see. I have a superb memory! With the prompter’s help, I am all right.”
Madame de Marsan thanked Raymond for his promptitude and complimented him upon his ease. Her agitation had disappeared; we went on with our rehearsal, and she was engrossed by her part. My hopes were crushed again! Infernal Raymond!
The next day all the members of the troupe arrived; it was impossible to find a moment for a tête-à-tête; we were rehearsing from morning till night, and when Fanchon, in which Madame de Marsan did not appear, was being rehearsed, she had so many orders to give about costumes and the details of the fête, that I could not obtain the briefest interview with her. Alas! but for Raymond I should have been happy, I am sure; the auspicious moment had arrived; and he who would subdue a cruel fair must not allow such moments to escape him; they may recur with an emotional woman, but they are very rare with a coquette.
Raymond was in the seventh heaven: he was immersed in business to his ears; first of all, he had his two parts to learn, which was no small thing for him; then, Madame de Marsan had given him the general supervision of the scenery and the orchestra; moreover, as the young woman who was to play Fanchon was her intimate friend, and as the performance happened to come on her birthday, she requested him to compose a scene referring to that coincidence, to be added to the vaudeville which was to close the performance. Raymond sweated blood and water to produce that little impromptu. In the morning, as soon as I was awake, he came to tell me what he had done; he always had the beginning of his couplets, but he could not succeed in completing one; and he transferred that task to me, begging me to make use of him whenever I wished to celebrate anyone’s birthday. After breakfast he hurried to the theatre, turned everything topsy-turvy, examined the scenery, and regretted that he had not the necessary time to arrange some new mechanism, because he would have liked to put a transformation scene in his little contribution; but, in default of demons—for Madame de Marsan would not hear of them, for fear of fire—and of nymphs,—an article not to be found in the neighborhood,—Raymond confined his efforts to having a wreath descend upon Fanchon’s head; and he urged the gardener, who had charge of the machinery, to be sure to make a superb one, and to suspend it by a cord from one of the roof timbers on the day of the performance. Then my neighbor proposed to introduce two little Cupids, who, instead of appearing from a cloud, were to come up from the prompter’s box—which was likely to produce more effect—and to present bouquets to all the actors and actresses on the stage.
The great day drew near; the rehearsals proceeded with great zeal and activity; everyone considered that his honor was at stake, and determined to outdo the others. How much occupation an amateur theatrical performance affords! what anxiety and toil! what a world of details! how much trouble people take! But, on the other hand, what joy to win applause! and one is certain of that in advance, even though one acts wretchedly. We all knew our parts, except Raymond, who stumbled through Bartholo’s lines and could not remember a single one of Lattaignant’s. The ladies scolded him, but his reply was always the same:
“With the prompter’s help, you’ll see how glibly I’ll rattle it off.”
On the night before the performance we were to have a dress rehearsal on the stage, with all the lights. Raymond had not been seen since morning; at six o’clock, the hour appointed for the rehearsal, he had not come. We waited in vain; they searched the whole house, the garden, the wood; everybody was engaged in the search; the servants were sent around the neighborhood, with orders to bring Monsieur Raymond back, dead or alive. We could not begin without him; we were in despair, at our wits’ end; for there was no one to take his place. How could anyone learn two long parts between night and morning? The ladies were on the point of weeping with indignation, when, about eight o’clock, Raymond at last appeared, drenched with perspiration, covered with dust, and leading by the hand two chubby, rosy-cheeked little boys, five or six years old, smeared with dirt and dressed in dirty, mud-stained blouses.
“Where have you been?” was the general cry; the ladies were for beginning operations by beating him.
“That’s right!” said Raymond; “scold me savagely, when I have nearly killed myself finding two Cupids for you! I have been scouring the neighborhood ever since morning; I am sure that I have travelled a good ten leagues! But nothing but sulky faces, squint eyes, flat noses everywhere! At last I found what I wanted at Saint-Denis; but see how fresh and plump they are! they’ll make two first-class Cupids.”
The aspect of the two little fellows, for whom Raymond had bought candy to bribe them, and who were smeared with it to the ears, soon allayed the wrath of the company.
“What about their mother?” asked Madame de Marsan.
“She’s a dairywoman at Saint-Denis. She’s overjoyed to have her children play two little Cupids, and she’s coming to see them to-morrow; I promised her a place behind the rear curtain. Now, just have these little rascals cleaned up a bit, and you’ll see how pretty they are!”
The young lady who was to play Fanchon did not understand why Cupids were needed, not knowing that a little surprise was being prepared for her. Madame de Marsan tried to repair Raymond’s indiscretion. The rehearsal went on and lasted until one in the morning, when, being thoroughly exhausted, we all went to bed, longing ardently for the morrow; and Raymond intrusted his two Cupids to the housekeeper, with instructions to cleanse them and make them get up early, so that he would have time to teach them what they had to do.
XXV
ALMAVIVA AND ROSINE.—A SCENE ADDED TO LE BARBIER DE SÉVILLE
The great day arrived. The ladies rose early; the thought of their costumes had kept them awake. The men, who are sometimes as coquettish as the ladies, were all absorbed by their costumes or their rôles. I was less engrossed by the great affair of the evening, because my passion for Madame de Marsan, intensified by the obstacles it had encountered, occupied my thoughts quite as much as the play. But the busiest of all was Raymond. He was out of bed at daybreak. He sought out the two little peasants, and tried to make them move gracefully, and to teach them a little stage business, while he told them what they would have to do in the evening. The children stared at him, jumped into the air when he told them to dance, fell on the ground when he tried to make them stand on one leg, and began to cry when he told them to smile. My neighbor took them to the gardener, now transformed into a scene shifter, and repeated the lesson to him. The gardener was a dull-witted lout, who knew nothing at all, but who chose to pretend to understand instantly whatever was said to him.
“Do you know what you have to do to-night, my friend?” Raymond asked him.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“First, the wreath of flowers——”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Which you are to lower on Fanchon’s head.”
“Fanchon’s—yes, monsieur.”
“You are to fasten it to a cord hanging from the beam; do you know whether there is one?”
“Oh! yes, monsieur; there was one for that gentleman with the syringes they acted the last time, that was so funny! Monsieur Pourceau—Pourceau—the man who wouldn’t take physic before people, you know.”
“Just so, my man, just so.—Well, when the wreath is all fixed, you must make a dozen fresh, pretty bouquets, and give them to these children, who will be dressed as Cupids.”
“Say! I know ’em; they’re Madeleine’s boys.”
“Pay attention to what I say.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“When they have the bouquets, you’ll take them to the prompter’s box.”
“Yes, monsieur, to the box, I understand.”
“And they are to go out on the stage when I clap twice with my hands.”
“Yes, monsieur, with your hands.”
“Don’t forget anything, my friend.”
“No, monsieur. Oh! you needn’t be afraid; I’m used to play-acting here!”
Raymond next betook himself, with the two children, to the costume room. He found no knit flesh-colored tights, because such costumes are rarely used by amateurs. He was obliged to be content with nankeen trousers, over which they were to wear their little white tunics: these, with the girdle, the band, the bow, and the quiver, should make the illusion complete. After urging the wig-maker, who had come from Montmorency for the occasion, to outdo himself in dressing the Cupids’ locks, Raymond forgot everything but his rôles, and set about learning them for the evening. A numerous and select party of guests had arrived from Paris, and they strolled about the house and gardens. Madame de Marsan, despite the necessary preparations for the play, did the honors of her house with no less grace than good breeding. Monsieur de Marsan did not arrive until a few moments before dinner on the day of the fête. He was detained in Paris by business on the Bourse; he knew that his wife was spending a lot of money, and he had to devote his attention to making an equal amount in order to maintain the equilibrium. In the evening, many of the people of the neighborhood, carefully selected from the most eligible, who had received invitations for the performance, were on hand promptly. Thus the auditorium was certain to be entirely filled, for the last rows of chairs were thrown open to some of the villagers. It is much more agreeable to act before a large audience; empty benches are never flattering to the actor, even at an amateur performance.
The hour to begin had arrived. Our little hall was full. Raymond kept looking through the hole in the curtain, to see where the ladies were sitting whom he proposed to ogle.
“Time to begin!”—Such was the cry of all who were ready; but everybody was not ready, and it seemed as if Raymond would never finish dressing. After each garment that he put on, he ran to look through the hole, with his jar of rouge in one hand and his rôle in the other.
“Hurry! hurry!” we shouted at him from all sides, and pushed him back toward his dressing room; then someone ran to Madame de Marsan’s room, to ask if Rosine was ready. The four amateurs who formed the orchestra had twice played through the overture to Richard Cœur de Lion, which served as overture to Le Barbier. They were about to begin it a third time, because they had no other music with them; the audience began to lose patience and some faint murmurs were heard. But at last we were ready, and Raymond, who was the machinist, raised the curtain.
I knew my lines very well, and my feeling for Madame de Marsan, who looked prettier than ever in the costume of Rosine, imparted to my acting the warmth and genuineness which befit the rôle of a lover like Almaviva. The young man who played Figaro was spirited, good-looking, and daring. We played with great verve, our scenes went off excellently, and the audience was delighted. At the moment when Bartholo was to appear at the window with Rosine, Raymond, trying to raise the blind, jerked it so violently that it was detached and fell on the lamps which did duty as footlights; luckily, the sight of Madame de Marsan, who was delicious in her Spanish costume, covered Raymond’s awkwardness. The first act went without a hitch. In the second, Raymond, whose memory was fatigued already, could not say a word without the prompter, and he stood in front of his box all the time, with his eyes fixed upon it and his ears strained to hear. Often the prompter had to repeat the words three times, Raymond meanwhile abusing him when he did not prompt, and telling him to be quiet when he did prompt him in some speech that he thought he knew. Thus he made of Bartholo a veritable Cassandra; but such an audience as ours could not fail to be indulgent; moreover, all the other rôles were well done; we entered into the spirit of our parts and filled the stage with animation. We were wildly applauded; and Raymond assumed his share of the applause, although he confused us terribly when he was on the stage with us.
The third act began with Raymond on the stage. He walked forward and took his stand in front of the prompter’s box.
“‘What temper! what temper! [To the prompter: Why don’t you prompt me?] She seemed appeased! Will someone tell me [Don’t prompt me.]—will someone tell me who in the devil put it into her head to—to [Prompt me, will you?]—to refuse [What’s that? I don’t hear you.]—to refuse to take lessons from Don Basile. [Don’t prompt me!] She knows that he is interfering about my marriage. Do everything in the world—do—do—[What? what do I say next? What the devil! you don’t know how to prompt at the right time!]’”
The audience concluded to laugh at our Bartholo; whereat Raymond rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, and, whenever he returned to the wings, exclaimed:
“How pleased they are! how it amuses them! No audience at the Français ever laughed so much!”
The play came to an end at last, in spite of Raymond, who did all that he could to prevent it; but Rosine’s grace, Figaro’s hilarity, and, lastly,—for one must do one’s self justice,—the warmth, the passion, the ardor which gave life to my performance of Almaviva made the illusion complete; I obtained a brilliant triumph, and I read in Madame de Marsan’s eyes the pleasure that my success afforded her.
Le Barbier at an end, the performance of Fanchon was hurried forward. All of the cast of the first play, with the exception of Madame de Marsan and myself, were to appear in the second. We two had plenty of time to change our costumes. All the dressing rooms opened on the garden; those of the ladies were separated from ours only by an avenue of lindens. Having resumed my civilian costume, I went out into the garden for a breath of air. The second play had begun long before, and everybody was on the stage or among the spectators. The solitude and tranquillity of the garden were in refreshing contrast to the clamor not far away. I was not sorry to be able to saunter there for a moment; but as I crossed the avenue of lindens, I saw a lady come from one of the dressing rooms opposite. I stopped; it was Madame de Marsan; it was my Rosine. She recognized me and came toward me.
“Where is Monsieur le Comte Almaviva going, pray?”
“I came out to enjoy this cool shade a moment; but I missed something: Almaviva cannot be happy without Rosine.”
“Rosine is not at all sure that she ought to go with you.”
“What! after consenting to allow yourself to be abducted?”
“In truth, I should play the cruel now with a bad grace; but remember that you swore to be true to me! to love me always, to love none but me!”
“Oh! I swear it again! I have no other desire than to repeat it every moment!”
“But where are you taking me? we seem to be going a long way. Why do you take the darkest paths? Why are we going in under these trees? It is too dark here!”
“Dear Rosine, what can you fear, with me?”
“Dear Lindor, I am ill at ease.”
“Did you not intrust yourself unreservedly to me?”
“Ah! I fear that I was not wise. What are you doing? Kissing me like this! Oh! that isn’t in the play.”
“Do we refuse a kiss to the lover who is to be our husband?”
“Stop—Lindor—Dorsan—— Oh! this scene——”
“Dear Rosine, what is it but the natural sequel? ought it not to crown our love?”
Madame de Marsan tried in vain to resist; it was too late; I had entered too completely into the spirit of my rôle, and she had identified herself with hers. We added to Le Barbier de Séville the scene which the audience does not see, but which it may well divine after the union of Almaviva and Rosine. For some time the thicket had witnessed that charming scene, half lighted by the moon. The fervor with which we played our parts caused us to forget the world and the fête. I was determined that Almaviva should obtain as great a triumph in the thicket as on the stage, and Rosine was so prompt in response that I could not lag behind. We had not begun to think of the dénouement, when it was hastened by an unforeseen incident; but, to explain it, we must return to the theatre.
Fanchon was acted indifferently well; many of the actors, not knowing their parts, had skipped several scenes; Raymond had done the same with his lines; so that the play was soon done. Neither Madame de Marsan’s absence nor mine was noticed; the actors supposed that we were in the audience, the spectators, that we were behind the scenes.
The vaudeville being finished, Raymond arranged his little scene in honor of the lady who had played Fanchon, and whose birthday it was. Everyone sang his or her couplet, and Raymond called for Madame de Marsan and myself to sing ours. As he did not find us, and as the dénouement was at hand, he ran into the wings and seized the cord to which was attached the surprise that was to descend upon Fanchon’s head. He pulled it slightly, and the weight that he felt above set his mind at rest, convincing him that the gardener had not forgotten to attach the wreath.
The moment had come; the orchestra played
That was the signal for the wreath to descend. Raymond let the cord go; a sudden murmur ran through the hall, then bursts of laughter arose on all sides.
“Stop! stop!” someone called from the stage. Raymond put his head out from the wings to witness the tableau, and saw that, instead of a wreath of flowers, he had lowered a syringe on Fanchon’s head.
The confusion was at its height; the hall rang with laughter, while on the stage wrath at Raymond’s blundering folly was still predominant. The young lady who had played Fanchon was obliged to push the syringe away from her head. Raymond dropped the cord and ran out on the stage, crying:
“It wasn’t my fault; it’s Pourceaugnac’s syringe—and that idiot of a gardener forgot to take it off! It should have been a wreath. But we’ll make up for this.—Forward, Cupids!”
He gave the signal, the orchestra played Zéphire’s air from Psyche, and everybody waited impatiently for what was coming. Again Raymond clapped his hands.
“Come on, Cupids!” he cried; “come out, I say!”
But nothing came out of the prompter’s box. The audience, tired of waiting to no purpose, prepared to leave the hall, and the actors to vacate the stage. In vain did Raymond try to detain them, crying:
“They’re coming! they’ll appear in a minute! they must be putting on the bands!”
Nobody listened to him. In his rage he determined to find his Cupids, at all events; he jumped down into the prompter’s box, looked under the stage and in every corner of the building, but he did not succeed in finding them.
The two little fellows were dressed and ready two hours before it was time for them to appear. The gardener, bewildered by all the orders he had received, had entirely forgotten the wreath; but he had made some bouquets, which he gave to the children, then led them to the prompter’s box and said:
“Stay here; you’re to go on the stage when you’re called.”
The children waited quietly for half an hour; but they were tired by that time; they thought that they had been forgotten; and as they could enjoy themselves much more in the garden than under the stage, they left their bouquets there and went outside to play. In running about they approached the house, and saw on the ground floor, in a well-lighted room, a sideboard covered with innumerable delicacies, the bare sight of which made them open their mouths and lick their chops. They stopped, sighed, nudged each other, divined each other’s thought, and looked behind them in obedience to the natural instinct of the man who is about to do wrong. There was no one in sight; all the servants had deserted the house for the play.
“Oh! see the nice things, brother!” said the smaller of the two; “we never saw anything like ’em!”
“Oh! Fanfan, mustn’t that be sweet?”
“Say, Jean; just think—if we could eat some of it!”
“Look at them cakes!”
“There’s no one there; let’s climb in! Come on!”
They easily climbed in the ground-floor window; they ran to the sideboard, stuffed their mouths full, made aprons of their tunics, and filled them with fruit, meats, and cakes; lapped the cream that they could not carry away; dug their fingers into jars of preserves, and took refuge finally in the attic, to eat at their ease what they had filched.
While the little peasants were regaling themselves, Raymond was scouring the whole estate to find his Cupids. As he came out of the theatre, after a vain search, he met Monsieur de Marsan, who was looking for his wife, the company being surprised at her continued absence.
“Have you found them?” inquired Raymond.
“I don’t know where she is; people are asking for her; ordinarily, I am not called upon to interfere in anything.”
“My wife, who is not here to do the honors of the fête.”
“Parbleu! Madame de Marsan can’t be lost; she’ll turn up; but my two Cupids—I am more anxious about them; for I must give them back to their mother, who is not Venus; and she’ll break one of her little pitchers over my head if her brats are not found. Let us search the gardens together; the little rascals must be somewhere here.”
Monsieur de Marsan followed Raymond, hoping to find his wife rather than the two little fugitives. They walked through part of the garden, and Monsieur de Marsan proposed to return to his guests, feeling sure that his wife must be with them; but Raymond detained him, telling him that he, Marsan, was responsible for the Cupids, as they were lost on his premises. They drew near the swing, which was close to the clump of trees where I was playing my scene with Madame de Marsan.
“They are over in this direction,” said Raymond; “I hear the swing moving; I was sure that my little blackguards were amusing themselves.”
They reached the swing, but saw nothing.
“There’s no one here, you see,” said Monsieur de Marsan.
“It’s strange,” said Raymond; “I still hear the same noise. Why—it’s in this direction—in the thicket! What the devil are they doing there?”
Monsieur de Marsan went forward; Raymond followed him. The moon at that moment was much too bright! we were petrified.
“It’s Almaviva and Rosine!” said Raymond, jumping back. Monsieur de Marsan alone retained his presence of mind.
“Madame,” he said, calmly addressing his wife, “your guests are asking for you; you are needed for the festivities; you must try to arrange your business and your pleasures so that they will not interfere with each other.”
With that, he coolly turned on his heel and returned to the house. Madame de Marsan had fainted; Raymond stood like a statue. I rushed from the thicket, pushing him roughly aside, in an instant was at the courtyard, then on the Paris road, and reached the capital at two in the morning.
XXVI
WHERE WILL IT END?
After the adventure of the thicket, it was impossible for me to go again to Madame de Marsan’s house, or to see her in public. So that we were obliged to cover our liaison with a veil of mystery. With many women that fact would have simply added to the charm; but I was afraid that with Madame de Marsan, who loved to be surrounded by adorers and by admiring homage, the impossibility of gratifying her vanity by her conquest of me would speedily abate her love. If we no longer met at her house, it was solely out of respect for the proprieties; for, as Raymond had witnessed the catastrophe, I had no doubt that it was known to everybody.
What surprised me most was that I had not seen him since that memorable evening: a week had passed, and I had not even met him on the stairs; doubtless he dreaded my wrath. He evidently kept out of sight when he heard me coming; for as we lived on the same landing and both went in and out several times during the day, we did not usually pass two days without meeting.
Madame de Marsan and I were in regular correspondence; we made appointments, we went into the country together, and sat in closed boxes at the theatre. I enjoyed her society more, seeing her only en tête-à-tête. There was no longer between us that swarm of young dandies who were constantly fluttering about her, and whose presence was far from agreeable to me; when we were alone, she could not play the coquette so successfully and amuse herself by tormenting me. So that, for my part, I was not at all sorry that we met as we did, but I was very much afraid that it was not the same with her. Already our correspondence was beginning to drag, our assignations were becoming less frequent; she constantly found something to prevent her meeting me: a reception, a ball, some festivity which she could not possibly avoid attending. I had no faith in her excuses, because I knew that her husband left her entirely at liberty to do as she chose. If she refused to keep an appointment with me, it was because she preferred to create a sensation at a ball or a concert; in a word, to make conquests, to surround herself with admirers and attentions, rather than to be alone with me. The conclusion to be drawn from that state of affairs was very simple: Madame de Marsan did not love me, had never loved me. She had smiled upon me solely from caprice; had given me hopes from coquetry; had yielded by chance; and would leave me because she was bored.
One morning, opening my door suddenly, I saw Raymond going downstairs and caught him by his coat tail.
“Great heaven! I thought you were dead, Monsieur Raymond!” said I.
“Good-morning, my dear neighbor! It’s a fact—I haven’t seen you since the Barbier de Séville.”
“That is true; and I counted upon you to tell me how the festivities came to an end.”
“Oh! you must have heard all about it from——”
“From whom?”
“You know whom I mean. To tell the truth, I was afraid you were angry with me.”
“Why so?”
“Because I took her husband to the thicket.”
“Aha! so it was you who brought him there, was it?”
“That is to say, it was I and it wasn’t. He was looking for his wife, and I was looking for the Cupids, who were giving themselves indigestion in the attic; the little rascals nearly burst, and their mother declared it was my fault and wanted to tear my eyes out! I was in hard luck at that party!—But to return to your adventure—if you had let me into the secret of your liaison with Madame de Marsan, it wouldn’t have happened; on the contrary, I would have induced the husband to abandon the idea of looking for his wife! But there, as I am always saying to you, you won’t ever tell me anything! your reticence leads to surprises! in fact, you are responsible for my having to give up going to Monsieur de Marsan’s.”
“Why so?”
“Why so! it’s easy enough to see: the wife, knowing what—what I saw, receives me very coldly; and the husband’s another oddity. I wished to try to arrange matters; it was no easy task, but still, as it was night, and moonlight—and then, with a shrewd wit one can make anything look all right.”
“Well?”
“Well, when you had gone, I tried first to help Madame de Marsan, who had fainted, as I thought; but the moment I put my salts to her nose, she got up without help, threw the salts into my face, and ran off and locked herself in her room. When I saw that, I said to myself: ‘I must go to the husband and throw dust in his eyes.’—I went to the salon, and motioned to Monsieur de Marsan to step out to speak to me; at first he was unwilling to leave the écarté table, but he finally made up his mind to it. I led him into a corner and said: ‘Monsieur, you mustn’t believe all you see, especially by moonlight, because the moon changes the aspect of things, and you may be misled. The scene they were rehearsing in the thicket was of my invention, and was to be played after the Barbier: it was a love scene, and in love scenes the actors sit very near together, on each other’s knees sometimes, take hold of hands, embrace—in fact, the more things they do, the more complete the illusion.’—That was rather clever, eh?”
“Very clever; and what reply did Monsieur de Marsan make?”
“He hardly let me finish; then he said in a very sharp tone: ‘Be good enough not to weary me with any more of your nonsense, and never to open your mouth again on that subject!’—And, with that, he turned on his heel. Faith! I confess that I call that very ill-mannered! I try to give a husband the matrimonial prism, and he receives me like a dog in a game of tenpins! you must agree that it was not very pleasant. To cap the climax, a moment later up comes the dairywoman with her two brats, who were purple in the face; they had just been found in an attic; and the impudent peasant began to abuse me, and promised me that, if they burst, her husband would summon me before the magistrate! As if it was my fault! Why, I told them to act the part of Cupid, not to stuff themselves with food!—Faith! when it came to that, I took my hat, and taking advantage of Figaro’s cabriolet—he was driving back to Paris—I turned my back on the fête, vowing that I would never again compose anacreontic scenes for peasants.”
My neighbor left me when he had finished his story. Despite the assurance that I had given him that I harbored no resentment against him on account of that incident, he seemed to me to retain in my presence a constrained, embarrassed air which was not usual with him. He had left me, whereas ordinarily I had hard work to get rid of him. I sought in vain a reason for this behavior, which was not natural in Raymond. However, it mattered little to me what maggot he had in his brain; it surprised me more than it interested me.
There was something that surprised and troubled me much more: for a long time I had received no bouquets from Nicette. At first, I thought that her mother’s death might have kept her busy for some days; but that had taken place more than six weeks before, and still I found nothing at my door! I had become so accustomed to those tokens of remembrance, that every evening, when I went home, I hastily put my hand to the doorknob; but I found nothing, and I said to myself sadly:
“She too has forgotten me! I might reproach her, but I do not want her to do from a sense of duty what I had thought was a pleasure to her.”
It was a long time since I had seen her; I woke too late in the morning; in the evening, I was either with Madame de Marsan, or some friend would drag me away to one of the parties which began to be more numerous with the approach of winter. Besides, I knew how dangerous it was to go to see her in the evening!—Meanwhile, my meetings with Madame de Marsan were daily becoming less frequent and more depressing; she was simply waiting for an excuse to break with me altogether; and I, from a spirit of contradiction, refused to furnish her with one.
For several days we had not met; but we had arranged to dine together on a certain day; it was almost like granting me a favor. We dined at the Cadran-Bleu; the sight of the Méridien, just opposite, reminded me of the much livelier repast of which I had partaken with Mademoiselle Agathe; and I said to myself that the grisette, who deceives one openly, is a hundred times preferable to the petite-maîtresse who clings to us when she does not love us. The dinner was a gloomy affair, despite my efforts to prolong it; at seven o’clock we had nothing more to say to each other. I suggested the theatre, but there was no play that attracted her; it was not the season for walking, and I did not know what to suggest, or how to amuse her. At last she began to complain of pain in the stomach and head, of the vapors, in short. She decided to go home and to bed early, and I applauded the idea, which was a great relief to us both. We left the restaurant; I was going to take her home in a cab, as usual, but she preferred to go on foot, thinking that the walk in the fresh air would do her good. It was dark, and we had no fear of unpleasant meetings. We walked along like a husband and wife of twenty years’ standing, exchanging a word every five minutes. We reached Rue Saint-Honoré and should soon pass Nicette’s little shop; but it would surely be closed, and I was very glad of it. As we drew near I saw that the shop was still open; the shrubs had not been taken inside. It was too late to turn back. Indeed, why should I turn back? Was I not at liberty to give my arm to whomever I chose? Yes; but still I hoped that she would not see me.
We reached the shop; Nicette was at her door; she saw me, and by some inexplicable whim Madame de Marsan chose to stop to examine her flowers.
“Here’s a lovely orange tree,” she said; “for a long time I have wanted one in my boudoir; I like this one very much; don’t you think it pretty?”
“Yes, madame, very pretty.”
I was embarrassed; I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding Nicette’s.
“I am afraid it’s too large, though,” continued Madame de Marsan. “Have you any others, my girl?—Well! why don’t you answer?”
Nicette did not hear her; she had her eyes fixed on me, and doubtless her expression was very eloquent, for Madame de Marsan, greatly surprised, scrutinized her closely; her pretty face, her confusion, my emotion, my embarrassed manner, aroused in Madame de Marsan’s mind suspicions, which undoubtedly went beyond the truth. Women divine very swiftly, and their imagination travels fast. Madame de Marsan no longer loved me, but she had the curiosity which no woman ever loses on that subject, and, in pure deviltry, she pretended to be very fond of me.
She entered the shop, leaning nonchalantly on my arm; she bestowed an amorous glance on me and addressed me in the familiar second person, which she had not done twenty times at the very outset of our liaison.
“What do you think of these trees, my dear fellow? tell me which you like, my dear Dorsan; I want to choose the one you like best.”
Vexation and anger were suffocating me; I was hardly able to stammer a few disjointed words. I glanced at Nicette; I saw her turn pale and stagger; her eyes filled with tears; they seemed to say to me:
“She loves you! do you love her?”
Madame de Marsan saw it all; she smiled maliciously and watched Nicette closely.
“What’s the matter with you, child?” she asked, in a contemptuous tone; “you seem very much excited.”
“Nothing, madame, nothing’s the matter,” the poor girl replied, in a trembling voice, looking at Madame de Marsan and at me in turn.
“What’s the price of this orange tree?”
“It’s—it’s—whatever you choose to give, madame; I don’t care.”
“What’s that? you don’t care? That’s a strange answer!—What do you think, my dear Dorsan? Come, answer; I don’t know what’s the matter with you to-night, really!”
“When you are ready, madame, we will go.”
“Ah! I see, monsieur; you have reasons for not wanting to stay in this place with me; my presence embarrasses you—and seems to grieve mademoiselle! Ha! ha! this is too good! to grieve this poor child!—that would be cruel beyond words! Come, monsieur, when you choose. But, I beg you, don’t leave her in despair.—Adieu, my girl!”
She left the shop at last, and I followed her after glancing at Nicette. But she was crying and did not look at me.
When we were in the street, Madame de Marsan laughed as if she would die, and joked me about my amours and about the innocent flower girl. I made no reply, although I might have made some very mortifying remarks; we must be indulgent to the woman who has been weak for our sake. I left her at her door. I was in great haste to see Nicette again; I was determined now to tell her all my thoughts, all my sentiments; I proposed to conceal from her no longer the genuine passion which she had inspired, and which I had fought against to no purpose. She shared it; I could not doubt that. We would be happy together; yes, I would abandon myself thenceforth to the dictates of my heart, which told me that I must possess Nicette. The friendship between us was simply a pretext to conceal our love; we could not misunderstand each other! Why those fruitless efforts to overcome the sentiment that drew us toward each other? Why should cold prudence deprive us of happiness? Is love a crime, pray? and can that which makes us so happy make us guilty?
I ran, I flew—at last I stood before her shop; it was closed, and I could see no light within. I knocked: there was no reply. Was she asleep? No, no; I was sure that she would not be able to sleep. I knocked again—no reply! Where could she be? I passed an hour in front of her shop. I knocked again, but to no purpose. I was convinced that she was inside, but that she was determined not to admit me, that she was weeping and did not wish me to see her tears. Perhaps she feared that I would reproach her for her conduct before Madame de Marsan. Dear Nicette! Far be it from me to reprove your love.
“I will see her to-morrow,” I thought; “I will console her, and I shall easily triumph over the resolutions of the night! Since it must be, I will wait till to-morrow.”
XXVII
MY STAR PURSUES ME
I did not sleep; my mind was too disturbed, my heart too agitated for me to obtain any rest. All night long I formed plans, prudent, extravagant, and delicious. Nicette was always included in those charming visions of the future, which my imagination conceived so readily; I transformed her into a shepherdess, a great lady, a demoiselle; she and I were together in a palace, in a village, in a desert; but, wherever we were, we were happy. Ah! how sweet it is to dream waking dreams when one loves and believes one’s self to be loved in return!
I rose at daybreak; I had twenty schemes in my head, and, as usual, I could not decide upon any one. First of all, I must see Nicette; that was the most important thing. My toilet was soon completed; I was sure that I always looked well to her.
I left my room; everybody was still asleep in the house, unless there was somebody who was very much in love. Madame Dupont, who had ceased to be amorous, kept me waiting a century before she pulled the cord of the porte cochère; at last she heard me knocking and shouting at her window, and I was free.
In less than five minutes I was in front of the shop; it was still closed. I was surprised; Nicette was usually such an early bird.
Should I wait? should I knock? I stood hesitating in the street, when a messenger passed. It was the same one I had questioned some time before; he recognized me, touched his hat as he passed, and took his seat some twenty yards away. I walked toward him, with no definite idea what I was going to do. The messenger, who was pleased with my conduct on the former occasion, hastened to offer me his services.
“I have nothing for you to do, my friend,” I said, in a decidedly dismal tone, mechanically putting a five-franc piece in his hand.
He stared at me in amazement, and waited for me to speak before he ventured to put the coin in his pocket. I looked toward Nicette’s shop and pointed at it.
“That flower girl is rather late about opening, it seems to me,” I said.
“Oh! it’s early yet; but still, she’s been a bit lazylike for some time. Well, well! it isn’t surprising!”
“Why so?”
“When a woman gets love into her head!”
“How do you know? Who told you she was in love?”
“Oh! a man don’t have to be very sharp to see that kind of thing! you see, I’ve been on this square twenty year, so I ought to know pretty well what’s going on in the quarter.”
“What do you know about this girl? What have you seen? Answer, and keep nothing back. Here, take this.”
I felt in my pocket again and put more silver in the messenger’s hand, whereat his amazement redoubled and he looked into my face for symptoms of insanity.
“You told me that this girl was virtuous and honest, and that she did not speak to anybody, because she preferred not to.”
“That’s true, monsieur, that’s true. She’s honest enough still; but when a girl’s young, she may take a liking for someone, and——”
“Explain yourself more clearly! What makes you think that?”
“Pardi, monsieur! because I see the fellow come to see her.”
So Nicette had deceived me! Nicette did not love me! No, I could not believe it. I determined to question the man further. I leaned against the post that adjoined his stone bench; I needed support, for I trembled at the thought of finding my misery confirmed.
“You say that you see someone come to her shop?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Since when?”
“Why, it was about three weeks ago that the man came prowling around here; at first he came in the morning, to buy flowers; then he came at night, just at dusk, and talked a little; then he stayed longer; and it’s got so now that he comes almost every night and talks an hour or two with the pretty little flower girl. But I think everything’s all straight as yet; the shop door’s always open, and unless they meet somewhere else, which is possible enough, for women are sly, and it ain’t safe to trust to virtuous airs!—--”
“What does he look like?”
“Well, he ain’t exactly a young man, perhaps about forty years old; nor he ain’t very handsome, either; but as to his get-up, he’s one of your sort, a man who looks as if he was somebody! And you can see that the little flower girl, who put on airs with us poor folks, might have been flattered to make the conquest of a swell; that’s probably what caught her!”
“And he comes every night?”
“Yes, monsieur, pretty near; he don’t hardly ever miss a night now.”
“That’s enough.”
I strode away from the messenger; the poor fellow had unsuspectingly torn my heart; at the very moment that I proposed to abandon myself without reserve to my love for Nicette; to turn my back on society of which I was weary, so that I might live with her and for her—at that moment, I lost her thus! She loved another, and I believed myself to be sure of her love! With that sweet delusion vanished the blissful future of my waking dreams that morning.
I was still in the street; I could not go away. At last the shop opened; Nicette appeared; she was pale and downcast; but I had never seen her when she was so pretty, I had never been so deeply in love with her.
The little traitor—with that innocent air! Alas! had I the right to complain? had she given me her troth? had I told her that I loved her?—But was it necessary to tell her so? It seemed to me that we understood each other so perfectly. We had both been deceived!
Should I speak to her? Of what use was it now? what could I say to her that would interest her? No; I would not see her or speak to her again; I would forget her!
I do not know how it happened; but, with the firm intention to avoid her, I had walked toward her; and I found myself in front of her shop, where I stopped, in spite of myself.
She came to meet me with an air of constraint; her eyes were red, as if she had wept much; what could be the cause of her distress? I did not know what to say, and I stood mute in front of her; she too was thoughtful.—And this was the interview in which the confidence and unreserve of love were to reign supreme!—Poor mortals! our plans are drawn on the sand.
“I came last night,” I said at last, in a tone which I strove to render cold.
“Last night—yes, I saw you, with—with that lady.”
“No, I mean a few minutes later—I came back and knocked.”
“I was not here.”
“I thought you never went out.”
“I went out last night.”
“You might have been at home, and have preferred not to let me in.”
“Why so, monsieur?”
“Sometimes a person doesn’t like to be disturbed when she has company.”
“Company!”
“Yes, you understand me perfectly well; will you tell me again that you have no visitors? For the last three weeks, hasn’t a gentleman come to see you—almost every evening?”
She was embarrassed, she blushed. The messenger had not deceived me.
“Well, mademoiselle, you don’t answer. Is it the truth?”
“Yes, monsieur, it’s the truth.”
She admitted it! ah! I would have liked to have her deny it, I should have been so happy to believe her!—Further doubt was impossible! there was no more hope for me! I must go. I cast a last glance at her and left the shop abruptly, for I did not choose to let her see the suffering she caused me. She made a movement to detain me, then paused in her doorway, contenting herself with looking after me.
I resolved to think no more of her; she was no better than the rest!—In truth, I was unlucky in love! I had never yet fallen in with a faithful woman; they had all deceived me, betrayed me, played fast and loose with me; but all their perfidies had caused me less pain than I suffered because of Nicette’s inconstancy! She saw that I loved her; all women see that at a glance! She did everything to attract me! To think that one so young should be so skilled in feigning love and sensibility and gratitude! I could never again believe in anything or anybody.
But, before forgetting her entirely, I proposed to see the man who had replaced me in her heart, the man who had beguiled her, whom she loved! What a lucky dog he was! At that moment I would have given all that I possessed to be loved by Nicette.
I had been told that he went to see her every evening; I would see him that very day. There was a café almost opposite the shop, where I could wait unobserved, for I did not choose that the ungrateful girl should witness all the torments of my feeble heart.
I passed the day as best I could, and at five o’clock I betook myself to Rue Saint-Honoré. When I came in sight of her shop, I looked to see if she was in the doorway. She was not there, and I slipped into the café unseen by her. I took my seat at a table that touched the window, and ordered a half-bowl of punch, because it would naturally take me some time to drink it. The waiter made me repeat my order; no doubt he took me for an Englishman or a Fleming; but I cared little. I took up a newspaper to keep myself in countenance, and kept my eyes fixed on the flower shop.
The time seems very long when one anticipates a pleasure, and still longer when one is suffering and in dread. Would the darkness never come! It was October, and should have been dark at six o’clock. Could it be that it was not yet six? I looked at the clock; it marked only half-past five; it was probably slow. I looked at my watch; twenty-five minutes past five! It was cruel! I tried to drink the punch that was before me, but it was impossible for me to swallow; I had not dined, but I had been suffocating since the morning.
At last the daylight faded. How was I to see what happened inside the shop? how was I to distinguish that man’s features? I hoped that she would have a light. Sure enough, she came out with a light and began to carry in her flowers. What sadness, what depression in her whole aspect! She seated herself in the shop, beside the table, but she did not write! She sighed and glanced often into the street. She was expecting someone—and it was not I!
It was almost seven o’clock, and no one had appeared. Suppose he should not come? Should I be any happier then? Had she not agreed that morning that I knew the truth? And had her blush, her embarrassment, told me nothing?
A man appeared and entered the shop; he sat down beside her. Great God! did not my eyes deceive me? It was Raymond! Raymond with Nicette! Raymond her lover! No, no; that was impossible!
I rushed out of the café to make sure of the truth. Someone ran after me and stopped me. It was the waiter; I had forgotten to pay. I did not understand very well what he said, but I put three francs in his hand and he left me. The darkness allowed me to remain in the street unseen by Nicette, while I could see her plainly. It was in very truth Raymond whom I had seen, whom I saw. He was talking to her very earnestly, and she listened with attention. I read in her eyes the interest she took in what he was saying; she seemed more distressed than ever, she wept. He took her hand and squeezed it tenderly! She did not withdraw it! That lovely hand abandoned to Raymond! Ah! it was all over, I could no longer doubt my misfortune. I felt that I must fly while I still had strength to do so, and must never see her again! If only I could at the same time banish her image from my thoughts! But the idea that she loved Raymond crushed me, haunted me incessantly! So it was for Raymond’s benefit that I had preserved intact that flower which it would have been so sweet to me to pluck! I respected her innocence, and this was my reward!
If some respectable young man, of obscure station like herself, had won her heart while seeking her hand, I might perhaps have consoled myself; at all events, I should have been proud of having kept her pure and worthy of his vows. But that such a fellow as Raymond should triumph over Nicette! By what spell could he have fascinated her? He was neither young nor handsome; he was a stupid, vain, chattering bore! If there was anything lovable about him, I had never discovered it! And that was the man she preferred to me! Oh! these women!
I was no longer surprised at the embarrassment I had observed in Raymond’s manner when we last met. The traitor! so that was why he avoided me. The fellow was my evil genius, in very truth! He knew that I knew Nicette; he knew, perhaps, that I loved her. If I had listened to nothing but my rage, I should have gone to him and insulted him. But how can one obtain satisfaction from a dastard? and would his death make Nicette what I formerly believed her to be? I would despise one and forget the other; that was the only course for me to pursue.
Once more I sought in repose oblivion of my suffering. What a different night from the last! Last night, forming delightful plans based upon love and constancy; to-night, cursing that sentiment and the woman who had inspired it! If the weariness caused by such tempests of emotion made me doze for a moment, my first thought, on reopening my eyes, was of all my blasted hopes.
When I was dressed, I could not resist the longing to talk with Raymond. I promised myself to retain my self-control, to hold myself in check, and to conceal the state of my heart. I hastened across the landing and knocked and rang at his door. The concierge knew that he was at home; he was not in the habit of rising early; still he did not open the door. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. I heard sounds at last; I recognized his heavy tread, and soon his nasal tones greeted my ears.
“Who is it making such a row at my door before seven o’clock? It’s outrageous to wake a man up like this!”
“It’s I, neighbor; it’s I, Dorsan; I want to talk with you.”
For some seconds he did not reply, and when he did I knew by his voice that he was not gratified by my call.
“What! is it you, my dear neighbor?”
“Yes, it’s I.”
“What brings you here so early?”
“You shall learn; but first let me in; I don’t like to talk through a door.”
“I beg your pardon—you see, I’m in my nightshirt.”
“Bah! what difference does it make to me, whether you’re in your nightshirt, or naked, or fully dressed? I have no desire to examine your person. Open the door! then you can go back to bed; that won’t interfere with my talking to you.”
“You see, I passed most of the night writing birthday rhymes; and I am still sleepy.”
“Oh! morbleu! Monsieur Raymond, open the door, or I’ll break it down!”
The tone in which I uttered the last words indicated a purpose to carry out my threat. He did not wait for me to repeat it, but opened the door, and, running back through his little reception room, jumped into bed, where he wrapped himself up in the bedclothes, leaving nothing exposed but his nose and his great eyes, which he turned from side to side with an air of uneasiness, not venturing to look at me. I followed; the first thing I saw on entering his bedroom was a dozen or more bunches of orange blossoms, like those Nicette used to leave at my door; they were symmetrically arranged on my neighbor’s dressing table. That sight tore my heart, but I had promised myself to be philosophical, so I sat down beside Raymond’s bed and tried to speak very calmly.
“How are you this morning, Monsieur Raymond?”
He gazed at me in amazement.
“Was it to inquire about my health that you broke my bellrope and threatened to break down my door?”
“Oh! you must know that that was a joke! I had a question I wanted to ask you.—You have some very pretty bouquets there; it seems that you too are fond of orange blossoms?”
“Yes, yes; I like their odor very much; it’s good for the nerves, and I am very nervous, you know.”
“There’s a bond of sympathy between us, for these bouquets bear a surprising resemblance to those that adorn my bedroom—and for which you once expressed your admiration.”
“Yes, that’s true; indeed, I remember now that that was what gave me the idea of having some myself.”
“And are your flower dealer and mine the same?”
He did not know what to say, and his head disappeared for a moment under the bedclothes.
“Well, neighbor?”
“Oh! I haven’t any regular flower dealer; I go sometimes to one, sometimes to another.”
“Come, come, Monsieur Raymond, why fence with me; is this the confidence of which you claim to set me an example? Are you afraid of making me angry? Don’t be afraid; I ceased to think about little Nicette a long while ago.”
At that, he took his whole head out from beneath the bedclothes, and looked at me with a surprised and pleased expression.
“What! do you mean it? you have ceased to think about the little flower girl?”
“I never thought about her!”
“Well! do you know, I almost suspected as much! Besides, we have Madame de Marsan, who must occupy a good deal of our attention!”
“Never mind Madame de Marsan; tell me about your intrigue with Nicette.”
“Oh! it isn’t a long story! I confess that I am madly in love with her! You know how pretty she is!”
“A saucy face!”
“The deuce! saucy! you call her saucy! you are hard to please.”
“Well?”
“I go to make love to her almost every night. At first she was a little inclined to be wild; but I was so skilful at wheedling her, that now she can’t get along without me, and I am sure that she adores me.”
“Has she told you so?”
“Almost; besides, those things don’t need to be told; they can be seen. I know women so well!”
“You are more fortunate than I. So you have triumphed?”
“Not altogether as yet; but it won’t be long, I am getting ahead very fast. Look you, with women, just be assiduous, persistent, and agreeable, and you can be sure of victory! Oh! I’m a crafty dog, I am, a finished roué! A man must be that, to please the women. Sentiment, sighs, tender words, those were all right once; nowadays, at the first meeting, you inflame; at the second, you toy; at the third, you take a kiss—pinch the knee, squeeze her, and she is yours.”
I could not restrain an angry movement.
“And this is the man she loves!” I said, rising abruptly.
Raymond, terrified by my action, had buried himself anew under the bedclothes.
“Do you still have nervous paroxysms?” he cried, without showing his face.
“No, no, I’m all right. Adieu, Monsieur Raymond! be happy; and, above all things, make Nicette happy.”
With that, I left him, returned to my own room, and locked the door. There I could at least give free vent to the passions which agitated me, and which I had had the strength to restrain in Raymond’s presence. My heart was torn by love, jealousy, anger, and the most profound melancholy in turn. I tried to regain my self-control and to overcome a weakness at which I blushed; then I went out. For a week I courted the distractions of society and abandoned myself to what men call pleasure. But those things that once attracted me no longer had the slightest charm for me. I went to the theatre, to balls, concerts, the most brilliant parties; everywhere I was bored and discontented; wherever I went, I carried in the depths of my heart a melancholy, a depression which I could not overcome.
I was always delighted to go home; I was happier there; I sought new suffering in my memories; but that very suffering had a charm for me which I failed to find in society. But if I wished to forget her, I must needs leave those lodgings. How could I fail to think of her in that room, on that bed where she had slept! everything there reminded me of her and fed my love for her. I felt that I must go away; that I must leave Paris, where life had become unendurable to me. Distance, change of scene, and time, which, they say, triumphs over everything,—those were the remedies with which I must treat the insane passion that held sway in my heart. I would go to see my sister; she had ceased to expect me, but she would be none the less glad to see me; at all events, I should find there people who loved me. It seemed to me that that would do me good. My preparations were soon made. I locked the door of my lodgings, which I retained, although I was resolved never to occupy them again. I forbade Madame Dupont to let anyone enter except herself; she was to take care of them. I paid two quarters’ rent in advance, and started for my sister’s.