XX
THE ENVIRONS OF CHELLES.—POUCETTE.—AMI
"We're heading now as if we was going to Gournay," said the gardener, trotting in front of the two ladies; "this will help you to know the way when you want to go to walk in the neighborhood; and especially if you happen to feel like eating a matelote; for Gournay's famous for them, you know."
The peasant led them past the railroad station, which is on the road from Chelles to Gournay. Beyond the station they found themselves on a fine road bordered by tall poplars and enclosed by ditches filled with water, which prevented passers-by from walking in the fields on the other side of the ditches.
Both to the right and left the country was flat for some distance; it was a beautiful valley interspersed with coverts arranged for the express purpose of affording the game a place of rest and shelter.
"This is a very fine road," said Agathe, after they had been walking on it for ten minutes, "but it is too straight, too monotonous; I don't like roads where you never can tell whether you are going forward; is it like this very much longer?"
"No, mamzelle. Look; where you see that stone on the left, we make a turn, and then we shall have Gournay before us, and the view is more varied."
In fact, after turning to the left, they could see the Marne, whose placid green waters conceal many rocks dangerous to vessels and to bathers. The outlook was charming: on the left they saw a mill which reached boldly to the very centre of the river, supported by numerous piles. There were obstructions, too, to warn boatmen that they must not venture near, and that the passage was dangerous when it was not impossible. And the water, passing over these obstructions, formed cascades and waterfalls which gave life to the picture; while numerous little islands above the mill added still more to the charm of the landscape.
In another direction a tall hedge enclosed a park belonging to an estate called the Maison Blanche; then there were more pastures and fields and coverts.
"Ah! this is lovely!" exclaimed the girl, when she saw the river. "How pretty the water is, my dear! it makes a landscape beautiful instantly. I don't call those horrid ditches by the roadside water. We will come here often to walk, won't we, Honorine?"
"It's rather far from Chelles; however, we shall come here, no doubt."
"I intend to learn to fish, my dear; you must teach me the way."
"But I know no more about it than you do!"
"Never fear," said the peasant; "when you have a stout line, and when you've found out a place where there's fish, it goes all alone; but you'll have to buy a license though."
"What bridge is that ahead of us?"
"That bridge leads to Gournay, then to Noisy-le-Grand, then to Montfermeil, if you choose; but you have to pay to cross; it's a toll, a charge—I don't know what they call it; but it's a sou each. It seems that it cost three hundred thousand francs to build, and they want to get the money back; there's eighty years still that we've got to pay, but after that we can pass for nothing. As I don't like to put out a sou, I don't often cross; I'm waiting till it's free."
"Don't be afraid," said Honorine with a smile; "we will pay for you."
"Oh! it ain't worth while; we haven't got to cross the bridge to get to Guillot's field; it's to our left, on the bank of the river."
"But while we are here, I should be glad to know what there is on the other side of the bridge."
"Bless my soul! there's nothing but Gournay, a small village, a quiet little place that don't make much noise in the world. Bless me! there's only a hundred and twenty-five to a hundred and thirty people, at most, and you can guess it ain't likely to be as lively as Paris!"
"True; and if all the villages roundabout are as small, I understand why we have not met, or even seen, a single living being since we left Chelles. Doesn't it seem strange to you, Agathe, to walk for three-quarters of an hour in the country without meeting anyone?"
"Yes, my dear; but I have been fancying that I was walking on my own property, and that all the land in sight belonged to me."
"Indeed, one might well have that illusion. See: even on the river, although it is very beautiful, there is not a vessel in sight: no steamboats, no barges, no skiffs, no washerwomen, not even a single fisherman on the shore! It's as deserted as the surrounding country!"
"Oh! sometimes there's loads of wood go down the Marne; I've seen 'em!"
"Those must be noteworthy days."
"The trouble is, you see, the Marne's as sly as the devil; it has holes and lots of grass. You have to know it well to risk it in a boat; and better, to bathe in it."
"But I don't object to this solitude, this perfect quiet."
"And then, at Chelles it isn't like this; you meet people there."
"True; we met as many as three people on our way to that poor farmer's.—So we do not need to cross the bridge, you say?"
"No, madame, there's Guillot's field at our left."
"And the Tower," said Agathe; "why don't we see it from here?"
"Because we're in a hollow; but it's over yonder, behind Gournay, toward Noisy-le-Grand. You wait till you see all this six weeks from now; then the trees will be green and the shrubs in flower, and it'll be much brighter than it is now."
"You are right, Père Ledrux."
"Look, there's Guillot's field, and I see Poucette digging."
Poucette was a tall, strong girl, with the bronzed skin of those who work in the fields. But her round face was honest and good-humored, her black eyes met yours unflinchingly, albeit without the slightest touch of boldness in their expression; and when she smiled, as she did very frequently, she showed a double row of teeth whose whiteness formed a striking contrast to her brown skin.
A little girl of eleven or twelve, with the head of a boy, whose hair, cut à la Titus, presented the aspect of a hedgehog, was working by Poucette's side; it was Claudine, the farmer's oldest child.
The two villagers stopped their work to look at the two young women who were coming toward them. In a region where you may walk all day without meeting a cat, one may be forgiven for suspending work to stare at two stylishly dressed ladies.
"Look! that's Père Ledrux!" suddenly exclaimed Poucette.
"Yes, my girl, and I have brought two ladies who want to speak to you."
"To me, Père Ledrux? Bah! you're joking! We don't know any fine ladies."
"You're going to know some; don't I tell you that madame's come here for you—to take you with her? Well! what do you say to that?"
The young peasant flushed to the hair and seemed dumfounded.
Madame Dalmont walked toward her.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "I am looking for a young girl to enter my service; for my friend and I are coming to live at Chelles."
"These ladies have bought Monsieur Courtivaux's house; you know where it is."
"There are only two of us, my young friend here and myself; so that you will have only us to wait upon, and you will not have very severe mistresses to get along with. Tell me if you think that it will suit you to live with us. We have just seen your aunt, who thinks that you will do well to accept; but she leaves you entirely free to refuse the place if it does not please you."
"And you'll have your board and lodging and washing and they'll give you ten francs a month besides; that's not bad, eh?" said Père Ledrux.
Poucette's face became radiant.
"Oh! certainly the place does suit me!" she cried; "and I don't ask anything better than to take it. In the first place it'll be a relief to my uncle and aunt, who have to support me now; but if I earn money, I can help them in my turn, and that will make me very happy."
"I see that you are an excellent girl, my child; and if, as I hope, you serve me faithfully, I promise to increase your wages later."
"You are very kind, madame; I'll do my best. But, you see, I don't know many things, and if I've got to cook, I'm afraid I am not very clever."
"If you are willing, that is enough; I will show you, and you will soon learn."
"As for the will, madame will see that I have plenty of that."
"Well, then, it's a bargain. You accept, do you not? I may rely on you?"
"Certainly, madame, with great thankfulness!"
At that moment they heard a plaintive sort of groan soon followed by sobs. It was the little girl with the head like a hedgehog, crying like a baby.
"Dear, dear! what's the matter, Claudine?" inquired Poucette, turning toward the child, who replied between her sobs:
"You're going to go away from our house, and I shan't see you any more! I don't want Poucette to go away, I don't!"
This outburst of artless, sincere grief moved the two friends, who tried to pacify the little peasant by saying to her:
"Why, my child, you will still see Poucette; she isn't going to leave Chelles, for we are coming here to live. You can come to see her whenever you have time; we shall never prevent you; on the contrary, we shall be very glad when you come."
"Do you hear, Claudine? these ladies will let you come to see me, and you can help me when I clear up the garden!"
"The garden! oh! that's my business," muttered Ledrux; "you won't have anything to do with taking care of that; you don't know anything about it; a fine mess you'd make of it!"
The little girl looked at the two ladies and sighed. Agathe unfastened a velvet ribbon that she wore about her neck and placed it about the girl's, saying:
"See, this is to console you a little."
Instantly the child smiled through her tears and cried:
"Oh! look, Poucette! the lovely ribbon! see how pretty it is!"
"Yes, you see that these ladies are very kind to you already!"
"Pardi! if you give 'em gewgaws and finery," said the gardener, "you'll soon make friends with 'em."
"So much the better, Père Ledrux; that is what we want. I am sure that this child cares more for the bit of ribbon than for rabbits."
"Am I to go with you right away, madame?" said Poucette, dropping her spade.
"No, my child, not yet; we are going back to Paris for a few days. But when we return to Chelles for good, you must come to us at once."
"Shall you return soon, madame?"
"As soon as possible; I think that in a week we shall have done all that we have to do in Paris. But meanwhile I will give you your earnest money."
Honorine had taken from her pocket a dainty purse, and was about to open it, when an enormous dog suddenly appeared in the middle of the field and bounded toward Poucette, glancing with a most impertinent expression at all the other persons present.
"Look out! look out! that's the dog from the Tower!" cried Père Ledrux, retreating several steps.
"Yes, it's Ami," said Poucette; "oh! I ain't afraid of him, nor Claudine either; he knows us well and he ain't a bit ugly! Don't be afraid, mesdames, he won't hurt you."
The two friends gazed curiously at the dog, of whom they had already heard. Ami was of the Newfoundland breed, but seemed to have a trace of shepherd blood. His eyes indicated a degree of intelligence which many people deny to the Newfoundland, which, they claim, is good for nothing but to fish up a drowned man or save people from falling over a precipice, which, in our judgment, would be a sufficient proof of intelligence.—But in addition to these qualities, the dog from the Tower possessed all those of all other breeds; moreover, nature seemed to have endowed him with the gift of divination; for he would divine a given person's sentiments for his master, and his instinct never deceived him. He knew better than his master himself who were his friends and who his enemies. That extraordinary perspicacity—of which men are rarely possessed—proved that prodigies of intelligence may be found among dogs of the Newfoundland breed.
Generally speaking, there is no rule without an exception. Some people claim that men with low foreheads are deficient in wits, while a high forehead is the appanage of genius. We have known some very intellectual low foreheads, and some high ones behind which there was nothing but dense stupidity.
Ami was white, except for a few brown spots on his back, and one on top of his head. His tail ended in a large plume; his muzzle was broad, his ears of medium size, and his black eyes gleamed with extraordinary fire; they seemed to long to speak. He understood perfectly whatever was said to him and did whatever his master ordered, much better than most servants. Such was the dog that suddenly appeared in Guillot's field.
His appearance was so unexpected that Madame Dalmont, who was opening her purse at the moment, was unable to restrain a movement of alarm, and in that movement she dropped a two-franc piece from her purse. She had not discovered the loss when Ami picked the coin up with his teeth and placed it at her feet, as if to say:
"Take your money, which I have picked up for you."
"Oh! the beautiful dog!" cried Agathe; "see, dear, he picks up the coin you dropped and returns it to you!"
"That's so, on my word!" said Ledrux. "I tell you, everybody wouldn't be as honest as he is! But, I say, as the dog's here, the master can't be far off."
"No, no, Monsieur Paul isn't far away," said Poucette; "I see him coming over there toward the mill."
"The owner of the Tower? Oh! where is he? show him to us!" cried the two friends almost at once.
"I don't see but what you're almost as curious as Madame Droguet!" chuckled the gardener. "But never you fear; you'll see my gentleman, and near to at that, for he'll certainly pass here on his way home."
"Do you think he will pass by here?"
"Yes, madame," said Poucette; "Monsieur Paul is going across the bridge and home by way of Gournay. If he wasn't coming this way, his dog would have left us before this, sure."
The two friends looked toward the mill and saw a man wearing a cap with a long vizor and dressed in hunting costume, with a gun over his shoulder, walking rapidly along the bank of the river.
"I thought that hunting was prohibited now," said Honorine.
"Yes, madame," said Poucette; "but he don't hunt; he carries his gun as he would a cane. Nobody says anything to him for that, because he's well known all about here now, and everybody knows he ain't a poacher."
"He don't always carry his gun," said little Claudine. "Day before yesterday I met him by the Maison Rouge, and he didn't have anything in his hand but a stick."
"He's coming nearer; you can see his face now."
"None too well," said Agathe; "for my part, my dear, I can see nothing but his beard. Great heaven! what a beard! it's enough to frighten one!"
"Ami, there's your master; go after him.—Why, that's funny! he don't pay any attention to me; he seems to be all taken up with mamzelle!"
Ami, in fact, kept his eyes fixed on Agathe; he walked all about her as if to examine her on all sides, then returned to his place in front of her and gazed at her anew.
"Good dog! I have a good mind to pat you!" said Agathe; "for it seems as if you were inviting me to, and as if you would like it; but I don't quite dare to risk it, I might mistake your intentions."
"Oh! there's no danger, mamzelle," said Poucette; "it's plain enough that you've won Ami's heart! If he didn't like you, he'd growl so that you couldn't make a mistake; you can tell right away when he's in a bad humor.—Why, look! he's rubbing his head against you now! that's funny; I never saw him so friendly with anyone!"
"Perhaps mamzelle has something to eat about her," said the gardener slyly.
"No, Père Ledrux, I have nothing about me!" retorted Agathe; "and you slander this dog by suggesting that gluttony has anything to do with the friendly feeling he shows me.—Come, Ami, come; let me pat you; I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, for hereafter I shall know that I needn't be afraid of you."
As she spoke the girl patted the dog, who made no objection and wagged his tail in token of satisfaction.
Meanwhile his master approached, walking very fast and looking straight before him. But when he arrived at Guillot's field, he glanced aside and saw his dog surrounded by five persons; whereupon he immediately called him in a loud voice:
"Here, Ami, here! come at once!"
The noble beast, obedient to his master's voice, turned his back on the little group; but as he trotted away he turned several times and looked back at Agathe.
His master had reached the bridge and was almost across, when the dog stopped in the middle, turned toward Agathe and began to bark loudly, as if to send her a last adieu.
"That's funny! that's funny!" exclaimed Poucette; "that the dog from the Tower should take such a liking to mamzelle right off."
"Dear me! we shall miss the train!" said Honorine; "it goes at four o'clock; doesn't it, Père Ledrux?"
"Yes, madame, but it ain't that yet."
"But we have to go back to the station, and it's some distance. Here, my child, take these three francs; it's your earnest money."
"Oh! madame is too kind! Look, Claudine, she gave me three francs!"
Little Claudine was engrossed by the velvet ribbon that had been placed about her neck.
"Now let us go, Agathe.—Good-bye, Poucette; we shall see you soon."
"I will be ready when madame comes."
"Very good; au revoir."
"Good-bye, Claudine."
The little hedgehog-headed one smiled, but could not find a word to say in reply; her ribbon absorbed all her faculties.
The two friends hurried off to the station; and as the gardener left them he said:
"Now it's all settled, I may as well take the rabbits away; that will relieve you just so much."
"Yes, yes, Père Ledrux, take the rabbits."
"As for the hens—why, you can see about them later."
"I have already said that we would keep the hens."
"I know; but if you should ever change your mind—however, it will be time enough then."
Honorine and Agathe took the train, the former still thinking of the savage aspect of the owner of the Tower; the other recalling with pleasure Ami's caresses.
XXI
AN ASSIGNATION IN A COUPÉ
After an absence of several days, Freluchon returned home one morning.
He came from Rouen alone, having left the young Pompadour there, making eyes at the jeune premier of the Grand Theatre; as Freluchon was beginning to weary of his conquest and was on the lookout for an opportunity to break with her, he did not fail to seize that one. After a tremendous outburst of jealousy, on leaving the theatre where the jeune premier had made a great hit in An Odd Bet, a vaudeville from the Variétés, Freluchon had abandoned his faithless fair and taken the train for Paris.
When he entered the courtyard of his house, he cried:
With rapture I once more behold this blest abode!"
His concierge interrupted him in the middle of his declamation to say:
"Monsieur, your friend Monsieur Edmond Didier has been here almost every day to ask for you."
"Indeed! dear Edmond! Is he in such haste to see me?"
"And then another one of your friends, Monsieur Chamoureau, whose clothes you have kept since Mi-Carême, and who is very angry with you. He often comes twice a day to know if you have returned."
"What's that? Chamoureau angry! Oh, well! he'll calm down! Why, one would think he hadn't any other clothes to put on—a man with a real estate office!—Poor Chamoureau! I would have liked to find him still dressed as a Spaniard; I should have enjoyed that! But, to console him, I'll give him a stick of sugar-candy that I brought from Rouen, where they cost more than they do in Paris; to be sure, they're made in Rouen."
Freluchon had not been at home an hour, when his doorbell rang violently; he went to open the door, saying to himself:
"That's Chamoureau, I'll bet; if he's still out of temper I'll talk to him about Eléonore and make him weep."
But it was not the business agent, it was Edmond who entered his friend's apartment.
"Well, you have returned at last!" he said; "that's fortunate! I have been longing for you; I wanted to see you!"
Freluchon planted himself in front of Edmond, who had thrown himself on a couch, and gazed at him with a look of amazement, as he replied:
"This eager desire to see me flatters as much as it surprises me! not that I doubt your friendship, but between young men friendship never goes so far as ennui because of absence; we have too much to distract our thoughts. Something has gone wrong in your love-affairs. Amélia has indulged in some new escapade!"
"As if Amélia had anything to do with it! I haven't seen her for a week."
"Have you had a row?"
"Oh, no! I think no more about her than if I had never known her."
"Ah! that is better, and I congratulate you. But if you have ceased to think of her, I'll stake Chamoureau's coat against twenty-five sous that it's because you are thinking of somebody else!"
"Yes, yes! I am thinking of somebody else! but this time—Ah! Freluchon, this is no mere caprice, no amourette; it isn't one of those passions to which desire alone gives birth; ah, no! I feel that I am truly in love, in love for the first time; and this love bears no resemblance to the others! If you knew how it changes one, how timid, humble, respectful one becomes! how little it takes to make one happy! how a trifle causes one to feel the keenest, sweetest sensation! But I can't make you understand all that; no, it's impossible. To form a conception of love, you must be in love yourself; without that, you cannot comprehend the happiness and the torments it causes."
"Sapristi! here's a kettle of fish! What, can it be you, Edmond, that fickle, heedless youth, who have got caught in this fashion! And who is the lady with the camellias, or with the white carnations, who——"
"Ah! Freluchon, you are all wrong; there is no question here of one of those great coquettes or of those fashionable courtesans who take delight in making numerous conquests and to whom all men do homage. No, it is not a woman of the world—monde—or of the demi-monde; it is a carefully reared, virtuous girl, and pretty—ah! as pretty as the most beautiful of the angels!"
"Oho! that makes a difference! Where did you find this jewel?"
"At Chamoureau's."
"What! Chamoureau has documents of that sort in his office, and has never shown them to me! that surprises me very much."
"For heaven's sake, Freluchon, stop your joking a minute, and listen to me!"
"Speak; I am like a mute of the harem."
Edmond told his friend how he had made Agathe's acquaintance and by what means he had been able to make himself useful to Madame Dalmont. Freluchon listened attentively and without interrupting him; when the lovelorn youth had finished, he said:
"Well, it's all up with you, I understand that. This young lady is charming, I have no doubt; she possesses all the talents, all the virtues; I am convinced of that. But what do you expect to do now?"
"I haven't any idea, and that is why I was consumed with anxiety to see you. In the first place, I felt that I must talk about my love, relieve my heart; for it was suffocating me. Then I wanted to ask your advice."
"I'll give you some advice that I'll bet you won't follow."
"Why not? Speak."
"As the girl in question is respectable and virtuous, of course you do not expect to make her your mistress?"
"Oh! perish the thought! it has never once come into my mind."
"In that case, my dear fellow, as it would be rank madness for you to think of marrying before you have some position in the world, a fortune, or at the very least some employment which will take the place of a fortune, you must cease to think of the young lady, and you must never see her again."
"Not think of her! not see her! Ah! tell me rather to cease to live!"
"You see that I was right when I said that you wouldn't follow my advice. It was hardly worth while to ask me for it."
"It would be madness, you say, for me to think of marrying.—No, it would not be madness, if I had a fortune or at least a suitable position to offer that fascinating girl; for I should be so happy with her! But, as you have too well said, I have neither! That sixty thousand francs that my uncle left me, I have spent more than half of now, in amusing myself; and what I have left isn't enough to justify me in offering myself as a husband to any woman."
"That depends. Is your young woman rich?"
"No; at least, I think not. The two ladies are going into the country in order to live economically; and the charming Agathe, who is an orphan, has no friend or protector but this Madame Dalmont, who is a widow of very modest means."
"Forget this young woman, my friend; forget her at once; that is the best thing that you can possibly do."
"No, I cannot, I will not forget her!"
"Sapristi! then don't ask me for advice!"
"My friend, when I have given those ladies time to get settled in their country house, I shall go to Chelles, and I shall call on them; they have invited me to do so."
"Do what you please."
"You will come with me."
"What for? Do you mean to present me to them? But suppose I should fall in love with your damsel?"
"No, I shall not present you. I am not intimate enough with them yet to take the liberty to introduce anyone; but you will wait for me somewhere in the neighborhood, we will pass a few days there——"
"Ah! what a captivating plan! That is to say, you propose to keep me on a strict diet, while you utter heart-rending sighs!—No, thanks!"
"If you refuse, I will take Chamoureau. Poor Chamoureau! he will understand my torments, for he too is in love."
"Really! There seems to be an epidemic of it just now."
"But by the way—I haven't told you.—Gad! it's a most amusing thing! You would never guess whom he's in love with."
"His concierge?"
"No; but that magnificent conquest he made at the Opéra ball, and refused to open his mouth about."
"I remember his mysterious air, his reticence, his hints when we talked about his charmer."
"Well, that charmer is Thélénie, the superb, the brilliant Sainte-Suzanne!"
"The deuce! your ex-mistress?"
"The same."
"And you say that Chamoureau has made the conquest of that elegant creature, who adored you, who continued to run after you?"
"And who runs after me still, alas!"
"Then Chamoureau is an idiot. The woman probably wanted to talk with him because she knew that he knew you, and because she hoped to obtain from him information concerning your conduct. That is not hard to guess."
"I believe that you are right, especially as she expressly forbade him to mention her name to us. He seems, however, to have little success in his amours; he is constantly groaning and complaining. The poor fellow is really in love with Thélénie, who treats him, he says, with extreme cruelty."
"I am glad of it; that will teach him to stop lamenting Eléonore! The beautiful brunette is making a fool of him, there's no doubt about that; and you say she is still running after you?"
"Mon Dieu! yes; and I avoid her. See, here's a letter that was handed me just now when I left the house; it's from her, I know, I am familiar enough with her writing, but I haven't even broken the seal. What's the use? I'll just throw it into the fire."
And Edmond was on the point of tossing into the flames a letter that he took from his pocket, when Freluchon caught his arm.
"What! you propose to destroy this missive without finding out what is inside?"
"My dear fellow, I know beforehand what is inside: reproaches, complaints, followed by entreaties and burning words! And all this to lead up to the statement that she expects me to call because she absolutely must speak to me."
"She must have a very impassioned style, that woman. Will you let me read her letter?"
"You are at liberty to do so, if you care to."
"It won't annoy you?"
"How foolish you are! Thélénie is not a married woman, so that one is obliged to respect her secrets; furthermore, she makes no mystery of her sentiments toward me."
"Oh, no, indeed! the only mystery she makes is in the matter of her feeling for Chamoureau. Let's see your Ariadne's epistle."
Freluchon broke the seal of the letter and read:
"Ungrateful Edmond:
"Do you mean to kill me with grief? have you no pity for my suffering? is there no longer in your heart a single spark of that fire which you once swore burned there for me?
"I cannot believe it; I love you too dearly to be forgotten thus! You have ceased to see that flower-maker, Amélia, I know; you could not love such a woman long. I forgive you that whim, I promise, I swear to you that I will never mention it. Let the past be nothing more than a dream.
"Come back, dear Edmond, come back to her who cannot exist apart from you, and to whom you have made known a sentiment that will end only with her life.
"This evening, at nine o'clock, I shall drive in a coupé on the Champs-Elysées. My carriage will stop in front of the Jardin d'Hiver, on the other side of the road. Open your left hand twice to my coachman, and he will open the door.
"You will come; I insist—no, but I entreat you.
"THÉLÉNIE."
"Well," said Edmond, "did I not guess right: reproaches, entreaties, oceans of love, and a rendezvous?"
"To which you will not go?"
"Most assuredly not; for I should be very sorry to renew a liaison which had lost all charm for me, even before I knew Agathe! All the more so, now.—What are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking of the unlucky Chamoureau, whom this fair lady is making a fool of. As you don't mean to go to this rendezvous, we must send him in your place."
"The deuce! do you mean it?"
"Indeed I do! It bores you to receive passionate notes from this Thélénie every hour in the day, does it not?"
"Ah, yes! it bores me terribly, and I would give anything in the world to induce her to leave me in peace."
"Well! this is the best possible way to put an end to the persecutions of your Hermione. When you have sent Chamoureau to her in your place, I'll answer for it that she won't make any more assignations with you.—And then suppose it should result in making the poor fellow happy, in making him the happy vanquisher of the woman he adores—where would be the harm? Will you let me go ahead?"
"I have no objection, on the condition that you go to Chelles with me."
"You still hold to that plan, do you? What on earth shall I do there?"
"Eat matelotes at Gournay. They are very famous."
"That argument persuades me. I have never been able to resist a matelote.—I hear the bell; I'll bet it's Chamoureau."
"Bless my soul! I remember now that he forbade me to tell you of his love for Thélénie."
"He'll be very glad that I know about it, in a little while."
This time it was in fact Chamoureau who entered Freluchon's room.
"So this fellow has come back at last!" he cried. "Tandem!—denique!—Do you know, Freluchon, that your treatment of me has been rather too unceremonious?"
"Good-morning, Chamoureau; embrace me!"
"To go away without returning my new black coat and trousers! You have no idea what that cost me!"
"Embrace your friend!"
"Let me alone.—The trousers were new, too."
"Do you suppose that I have worn your clothes, I should like to know? do you think that I put on your coat and trousers to go to Rouen?"
"Faith! I don't know."
"I should look very nice in them, as I'm five inches shorter than you! See, there are your clothes, on that chair; I give you my word that they haven't been to Rouen."
The agent carefully examined his coat and trousers, muttering:
"To think that I have two of each now! it was hardly worth while!"
"What! have you bought another black coat?"
"I had to."
"Have you had occasion to take part in some grand function—a wedding, or a funeral?"
"I had occasion—I had occasion to be dressed handsomely."
"Chamoureau, you have secrets from your best friend; that is not right. I've brought you a stick of sugar-candy from Rouen."
"Don't talk to me about candy, Freluchon, I beg you. You remind me of Mi-Carême night, which I would like to efface from my memory!"
"Why, I was under the impression that you made a magnificent conquest that night; you told us so, at all events."
"Yes, that's so; I did meet a fascinating woman, and she gave me permission to call on her; but I've been no more fortunate for that. Four times now within five days I have been to see her, in the hope of finding her less cruel; but I am always told that she isn't in. I begin to think that she doesn't propose to receive me again."
"The trouble is that you didn't go about it right, my poor fellow. You were probably too prudent, too timid. There are women who prefer to have the appearance of yielding only to violence."
"You see, my trousers split; that embarrassed me the first time I called on her."
"You ought to have worn an apron; then it wouldn't have made any difference about your trousers."
"Freluchon, your constant jesting with a man so miserable as I am is barbarous; for my love for that woman gives me neither truce nor rest."
"The deuce! and the memory of the adored Eléonore? have we left that under the shed?"
Chamoureau took his coat and trousers and was about to depart without a word; but Freluchon stopped him.
"Where are you going?"
"I am going away."
"You run off because I speak of Eléonore! Quantum mutatus ab illo!—Come, stay; I won't mention her again; and if, instead of that, I should make you the fortunate vanquisher of the superb Sainte-Suzanne——"
"What! Sainte-Suzanne? You know—he knows—Monsieur Edmond, did you tell him?"
"No, no! Edmond hasn't told me anything; I learned of your intrigue at Rouen; news of that sort is despatched at once by the railroads."
"I don't understand."
"That makes no difference; it's enough for you to know that your friend is at work for you, and that, knowing that you sighed for a cruel beauty, he said to himself:
"'Chamoureau must be made happy!'
"And I have manoeuvred so well and pulled the wires so skilfully with the fair Thélénie, that I have changed her views completely with respect to you! The result is that she gives you an assignation for nine o'clock this evening, on the Champs-Elysées. She will be in a coupé opposite the Jardin d'Hiver."
"It can't be possible! No, I know you, Freluchon—you're playing a joke on me!"
"I give you my word of honor—and you know that I don't give it lightly—that the charming person with whom you are in love will be in a coupé, opposite the Jardin d'Hiver, at nine o'clock this evening; and that the coachman will open the carriage door, if you open your left hand twice in front of him.—Do you believe me, now?"
"Dear Freluchon! embrace me!"
"I knew it would be so: he is the one who wants to embrace me now. Oh! these men! Someone has said: 'Woman changes oft, and foolish is the man,' et cetera; one might as fitly say: 'Man changes oft, and an ass is the man who trusts him!'—I am rewriting François I; but there have been those who have ventured to rewrite Racine; and frankly I think that he was a greater poet than François."
"In heaven's name, Freluchon, repeat what you just told me! This evening, at nine o'clock, I shall find Thélénie in a coupé on the Champs-Elysées?"
"Yes, in front of the Jardin d'Hiver, on the other side of the avenue."
"And, to induce the coachman to open the door, I am to shake my fist at him?"
"Sapristi! if that's the way you hear! you are to open your left hand twice, before his face."
"Ah! very good! I will open my left hand twice. But, what the devil!——"
"Well, what difficulty is there about that?"
"When I have opened my left hand once, how am I to open it again?"
"Why, you idiot, you must close it again, of course!"
"Ah, yes! to be sure; I won't open it again till I have closed it. It is love that unsettles my mind. And I shall find Thélénie, she will be waiting for me, and she will not spurn my homage!"
"Damnation! my dear fellow, when a lady gives you an assignation at night, in a carriage, that doesn't indicate an intention to be very severe; and if you don't come out of the affair the victor, it will be your own fault."
"You are right. This time I will be a Don Juan, a Richelieu! I will hurl myself into the coupé like a bomb! The rest will take care of itself."
"Bravo! I recognize you now."
"My dearest wish is gratified."
"You must tell us to-morrow how it goes off. That is all I ask for my reward."
"I'll tell you everything; I will conceal nothing from my friends henceforth. Dear Freluchon! dear Edmond!—But what's the matter with Monsieur Edmond? he doesn't say anything."
"Don't you know that he is in love, like you?"
"Oho! with whom, pray?"
"A young person—who lives with a lady who bought a country house at Chelles."
"The deuce! Mademoiselle Agathe!"
Edmond emerged from his reverie, crying:
"Agathe! who mentioned her name?—Have you seen those ladies again, Chamoureau? have you been to their house?"
"I? not once. What would you have me go there for, now? Madame Dalmont insisted on paying me my fee on the spot, and the transaction is concluded."
"She's a widow, isn't she, Chamoureau?"
"Yes, she's a widow."
"And she hasn't a large fortune?"
"No; she told me herself that her means were small, and that she was going into the country to live as a matter of taste and for economy's sake."
"And Agathe—that lovely girl?"
"Mademoiselle Agathe is an orphan, and has no other friend or protector than the lady with whom she lives. That's all I know about them.—But, pardon me, my friends, it's three o'clock already; allow me to take my leave. I will take my clothes away; I'll wear them to-night; these trousers, anyhow, are not too tight for me."
"What! you are going to carry that bundle?"
"I shall take a cab. Your hand, Freluchon. Now I am yours, in life and in death!—Au revoir, messieurs, until to-morrow."
Chamoureau returned home. The day, although far advanced, seemed mortally long to him. He set about curling his hair, perfuming himself, in short, trying to make himself most seductive.
He went out at five o'clock, to dine; but joy took away his appetite. When caused by love, joy sometimes produces that effect.
While he toyed aimlessly with a beefsteak, he said to himself:
"How strange women are in their whims! This one refuses to receive me at her house, and waits for me at night, in a carriage, on the Champs-Elysées! Still, she may have reasons for being afraid to receive me at home. Who knows that she isn't afraid of that Monsieur Beauregard, who used to be her lover, as he says? perhaps it isn't true; there are so many men who brag of triumphs they never obtained! It matters little to me, after all! if she shares my flame, am I not too fortunate?"
Chamoureau left the restaurant and entered a café, called for all the newspapers, did not read one, looked at his watch every instant, and finally exclaimed:
"At last, it is dark! Ah! how impatiently I have been waiting for this!"
But it was early in April, and it grew dark rather early. It was only seven o'clock. However, our widower left the café, saying to himself:
"I'll walk slowly to the Champs-Elysées; that will take up time. It's a little cold, but it's fine. Besides, I don't propose to be late; a gallant man should always arrive first at the rendezvous."
Although he walked very slowly from Boulevard Montmartre, it was not yet eight o'clock when he reached the rond-point on the Champs-Elysées. But it was absolutely dark. Our lover consulted his watch, heaved a deep sigh, and paced to and fro in front of the entrance to the Jardin d'Hiver.
He had been walking there for three-quarters of an hour, passing many carriages; but not one of them was standing at the place designated. At last, about a quarter to nine, a cab coming from the Barrière de l'Etoile stopped in front of the entrance. Chamoureau instantly drew near and walked around it; the curtains were lowered, which fact convinced him that his inamorata was inside.
He hastened toward the driver, who had remained on his box, and putting his left hand close to the lantern, opened it twice.
The man stared at him in amazement, but said finally:
"I am engaged; I have a fare."
"I know that you have a fare; but it's that fare who expects me; don't you see this sign?"
And he opened his left hand again.
"You offer me ten francs, I can see that plain enough," said the cabman; "that's all right, and if I wasn't taken, I'd say at once: 'Get in, bourgeois'; but I can't do it."
"Bless me! how stupid the man is! Can she have forgotten to tell him what signs I was to make?"
And again Chamoureau opened his left hand for the benefit of the driver, who shook his head, saying:
"You might offer me twenty francs—I tell you I've got somebody in my carriage!"
"And I tell you again that I am well aware of it; and I repeat that that somebody expects me."
"If you're expected, get in; it's all one to me."
Chamoureau asked nothing better; he threw the door open violently, entered the vehicle, and found himself in the presence of a lady and gentleman, to whom his advent was evidently most unwelcome, for the gentleman took him by the shoulders and threw him out of the cab, giving him no time to put his foot on the step, and crying:
"Who is this insolent villain who dares to enter a carriage that is occupied? Did anyone ever hear of such audacity! Driver, why did you let this man enter? Were you asleep?"
"Mon Dieu! he made a lot of signs and told me he was the one you were waiting for."
"I beg pardon, a thousand pardons, monsieur! I made a mistake, an error, I see it now; I am waiting for a carriage with a lady, and I thought——"
"You're an idiot, nothing less; and if I were not with a lady, I would treat you as you deserve."
Chamoureau bowed to the gentleman and walked hastily away in order not to hear any more.
"I made a mistake," he said to himself; "I saw well enough that I had made a mistake. I can understand that man's indignation; I was entirely in the wrong. It was my impatience that caused it; for it isn't nine o'clock yet, and the appointment is for nine. I ought to have known that I was mistaken: it wasn't even a coupé, but a cab, and an old one at that! The superb Sainte-Suzanne would not ride in such a miserable vehicle! I am too effervescent! I must be calm and watch.—Poor man! how I did disturb him!"
The agent walked some distance toward the barrier; but at last he heard the clocks strike nine, and he at once retraced his steps. As he drew near the place appointed, he saw that the cab was no longer in front of the Jardin d'Hiver; but on the other side of the avenue a coupé had drawn up.
Chamoureau walked toward the coupé in a state of agitation that caused him to stumble at every step. When he was within a few feet, he stopped, in order to examine the carriage closely. It was a very stylish equipage; the driver was not on his box, but was standing by his horses and seemed to be scrutinizing the people who passed.
"This time I am on the right track," thought Chamoureau. And he walked resolutely toward the coachman, and made the signal agreed upon.
The coachman replied by a slight nod and lost no time in opening the carriage door. Our lover instantly jumped in, head first, and the door closed behind him.
It was in fact Thélénie, awaiting Edmond at the place she had designated; but as he had long since ceased to come to the rendezvous she appointed, now, having heard the clock strike nine without bringing her unfaithful lover, she had given up all hope of seeing him, when the door opened and a man rushed in like a bomb.
Thélénie did not doubt for an instant that it was Edmond, for her coachman had received his orders; he was to open the door only at the preconcerted signal. The darkness inside the carriage made it impossible for her to distinguish the man's features. She threw herself into Chamoureau's arms and kissed him tenderly, exclaiming:
"Here you are at last! You have come! You have listened to my voice! You are restored to me! Ah! this time it is forever, isn't it? you won't leave me any more?"
And Chamoureau, transported by the kisses that were lavished upon him, had the ill luck to answer:
"Why, fascinating creature, I have never intended to leave you, I have always offered you the most tender love, the most passionate, the most——"
He had not time to finish his sentence; a cry of rage issued from Thélénie, she roughly pushed him away, and in an instant had raised the curtains and opened the door.
"It isn't Edmond!" she shrieked; "oh! the villain!—Who are you, monsieur? who are you? who gave you permission to enter my carriage?"
Our widower, who had no idea of the meaning of that sudden change in the lady's mood, faltered:
"I am—but you know perfectly well—Chamoureau—whom you expected—at least, that is what Freluchon told me.—I am that adorer——"
But Thélénie had already had time to identify the business agent, and she pointed to the open door, saying in a voice that trembled with wrath:
"Get out, monsieur, get out at once, and say to those who sent you here that this jest will cost them dear. As for you, never let me see your face again."
"But, madame, I don't understand; I swear to you that I really believed——"
"Go!—or I will call my coachman!"
Thélénie's eyes flashed fire and their expression at that moment was so menacing that Chamoureau backed out of the carriage in deadly terror. He was no sooner on the ground than the coachman drove away.
"My hat! my hat! I have left my hat in your carriage!" cried Chamoureau, running after the coupé.
A window was lowered and the hat thrown out into the avenue. At that moment a calèche passed at a rapid pace; our widower was obliged to jump aside in a hurry, and one wheel of the calèche passed over the ill-fated hat. Chamoureau stooped and picked up the shapeless mass, swearing in very emphatic fashion. Then he returned to the sidewalk, trying to restore some shape to his hat, and not noticing two young men, arm-in-arm, a few steps away, who were nearly convulsed with laughter.
XXII
AN INHERITANCE
That same evening, after he had been home to get another hat, because the first one was entirely ruined, Chamoureau bent his steps toward Freluchon's. He was beside himself with rage and could hardly speak.
"I am going to Fre—Fre—Freluchon's," he stuttered to the concierge.
But Freluchon was not at home; he had gone with Edmond to the Champs-Elysées, at the time appointed by Thélénie, and there the two young men, concealed in the shadow, had witnessed part of the adventure, and had divined the rest when they saw Chamoureau tumbling out of the coupé very soon after he had entered. They laughed like maniacs when they saw the unlucky agent running after his hat. Then they returned to the centre of Paris.
"You say Freluchon isn't in?" stammered Chamoureau, when the concierge stopped him on his way upstairs. "Well, then I will come again to-morrow morning; tell him to wait for me! tell him that I forbid him to go out until he has seen me! and that he hasn't heard the last of this! You understand: he hasn't heard the last of this!"
The concierge heard doubtless; but he did not seem at all impressed by the way in which Chamoureau emphasized his words, and the latter went away, muttering:
"I have been victimized by Freluchon's jests too long; this thing has got to come to an end!"
The next morning, at seven o'clock, Chamoureau entered Freluchon's bedroom; his friend was still in bed and shouted when he saw him:
"May the devil take you for coming to wake me at this hour; I was sleeping like one of the blessed,—the blessed, you know, sleep splendidly;—you come too early!"
"I am glad to see, Freluchon, that you have followed the orders I gave your concierge—and waited for me."
"You! give orders to my concierge! that is delightful, on my word!"
"No joking; I didn't come here to joke. I am perfectly serious.—What! you are lying down again?"
"Yes, I am still sleepy; but that makes no difference, say on."
"Freluchon, your conduct is shameful! You laid a trap for me; you made a fool of me—of me, your intimate friend, formerly the husband of that Eléonore in whom you were so deeply interested! You send me to an assignation which was not for me. Alas! it was not I who was expected; I found that out only too soon!—If you had caused me to play that scene with a woman who was perfectly indifferent to me, I would be the first to laugh at it; but you know that I love Madame Sainte-Suzanne, that I adore her, that I would give the whole world to be on good terms with her, and you expose me to her wrath—what do I say?—to her fury!—When she saw that I was not the person she was waiting for, she was a tigress, a lioness; she drove me from her presence, and forbade me ever to show my face before her again!—Ah! it is that that distresses me above everything! forbidden to see her again! and this is your work. What have you to say in answer?—Come, what can you say to justify yourself?—He doesn't answer! May God forgive me if he isn't snoring! he's gone to sleep again!"
Chamoureau seized Freluchon's arm and shook it violently; whereupon the little man opened his eyes and cried:
"Go on! I am listening!"
"No, you were asleep; but I propose that you shall listen to me. I am going to begin over again what I have just said, and I shall keep on that way till night if you don't listen."
"In that case, I prefer to have done with it at once."
Freluchon rubbed his eyes and Chamoureau began his speech anew; when he had finished, the little man sat up in bed.
"And you have the audacity," he cried, "to come here and complain! Imbecile! I do what I can to make you happy, and you are not content! So much for obliging ungrateful curs! this is how they reward you!"
"What do you say? to make me happy by——"
"By sending you to the arms of the woman you adore, yes, monsieur; you weren't the man she expected; no, of course you weren't, since Edmond was. But I didn't tell you, because I knew that timid as you are, you wouldn't dare to go to that rendezvous if you had known that you were to take another man's place."
"No, most certainly I wouldn't have gone."
"Well! wasn't it very hard on you to go to meet a lovely woman, at night, in a carriage? A woman whom you adore, who is cruel to you—I arrange for you to have a nocturnal tête-à-tête with her, and you complain! But tell me, my poor fellow, how you behaved during that tête-à-tête, that you were sent about your business in such a hurry?"
"Why, I was no sooner inside the carriage, and the door closed—it was too dark to see anything—when the lady threw herself into my arms, calling me the most loving names and giving me the most burning kisses."
"My word! and still he complains!"
"I was enchanted, transported! but when she said: 'You won't leave me any more; this time it is forever!' I replied: 'Why, I never had any intention of leaving you, for I adore you.'"
"Ah! there spoke my blockhead! instead of keeping quiet, of making the most of the mistake—in short, of being happy! My chatterbox spoils everything by jabbering like a magpie! Why, you wretch, if you hadn't breathed a word, you would be at this moment the conqueror of the haughty Thélénie!"
"You should say, that if it had gone any further, she'd have killed me when she found that she'd been deceived, as she was so enraged by the few kisses she gave me!"
"She wouldn't have killed you; women don't kill men for that sort of offence."
"What about Lucretia?"
"What in the devil has Lucretia to do with it; what connection is there between Thélénie and Tarquin's wife?—I say, on the contrary, that she wouldn't have driven you away, because, when a thing is done, why, it's done! She'd have scolded you at first, but then she'd have forgiven you because she couldn't do anything else."
"Is it possible? Do you really think she would have forgiven me, Freluchon?—Oh! unlucky wretch that I am! why did I speak? why did I let her hear my voice? He is right; it began so well! Nox erat! Ardebat Alexim! Oh! I am in despair to think that I spoke!"
"And when one has done one's utmost to make one's friend happy, to gratify his most ardent desires, monsieur appears in a rage, he complains, he almost threatens one with his wrath!"
"I was wrong, Freluchon; forgive me, my dear fellow. I realize now that I was wrong. But what can you expect? all these things upset me—these alternations of joy and sorrow; I no longer know where I am; I can't seem to see.—Come, my dear fellow; you have forgiven me—what do you advise now?"
"What do I advise? Oh! now, my poor friend, your case is ruined, totally ruined, the best thing that you can do is not to think of this woman any more, to forget her entirely!"
Chamoureau rushed about the room, crying:
"But I can't do it! it's impossible! every time that she maltreats me and spurns me, I am more in love than ever! Forget that magnificent woman!—for she is magnificent; and in her anger, when she glared at me like a panther that contemplates devouring you, she was superb! I have never seen anything so fine as those eyes when she said to me: 'I will be revenged; say to your friends that this jest will cost them dear!'"
"Yes; so you and Monsieur Edmond are duly warned."
"Oh! we have no fear of that woman's vengeance!"
"If I were in your place, I should dread it; she's one of the women who don't look as if they weren't up to snuff, as the plebeians say!"
"Forget her, Chamoureau; that's all I have to say to you."
"Forget her! why, it's more impossible than ever, now that I have tasted her kisses! now that I know her way of kissing!—Ah! my friend! I had never been kissed like that, even by Eléonore!"
"I can believe that! Your wife knew that it was you she was kissing, while this woman took you for another."
"That isn't it at all! it's because Eléonore wasn't passionate, loving, maddening, like the lovely Thélénie."
"Aha! you propose to cry down your wife now, do you? That's very pretty! We are becoming ungrateful! Chamoureau, you make me blush! I shall not be surprised to hear you say in a day or two: 'How glad I am that I'm a widower!'"
"That isn't what I meant."
"No, but that is your thought!—Look you, I am speaking seriously now, so be reasonable; your love for this woman is absolutely devoid of sense."
"Adieu, Freluchon!"
"Come some day and dine with me; we'll go to the Folies-Nouvelles, a charming little theatre, where one always sees some very light-hearted females; you will very soon find someone to divert your thoughts."
"Adieu, Freluchon!"
Chamoureau would not hear of any distractions.
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!