“Presumably, I have none to relate, mademoiselle.”
“Or that you don’t choose to relate them. However, you are your own master. For my part, I tell everything that concerns me, because hitherto I have had nothing to keep secret. I am an orphan; my father, who was an army contractor, left me twenty-five thousand francs a year. I live with Monsieur Roquencourt, my mother’s brother and my guardian; and he lets me do just as I choose, because he knows that I have been accustomed to that from my childhood. That is my whole history, and you know me as well now as if we had been brought up together.”
She thought perhaps that her confidence would provoke mine; but I replied simply:
“How does it happen that, being as rich and lovely as you are, you have never married?”
“Ah! I was certain that you would ask me that question; I am asked it so often! Bless my soul! monsieur, is there such a terrible hurry about being married, and placing myself under the control of a man who perhaps would not let me do as I wished? I am so happy with my uncle and he is so good, especially when he doesn’t talk about his Crispins and his Lafleurs! really, I tremble at the thought of losing my liberty; and then, I tell you frankly, I have never yet met any man who deserved that I should sacrifice so much to him.”
“You are happy, mademoiselle; believe me, you are very wise to remain so; do not risk the repose of your whole life by binding yourself to someone by whom you think that you are loved, and who will betray you in the most dastardly way! No, do not marry.”
Caroline gazed at me in amazement; she was silent for a few moments, then she began to laugh, saying:
“You are the first person who ever talked to me like that; I was right in thinking that you did not resemble the rest of the world.”
On the day following this conversation, after listening, and laughing heartily the while, to the gallant remarks of a number of young men, Mademoiselle Derbin came, as she was accustomed to do, to the window from which I was gazing at the landscape which stretched out before us.
“Always admiring these mountains, are you not, monsieur?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I consider this region very interesting.”
“Are you a painter, monsieur?”
“No, mademoiselle; I paint a little, however, but simply as an amateur.”
“Ah! you paint? in what line?”
“Miniatures.”
“Do you paint portraits?”
“I have tried it occasionally.”
“Oh! it would be awfully good of you to paint mine. We have a great deal of time to ourselves here. I will give you sittings as often as you choose. I have been painted many times, but I have never thought the likeness good. Will you do it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
How can you refuse a lovely woman when she addresses a request to you, with her charming eyes fixed upon yours? Indeed, I had no reason for refusing what she asked.
“I will paint your portrait, mademoiselle, but I do not flatter myself that I shall be more fortunate than those who have done it before.”
“Oh! perhaps you will; at all events, what does it matter? It will amuse us, and occupy the time. When shall we begin?”
“Whenever you choose.”
“Right away then; we will have a sitting in my uncle’s room; but I must have my hair dressed first, I suppose?”
“No, I prefer to paint you as you are, and not in a ball dress; do not make any preparations at all.”
“As you choose.”
“I will go for my box of colors.”
“And I will go to tell my uncle. Oh! it is awfully good of you.”
On going to my room, I found Pettermann humming a tune as he brushed my clothes, which he was always careful to look over to see if there were any buttons missing, or any holes in the pockets; and he always repaired the damage.
“Is monsieur going to paint?”
“Yes, Pettermann; and I fancy that we shall stay here a few days longer. You are not bored here, I hope?”
“No, monsieur, I am never bored anywhere, myself; besides, the wine is good here. By the way, what day of the month is it?”
“The seventeenth.”
“The deuce! only the seventeenth! this month is very long!”
I guessed why he asked me the question, and I said to him:
“As you consider the wine good here, as I am enjoying myself, and as it is fair that you should do the same, act as if it were the end of the month.”
“Oh, no! a bargain is sacred, monsieur. Since I have been with you, I have learned to respect myself; and if I do get drunk once a month still, it is because I should be sick if I should stop drinking entirely. But never mind; if the wine is good here, the women are terribly inquisitive! prout!”
“The women are inquisitive? How do you know that?”
“Because these last few days they have done nothing but hang round me to try to make me talk.”
“Who, pray?”
“At first it was the landlady and the servants in the inn; but when they found that that didn’t work, there was a good-looking young woman who came to me herself, as if by accident.”
“A lady who lives in the hotel?”
“Yes, the one with the little uncle who talks all the time.”
“Mademoiselle Derbin?”
“Just so.”
“What did she ask you?”
“She acted as if she just happened to pass through the yard where I was; she asked me first: ‘Are you in Monsieur Dalbreuse’s service?’
“‘Yes, mademoiselle.’”
“You should have told her, Pettermann, that you were travelling with me, but not as my servant.”
“Why so, monsieur? I consider myself very lucky to belong to you; and as there must always be one who does what the other says, it is right that you should be the one to give the orders; therefore you are the master.”
“What then, Pettermann?”
“Then, that young woman—or rather that lady—continued: ‘Have you been with Monsieur Dalbreuse long?’
“‘About two years.’
“‘He seems like a very agreeable man, Monsieur Dalbreuse?’
“‘He isn’t cross, mademoiselle.’
“‘What does he do in Paris?’
“All those questions began to tire me, and I replied rather short:
“‘He does what he chooses, mademoiselle; it doesn’t make any difference to me.’—At that she went away. But in a minute she came skipping back, and said to me almost in my ear, as she tried to slip a gold-piece into my hand:
“‘He is a bachelor, isn’t he?’—I didn’t take the money, but I touched my hat and said:
“’ Yes, mademoiselle, he is a bachelor.’—At that she began to laugh, and went away, saying:
“‘The servant is almost as unique as the master.’—Upon my word, if she isn’t inquisitive, I don’t know who is.”
So Mademoiselle Derbin was determined to find out who I was, what my rank and position were in society. My silence had piqued her. But to go so far as to ask if I were married—that was decidedly peculiar. Pettermann believed me to be a bachelor; I had never said anything in his presence which would lead him to suppose that I had ceased to be one. What did it matter to that young woman whether I was married or not? Could it be that she had taken a fancy to me? I could not believe it; I had never said a word of love to her. So that it was probably the whim of a coquette who desired to subject everybody to her empire. She had known me only a fortnight. Moreover, it seemed to me that I was no longer likely to inspire love, that no one could ever love me again.
I said all this to myself as I looked over my box of colors. But it did not prevent me from going to Mademoiselle Derbin, for she expected me; and even if I did attract her, that would be no reason for avoiding her. We must leave such noble acts to the patriarchs of Genesis, whom we are by no means tempted to imitate.
They were waiting for me. The uncle was there; he congratulated me on my talent, and thanked me for my good-nature. Caroline was much perplexed as to the position she should take. I begged her to act as if I were not painting her portrait, so that there should be no affectation in the position, and I set to work.
My model was very docile; she looked at me and smiled very affably. The uncle walked about the room, and soon said:
“She will make a very pretty portrait, monsieur. I was painted once in the costume of Scapin. It was an artist of great talent—I have forgotten his name but it will come to me directly. It was at Bordeaux, at Madame la Comtesse de Vernac’s, who entertained the leading artists of Paris—Molé, Saint-Phal, Fleury, Dugazon. In fact, it was at her house that I met Dugazon. Oh! the rascal! as amusing in society as he was on the stage. You must have seen Dugazon?”
“Yes, monsieur, I think so; but I was so young that I hardly remember. Mademoiselle, raise your head a little, if you please.”
“To return to my portrait,—the artist considered me so amusing in Les Fourberies de Scapin, my face was so absurd when I came out of the bag—You know Les Fourberies de Scapin?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Oh! how can you keep asking monsieur such questions, uncle? Does he know Molière? You would do much better to see if the picture looks like me yet.”
“Are you crazy, my dear love, to expect that it will look like you after fifteen minutes?—So I was painted as Scapin, and it was an excellent likeness. That wasn’t my favorite part, however; I won my triumph as Pasquin in Le Dissipateur. I made them cry, monsieur, yes, I made them cry, by the way I said: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are a great many ways of saying that. I had heard Dugazon say it, and if you please, monsieur, I gave it an entirely different expression: ‘The little that I possess!’ There are some who declaim it; Dugazon always declaimed it, but I maintain that you should simply put truth and soul into it: ‘The little that I possess!’—And I saw tears in people’s eyes!—‘The little that——’”
“Oh! for heaven’s sake, uncle! are you trying to make us cry too? You distract monsieur’s attention; you will be responsible for my portrait not looking like me.”
“Your uncle may talk, mademoiselle; I assure you that it doesn’t interfere with my work at all.”
Caroline gave a little pout of vexation, which I would have liked to reproduce on the ivory, because it was very becoming to her. I thought that she wanted her uncle to leave us; but Monsieur Roquencourt had no such intention.
After walking about the room several times, he came to watch me work, then looked at his niece and exclaimed:
“Upon my word, Caroline has in her face, especially in her eyes, much resemblance to Mademoiselle Lange. You did not know Mademoiselle Lange, who used to act at the Français, did you?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Ah! Monsieur Dalbreuse, she was perhaps the one actress who had more truth, more charm in her way of speaking than any other; and a charming woman besides! I knew her well; she taught me to put on my rouge. It is a very difficult thing to put on one’s rouge well; I used to daub my face all over with it. She said to me one evening when I had just done Gros-René—you know, Gros-René in Le Dépit Amoureux:
“Oh! we have seen Le Dépit Amoureux, uncle! That speech isn’t the best thing in Molière, in my opinion.”
“As I was saying, I had been playing Gros-René, and with great success, on my word! I had made the audience laugh until they cried. Lange led me aside after the performance, and said to me: ‘You acted like a god! you acted divinely; but, my friend, you don’t know how to put on your rouge; you make big daubs everywhere; that isn’t the way; you must put on a lot under the eyes; your eyes are very bright already, but you will see how much brighter that makes them; then, put on less and less toward the ears, and almost none at all on the lower part of the face.’—I followed her advice, and I gained greatly by it.”
“Uncle, weren’t you to play a game of backgammon this morning with that Englishman who challenged you yesterday?”
“It isn’t this morning, my dear girl, but to-night that we are to play.”
“I thought that it was this morning.”
“You are mistaken.—Backgammon is a very fine game; do you play it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
“A little, monsieur.”
“It was Dazincourt who taught me; he was a very fine player. I remember that one evening we played for one of his wigs; it was the wig that he wore in—wait a minute—a beautiful wig, and that counts for a great deal on the stage. It was the wig he wore in——”
Caroline rose and exclaimed impatiently:
“That will do for to-day; I do not want to tire monsieur; let’s go to drive; it is a fine day and I long for the fresh air. Uncle, will you be good enough to fetch my bonnet?”
Monsieur Roquencourt went to fetch the bonnet, scratching his ear and muttering:
“Strange! I can’t remember the name of the part.”
When he had left the room, Mademoiselle Derbin said to me:
“To-morrow, if you choose, we will have a sitting earlier, when my uncle is reading the papers; for really he is terrible with his actors and his acting. One forgets what one is doing; it seems to me that you must be able to work better when there is no one beside you, talking; that is to say, monsieur, unless you are afraid to be alone with me.”
She smiled as she said that; but there was a touch of sadness in her smile. “Really,” I thought, “this young woman is able to assume every sort of expression. Sometimes laughing, playful, mocking; sometimes serious, thoughtful, and languishing; she is never the same for two minutes.”—Was it art, I wondered, or was it that the different sensations that she felt were instantly depicted upon her features? It mattered little after all. However, I had not yet answered her question; I felt almost embarrassed. At that moment her uncle returned with her bonnet, crying:
“This much is certain, that I won the wig by a carme, which gave me twelve points. Dazincourt jumped from his chair in vexation, and said: ‘I won’t play with you again.’”
Mademoiselle did not care to listen to any more; she took my arm, and we left the room. She took me to drive, without even asking me if I would like to go with them; she evidently divined that it would give me pleasure. She was successful at divination: I was never bored with her.
The next morning I went to her uncle’s room at the hour she had appointed; I found her alone; I had no feeling of confusion or embarrassment, for I had no declaration to make to her; even if she had attracted me, I should not have told her so. I was not free, and I did not propose to deceive her; but I had nothing to fear. My heart would never know the sensation of love again; I liked Mademoiselle Derbin’s company, I liked her disposition, her wit, her unreserve; I did full justice to her charms; but I was not in love with her.—I could never love again.
We set to work at once. I labored at her portrait with pleasure; but sometimes a cruel memory awoke in my heart; I remembered the delightful sittings which my wife had given me. What a joy it was to me to paint her! Ah! her smile was very sweet too, and her eyes were filled with love for me.
When such ideas assailed me, a very perceptible change took place in my expression, no doubt, for my model said to me for the second time:
“What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Dalbreuse? Don’t you feel well?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“You assumed such a melancholy expression all of a sudden! If it is a bore to you to paint me, monsieur, there is no reason why you should go on.”
“No, mademoiselle, on the contrary it is a great pleasure to me.”
“Oh! you say that in a very peculiar tone.”
I did not reply but went on with my work. Caroline became very serious and did not say another word.
“Would you mind smiling a little, mademoiselle? You do not usually have such a serious expression.”
“It’s because you say nothing to amuse me, and you yourself have sometimes an expression—oh! mon Dieu! what an agreeable man you are!”
“I may have memories which are not very cheerful; and what I am doing at this moment reminds me——”
“Of what?”
“Of a person whose portrait I once painted.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“A woman whom you loved, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes!”
Caroline changed color and rose abruptly, saying:
“That’s enough for to-day; I won’t pose any more.”
“But, mademoiselle, we have just begun.”
“I am very sorry, but I am tired; besides, I don’t care any longer about having my portrait painted!”
“What new whim is this?”
“Well, monsieur, if I choose to have whims——”
“I am very sorry too, but I have begun your portrait, and I want to finish it.”
“I tell you that I don’t want a portrait; you would be obliged to keep it, and I should like to know what good it would do you? A man doesn’t wear a portrait. Oh, yes! in a locket sometimes, I believe.—Well, well! now you are assuming your solemn expression again. Well, here I am, monsieur, here I am, don’t be angry; great heaven! I will pose as long as you wish.”
She resumed her seat. I glanced at her; she had hastily wiped her eyes, and yet I saw tears still glistening in them. What an extraordinary woman! What a combination of coquetry and sensibility! What on earth was going on in her heart? I was sometimes afraid to guess.
We worked for a long time, but I made little progress with my task, for I was absent-minded; the past and the present engrossed me in turn. Caroline herself was thoughtful. Sometimes she talked to me about Paris, and I divined that she was anxious to learn what my business was. I saw no reason why I should not tell her that I was an advocate. She seemed pleased to learn that I practised that profession. Why did she take so much interest in my concerns? I had not addressed a word of love to her.
Our second sitting was more cheerful; we were becoming accustomed to each other. When I sighed, she scolded me and told me to work more carefully. When she was pensive, I begged her to smile, to play the coquette as she did in society. Those sittings passed very quickly. Really I could hardly recognize myself; there were times when I was afraid that I was becoming too thoroughly accustomed to Caroline’s company. Ernest was quite right when he urged me to paint pretty women, in order to obtain distraction from my troubles.
We had had ten sittings and the portrait was almost finished. In fact it might have been left as it was, for Caroline was delighted with it, and her uncle considered it as good a likeness as that of himself as Scapin; but I desired to do something more to it; and Caroline herself wished for some slight changes in the dress and in the hair. I thought that we should both be sorry when the sittings came to an end.
One evening, when the weather was bad and we had remained in the hotel with several other guests, the conversation became general. An old gentleman who was almost as loquacious as Monsieur Roquencourt, but much less affable, told us about a scandalous lawsuit which was reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux. It was a husband’s petition for divorce on the ground of his wife’s infidelity.
“There are many interesting details,” he said, “which the newspaper gives with its own reflections thereon.”
The old gentleman went up to his room to get the paper, which he was determined to read to us. I would gladly have dispensed with that favor. Whenever that subject was discussed I felt ill at ease. Those gentlemen laughed and jested freely concerning betrayed husbands. To no purpose did I pretend to laugh with them; I could not do it. I would have liked to change the subject, but I dared not; it seemed to me that they would fathom my motive. Luckily, Mademoiselle Derbin was beside me, and she did not seem to pay much attention to the trial reported by the Gazette des Tribunaux.
“Messieurs,” said an Englishman, “among us, the subject is viewed in a different light. It becomes almost a business transaction. We make the co-respondent pay very heavy damages.”
“Can damages restore the honor of an outraged husband?” demanded an old Spaniard. “In my country, the reparation is swift, but it is terrible!”
“Messieurs,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “I remember acting in Le Mariage de Figaro with a friend of mine who was in the plight of the husband in the Gazette des Tribunaux. He was playing Almaviva. As everybody knew what had happened to him, you can imagine the personal applications of his lines that were made during the performance. There was much laughter; but for all that he acted very well. I was Figaro. I had the prettiest costume it is possible to imagine; white and cherry colored, all silk and embroidery and spangles. It cost me a great deal! But Dugazon, who saw it, was so delighted with it that he asked me to lend it to him so that he could have one made like it.”
At that moment I was overjoyed to hear Monsieur Roquencourt talk about the parts he had acted; I hoped that that would change the subject permanently, and I was about to ask him for some more anecdotes of Dugazon when the infernal old gentleman arrived, newspaper in hand, crying:
“Here is the Gazette; I assure you that there are some very amusing details, which one may safely read before ladies, however.”
“Does this conversation amuse you?” I asked Caroline in an undertone.
“Do you suppose that I listen to these chatterboxes? No indeed; I think that my thoughts are worth quite as much as their words.”
As she spoke, she cast a tender glance at me and laid her hand on my arm, for I had taken a seat beside her. I lowered my eyes; I was entirely engrossed by the Gazette des Tribunaux.
The old gentleman put on his spectacles and drew near a lamp. We were definitively condemned to listen to the newspaper. There are people who insist upon amusing you against your will.
“This is the article, messieurs; it is in the Paris news; and the names are in big letters.”
“That is very pleasant for the husband!” said the Spaniard, under his breath; “all Europe will know that he is a cuckold!”
“When a husband is foolish enough to go to law about such a bagatelle,” said a young Frenchman, “he well deserves to have the whole world laugh at him.”
“Bagatelle!” repeated the Spaniard, “when a man’s honor is involved!”
“What a devil of a place has he put his honor in? Ha! ha! It was Beaumarchais who said that, and Beaumarchais had a devilish lot of wit! When I acted his Figaro, I was with——”
“I say, messieurs, don’t you want to hear the newspaper?”
“Yes, indeed; we are listening.”
“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very interesting in its details and in the course of the trial, was heard to-day in the Court of First Instance. Monsieur Ferdinand-Julien Bélan married in June, 1824, Mademoiselle Armide-Constance-Fidèle de Beausire. For several years——’”
“Ferdinand Bélan?” I exclaimed, waking from my reverie. All eyes were turned upon me, and someone exclaimed:
“Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours? What sort of man is he? Tell us about him.”
“I do know a person of that name, but perhaps it is not the same man. My Bélan is married, it is true, but I lost sight of him a long while ago. I know nothing whatever about him.”
“Oh! it’s probably this man.”
“He must look a fool!” cried a young guest.
“It seems to me that to be a betrayed husband must give a man a queer look!”
“That is a young man’s reflection,” said the Englishman. “If such things could be read on the face, the French would laugh much less at them.”
“Messieurs, I once played Sganarelle in Le Cocu Imaginaire; it was at Bordeaux. I played it afterward at Paris; but this that I am going to tell you about happened at Bordeaux. It was a performance that had been planned long before, and I was not to be in it. But all of a sudden the amateur who was to play Sganarelle became involved in a disastrous failure; he lost two hundred thousand francs. You can imagine that he didn’t care to act in theatricals then. The company was in dire perplexity, when Molé, who was one of them, said: ‘Pardi! I know a man who can help us out of the scrape if he will; he is a friend of mine, who acts like a little angel, and he happens to be in Bordeaux at this moment.’ And everybody said: ‘Oh! bring us your friend! Bring us your friend!’ Molé came to me and said: ‘Will you play Sganarelle in Le Cocu Imaginaire?’ I answered: ‘Why not?’
“‘You will restore life to some charming women, whom you will embrace—Do you know the part?’
“‘No.’
“‘It is very long.’
“‘I will know it to-morrow.’
“‘I defy you to do it!’
“‘What will you bet?’
“‘A truffled turkey!’
“‘Done.’—The next day I played Sganarelle and I had a tremendous success!”
“I believe, messieurs, that I brought this newspaper in order to read it to you; and if you will permit me——”
That devil of a man would not be denied; and although I knew very well that it was about the Bélan whom I knew, I was not at all curious to hear the report of his suit. Luckily, the mistress of the house entered the salon at that moment. After saluting everybody, she went to Mademoiselle Derbin.
“Mon Dieu! if I dared, mademoiselle—if it would not offend you, I——”
“What is it, madame?”
“We have a new guest, a French lady who has been here since morning. She has come to take the waters, and anyone can see that she is not travelling for pleasure solely, for she seems to be very ill, to suffer a great deal.”
“Is it the young lady whom I saw this morning?” asked the Englishman.
“Yes, my lord.”
“She has a very interesting air.”
“But what can I do, madame?” asked Caroline.
“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, it’s like this. This lady, who has very good style and excellent manners, has nobody with her but her maid. She has not left her room since morning, and I am afraid that she is bored. I went up to her room for a moment just now, and told her that the guests were assembled in the salon this evening, and that she ought to come down, that it would divert her. She neither consented nor refused. She seems very shy; but if anyone of the party, like yourself, mademoiselle, should go up and urge her to come, I am certain that she would not refuse. Poor woman! she seems so miserable! I am convinced that in company she would forget her suffering a little.”
Several of the guests added their entreaties to the landlady’s. I myself, well pleased that the newspaper should be forgotten, urged Mademoiselle Derbin to bring us the invalid.
“Since you are so curious to see this lady, messieurs,” said Caroline, rising, “I will go to her as your ambassador. But do not rejoice overmuch beforehand, for I do not agree to succeed; and you will perhaps be obliged to content yourselves with addressing your compliments to the ladies who are in the salon now.”
Having said this with fascinating gayety, she left the salon with the landlady. That incident cast Bélan’s lawsuit into the shade, and I hoped that no one would recur to it; but I noticed that the old gentleman, who did not admit that he was beaten, had gone to a corner of the salon in evident ill humor, with the Gazette des Tribunaux still in his hand.
Several moments passed.
“Mademoiselle Derbin will not succeed,” said the Spaniard; “if that lady is ill, she will not leave her room.”
“Why not?” said a young man; “need a person become a hermit because she comes here to take the waters?”
“I believe that my niece will succeed, messieurs; for in truth she succeeds in everything that she undertakes, and if she has taken it into her head to bring this new guest here, be sure that she will not return alone. My niece takes after me; I have played perhaps thirty parts in my life—what am I saying? I have played more than fifty!—Well, I assure you that at least a dozen of them I have learned in twenty-four hours, on the spur of the moment, like that of Sganarelle. But that was very long!—By the way, I haven’t told you the effect that I produced on Molé. He had never seen me except in a servant’s part; to be sure, Sganarelle is a servant’s part, if you choose, but——”
“Here comes Mademoiselle Derbin, and she is bringing the lady,” said a young man who had opened the door of the salon.
Instantly in obedience to a natural impulse of curiosity, we formed a circle and all eyes were turned toward the door.
Caroline appeared, leading the newcomer by the hand. Everybody bowed to the lady, and I, as I was about to do the same, stood as if turned to stone; then I fell back upon my chair. In that pale, thin woman, evidently ill and suffering, who had entered the room, I recognized Eugénie.
She had not seen me; for, as she came in, she bowed, without looking at all the people assembled in the room; and then, guided by Caroline, she went to a seat at once. I was almost behind her; I dared not move or breathe.
“Messieurs,” said Mademoiselle Derbin, “madame has consented to accede to my entreaties; but I had a vast deal of difficulty in inducing her to leave her retreat, and you owe me much gratitude.”
The gentlemen thanked Caroline, who had seated herself near Eugénie. The conversation began anew. Eugénie took little part in it; she talked with no one but Mademoiselle Derbin, who questioned her about her health. I heard one of the young men say to Monsieur Roquencourt:
“I recognize that lady, I saw her at a party in Paris two years ago. Her name is Madame Blémont, and her husband has deserted her; he was a good-for-nothing, a gambler, a rake.”
“Poor woman!” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “there are so many of those rascals of husbands who act in that way! to say nothing of the Beverleys, the Othellos, the—I was asked once to play Beverley, and it is the only part that I ever refused!”
I glanced at the young man who had named my wife. I was quite certain that he did not know me, for I could not remember that I had ever met him in society. But I cannot describe what I suffered; the sight of Eugénie had revived all my pain. I would have liked to fly, but I dared not; I was afraid to move hand or foot; if she should turn her head slightly, she would see me.
However, that situation could not last long. Caroline, having ceased to talk to Eugénie, turned to me and said:
“Well, Monsieur Dalbreuse, why do you stand so far away? You look as if you were sulking. Pray come and talk with us a little.”
I did not know what reply to make. But Eugénie had pushed her chair back as if to make room for me beside her neighbor; at the same moment she turned her eyes in my direction. Instantly I saw her sway from side to side, and her head fell against the back of her chair.
“This lady is ill!” cried Caroline, leaning over her. “Some salts, messieurs, quickly! Open the window; perhaps she needs air.”
There was a general movement. I rose with the rest and was about to leave the salon, but Caroline called me, detained me, begged me to help her to carry the invalid to the window, which had been opened. How could I avoid doing what she asked? And then too, the sight of that woman, whose eyes were closed and whose pale lips and emaciated features indicated great suffering, caused me profound emotion, and a sentiment which almost resembled pleasure. I was not hardhearted, but she had injured me so deeply! It seemed to me that I was beginning to have my revenge. Why then should I leave that salon? Was it for me to fly? No, I proposed to see how she would endure my presence.
While these ideas flitted through my mind, Caroline pushed me toward the chair in which Eugénie was sitting, saying:
“Well! for heaven’s sake, monsieur, do you propose to stand there without budging? Oh! how awkward men are under some circumstances!”
We carried the chair to the window, and someone brought salts.
“Hold the lady’s head,” said Caroline to me. “Come this way. Upon my word, I don’t know what you can be thinking about to-night, but you act as if you did not hear me.—Poor woman! how pale she is! But she is pretty, for all that, isn’t she? Tell me, don’t you think her pretty?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“I am very lucky to be able to get that out of you. Ah! she is coming to herself.”
Eugénie opened her eyes. She seemed to be trying to collect her thoughts. At last she looked slowly about her, and I was the first person whom she saw. She instantly lowered her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.
“You frightened me terribly, madame,” said Caroline. “How do you feel now?”
“Thank you, mademoiselle, it was an attack of vertigo; I am better. But I would like to go back to my room.”
As she spoke, she tried to rise, but fell back in her chair, faltering:
“I feel quite helpless!”
“Pray stay with us; this will pass away; it comes from the nerves. You will be comfortable by the window. Solitude causes ennui, and ennui increases one’s suffering. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Dalbreuse?—Well! he isn’t listening to me; I can’t imagine what is the matter with him to-night.”
While Caroline was speaking, I had walked away from Eugénie’s chair. She remained seated there, with her face turned toward the window; she did not look into the salon again.
“I never had an ill turn but once in my life,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “and that was caused by the heat. I had agreed to play the part of Arlequin in Colombine Mannequin; I was not very anxious to do it, for I dreaded the mask; but the company begged so hard that I had to yield. It was Madame la Marquise de Crézieux who played Colombine. A fascinating woman, on my word! I had a weakness for her. When I saw her as Colombine, she looked so pretty, that I made it a point of honor to do my best, and I played Arlequin magnificently. I performed a thousand capers and tricks; I was a regular cat! At the end of the play they threw flowers to me; the audience was in transports, in delirium! But I, bless my soul! I could stand it no longer! I fell when I reached the wings; and if they hadn’t torn my mask off at once, it would have been all over with me; I should have suffocated!”
Several persons went to Eugénie to ask her how she felt. I did not hear her replies, but she did not move.
She was afraid of meeting my eyes again, no doubt, if she turned her head. She had not brought her daughter with her. What a pity! And yet, if she had brought her, should I have been able to conceal my affection? Ah! I felt that I had remained there too long! I should have returned to Paris to see my daughter long before.
For several moments the conversation had lagged; some persons were talking together in undertones, but there was no animation. The old gentleman who had remained in a corner, with his newspaper in his hand, deemed the moment favorable, and drew his chair toward the centre of the room, saying:
“Gentlemen and ladies, I believe that we were talking just now of the trial which is reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux, which I have in my hand; in fact, I was about to read what the paper says, when someone went to bring madame here. I imagine that you will not be sorry to hear the report now, and I will begin. Hum! hum!”
“It is very hard to read well,” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “we have many authors who don’t know how to read their works. Larive was the one who could read well; yes, he read perfectly! For my part, when I had a letter to read on the stage, I would not have the prompter give me a single word! But once a very amusing thing happened to me. It was in L’Etourdi, I believe.”
“Monsieur,” said the old gentleman angrily, coming forward with his newspaper, “do you or do you not wish me to read you the Gazette?”
“Oh! beg pardon! Read on, I pray you. I will tell you my story afterward; it will make you laugh.”
I was on thorns. Was I to be compelled to listen to the report of that trial? And yet, was it not the beginning of my revenge? Eugénie would suffer terribly on listening to all those details. But it seemed to me that I should suffer as much as she. The pitiless reader had unfolded the journal and put on his spectacles; we could not escape him.
“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very interesting in its details, and in the course of the trial——’”
“You have read us that, monsieur.”
“That is so; let us come to the trial. ‘Monsieur Bélan seeks to obtain a divorce from his wife Armide de Beausire, for infidelity. The facts which led Monsieur——’”
At the first words that he read, I watched Eugénie; she tried to rise and leave the room; but she had taken only a few steps when a low groan escaped from her lips, her limbs stiffened, and she fell at Mademoiselle Derbin’s feet.
“It is a nervous attack!” people exclaimed on all sides; “she is very ill; we must take her to her room.”
Several of the gentlemen offered their assistance; Eugénie was taken from the room, and Caroline followed. I remained there, and walked to the window. That sight, that groan which I seemed still to hear, had rent my very soul. I felt that I desired no more revenge at that price. I would leave that very night. I did not wish to kill her. If it depended only upon me, she would speedily be cured. People went and came in the salon. Some discussed that second swoon; others went to inquire about the invalid’s condition. The old gentleman alone had returned to his corner, with an ill-humored scowl, and had put his paper in his pocket.
Caroline returned at last and everybody crowded about her. “The lady is a little better,” she said, “but really I am afraid that all the waters of Mont-d’Or will not restore her health.”
“I say, I can guess what caused that second fainting fit,” said the young man who had mentioned Eugénie before. “Poor Madame Blémont! That is the lady’s name——”
“Yes, I remember that the landlady called her so. Well! you were saying that the lady——”
“She was very unfortunate in her marriage; her husband left her, deserted her; she probably thought of all that, when she heard something about a husband bringing a suit against his wife.”
“What, monsieur!” said Caroline; “that lady has been deserted by her husband?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I have seen her several times at parties in Paris. I recognized her at once, although she is greatly changed.”
“And her husband?”
“I did not know him; it seems that he was a monster! a gambler, dissipated and jealous—all the vices, in short; he left his poor little wife with two children on her hands, a boy and a girl.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! There are some shameless men! That young woman has such a sweet and amiable manner! Certainly she is well adapted to make any man happy who is able to appreciate her! and perhaps she still loves him; for we are so soft-hearted, we cannot hate you, even when you most deserve it! Uncle, I certainly shall never marry.”
Having said this, Caroline looked at me as if to read in my eyes what I thought about it. But I looked away and did not say a word.
Everybody prepared to retire. We bowed to one another and said good-night. Suddenly I felt a hand on my arm; it was Caroline, who said to me with an offended air:
“So it seems that I must wish you good-night this evening, monsieur! You can certainly flatter yourself that you have made yourself very unpleasant!”
That reproach brought me to my senses; I reflected that I proposed to go away before dawn, and that perhaps this was the last time that I should see Mademoiselle Derbin; so I stepped forward to take her hand; but she drew it back, saying in an offhand tone:
“I do not forgive so quickly; to-morrow we will see whether you deserve that I should make peace with you.”
She left me, and I returned to my room. I felt that I must go away, that I must leave that house, that town. I felt that I could not endure to be in Eugénie’s presence; moreover, she was ill and I must have compassion for her. But why had she come to disturb the happiness which I was enjoying in that spot? I had almost forgotten the past, Mademoiselle Derbin was so attractive! But after all, I should have had to leave her a little sooner or a little later. Suppose that she should find out that I was that Blémont, that man who was called a monster in society!—How they abused me! But that did not offend me in the least; on the contrary, I was overjoyed that people were deceived; I would rather be looked upon as a scoundrel than to air my grievances before the courts, like Bélan. Poor Bélan! I suspected that he would come to that.—But Caroline believed that I was a bachelor; an additional reason for going away. What could I hope for from that acquaintance? To have a friend? Oh, no! at Caroline’s age, a husband is what is wanted; love is the essential sentiment; friendship is not enough for a heart of twenty-four years. She would eventually fall in with the man whom she was looking for, and she would forget me as quickly as she had made my acquaintance. And I—oh! as soon as I had my daughter in my arms, I was quite certain that I should forget the whole world.
“I will call Pettermann,” I thought, “and send him to the post-house to order horses, and tell him to pack our trunks.”
I called my faithful companion several times, but I received no reply. He was not in the habit of going to bed before I did. I went up to his room, but he was not there. I asked the people in the hotel if they had seen him; a maid-servant remembered that about noon he had gone into a small cabinet adjoining a building at the end of the garden, and that he had had brought to him there, with an abundant luncheon, several bottles of Burgundy. She assured me that he had not come out since morning. I remembered then that it was the first of the month, the day which Pettermann ordinarily selected to divert himself; so I guessed what he was doing in the cabinet. I requested the maid to show me the way. We went with a light toward the building which the ex-tailor had selected for his celebration.
We saw no light through the window, so we went in. Pettermann, who evidently was as conscientious about getting completely drunk once a month, as in keeping sober the rest of the time, was stretched out, dead drunk, by the table, at the foot of a bench upon which he was probably sitting when he was able to sit erect.
“Mon Dieu! is he dead?” cried the servant; “he doesn’t move!”
“No, don’t be alarmed, he is only drunk; and as that happens only once a month now, he doesn’t get drunk by halves. What an unfortunate chance, when I wanted to go away to-night.”
“Go away! Why monsieur has not ordered horses.”
“Can I not obtain horses at any hour at the post-house?”
“Oh, yes! but your servant here is in a fine state to start! I did not suppose that monsieur was thinking about going away.”
I went to Pettermann, I seized his arm and shook him, and called him by name.
“Prout! I am asleep,” murmured the tailor at last.
“But, my friend, I need you, so try to wake up.”
“Prout! I propose to drink enough to-day for a month; let me sleep; you can wake me when I am thirsty.”
It was utterly impossible for me to obtain a word more from him.
“I advise you, monsieur, to let your servant pass the night here,” said the girl; “he will be left in peace, nobody will disturb him. Anyway, you see that it would be hard to make him stir. You can’t take him away in this condition!”
The girl was right; I could not hope for anything from Pettermann that night. If I left Mont-d’Or, he was in no condition to accompany me. Should I go without him, or wait until the next day before leaving the town? The latter course seemed to me the more reasonable. Besides, I remembered that I was in possession of Mademoiselle Derbin’s portrait; after all the courtesies which she and her uncle had lavished upon me, would it not have been boorish to send the portrait to her without so much as bidding her good-bye? I determined to remain until the morrow; and to see to it that I did not meet Eugénie again before my departure.
I returned to my room and went to bed. I longed to go away, and yet I believe that I was not sorry to be obliged to remain.
On waking the next morning, my first thought was that Eugénie was under the same roof with me. How changed she was! How pale and sad! Was it remorse, repentance, that had caused that change? Ah! it was very good of me to assume that it was; had she shown any remorse when I wrote to her to inform her that we must part and to ask her for my daughter? Had she shown any when she passed me so haughtily in the Bois de Boulogne? No; and moreover the sin that she had committed is the one for which repentance is least frequently felt; this is not a moral truth, but it is the truth none the less.
No matter, I was determined to go. I did not propose to have a repetition of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame Blémont again, and I did propose to return to my daughter. Poor child! With whom had she been left? And Ernest did not write to me! But I forgot that I had not let him know that I had made a prolonged stay in that town, where I expected to remain only a day or two.
I rose and was about to ring for Pettermann, when, happening to glance at my mantel, I saw a note and a memorandum book which were not there the night before.
I walked toward the mantel. That memorandum book was mine; it was the one that I had handed to Ernest when we parted; by what chance did I find it there? I took up the note. Ah! I recognized that writing. It was Eugénie who had written: “For Monsieur Dalbreuse.” It was she who had sent me that book. The idea of her wanting me to have her portrait! What insolence! Should I not send it all back to her, without reading her note? Yes, I should have done it; but as one does not often do what one should do, I did not resist my curiosity, but I opened the note.