Suddenly there was a cry of: “It’s raining, here comes the storm!” among the spectators; instantly all the ladies, fearing for the welfare of their dresses, rose in haste and ran toward the house. Madame Glumeau, while regretting that they could not wait for the end of the play, abandoned her place, saying to the ladies who were near her:
“Come, follow me; I will show you the shortest way, and we shall soon be at the house.”
The general movement that took place among the spectators put an end to the combat which was in progress on the stage. Monsieur Glumeau ordered his gardener to go home to bed, and he suggested to the actors that they should follow the example of the audience and return to the house. The young druggist declared that the shower would not last, and that they might finish the play; but no one listened to him, they all ran toward the gate leading from the wood. Madame Boutillon said to Chambourdin:
“Help me down.”
“Drop,” replied the advocate.
The little brunette followed his injunctions so closely that for some moments Chambourdin was unable to extricate his head, which was covered by the lady’s skirts. But when his head reappeared, he had such a triumphant expression that one would have thought that his hair had grown. Like everybody else, in a moment he disappeared with Madame Boutillon, and the little wood which a few minutes before rang with shouts of laughter and the merry quips of a numerous company, would have been entirely deserted, had not two persons remained without stirring in the places that they occupied, apparently regardless of the storm and not thinking of following the departing crowd.
Monsieur Malberg, who up to that time had avoided society and had not accepted any invitations from his neighbors, had departed from his usual habit in going to Monsieur Glumeau’s; but it will be remembered that he was very anxious to meet Monsieur de Roncherolle, of whose return to Paris he had been informed. The search made by Georget had led to no result, and Monsieur Malberg had said to himself:
“If I want to find him, to meet him anywhere, I shall not succeed by staying at home and avoiding society. Roncherolle used to love dissipation and conviviality, so that I must seek him in society.”
The result of these reflections was his acceptance of his neighbor Glumeau’s invitation. However, as he still found it difficult to lay aside his habits, we have seen that, instead of mingling with the guests, Monsieur Malberg had held himself a little aloof; but from his position he could easily scrutinize the whole company, especially the men, almost all of whom were standing behind the ladies; and he had satisfied himself that the man whom he sought was not there.
Thereupon, his eyes had wandered in the direction of the ladies; he could see only the backs of those who occupied the front rows of seats, and Madame de Grangeville was one of them; so that he was looking, without paying any particular attention to them, at the ladies of the company, who, however, were very handsomely dressed, when one of them, Madame de Grangeville, turned her head and looked in his direction. Monsieur Malberg was struck by that glance; a thousand memories awoke in his mind; but the lady turned her head away almost immediately, and he could not see her features. Impelled by curiosity, however, to know that person, a single glance from whom had so disturbed him, he had quietly left his place and had drawn nearer to the stage, without, however, mingling with the audience, until he was so placed that, without being seen, he could at his leisure examine the lady who was seated beside Madame Glumeau.
On scrutinizing the baroness closely, Monsieur Malberg had thought at first that he had made a mistake; nineteen years had caused so many changes! And all of us have a singular habit: if we are many years without seeing a woman, when we think of that woman, we always imagine her as she was when we saw her last. Instead of saying to ourselves: “Time must have marched with her; her beauty and charm and freshness must have undergone deplorable changes;” we always imagine that she is as we left her, because her image, her figure, her bearing charmed us so, and because the heart and the memory shrink from attributing age to the objects whose souvenir they cherish.
And so, while gazing attentively at Madame de Grangeville, Monsieur Malberg said to himself:
“No, I am mistaken, it isn’t she, it cannot be the woman whose grace, whose fresh complexion and slender figure and light step everyone admired; and yet, those are her features; despite the deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, that is the lower part of her face; her eyes are black-ringed and swollen, but the expression is still the same, and it is that expression which has awakened all my memories. Her face is thinner, her hair has changed its color; there are wrinkles on her brow; and yet I cannot doubt it; it is she! yes, surely she! And, in truth, over nineteen years have passed since I saw her; but I had not thought that she could grow old!”
Monsieur Malberg could not remove his eyes from the baroness after that; he abandoned himself the more freely to that mute contemplation, because no one could observe it.
When the first drops of rain set the whole company in motion, Monsieur Malberg did not stir from his place; he still continued his observation, curious to see what the lady upon whom he kept his eyes fixed would do. She had remained as if glued to her chair; she had heard Madame Glumeau urge the guests to follow her, but she had paid no heed; having no fear whatever of the storm which everybody else seemed to dread, she remained in the woods, exposed to the rain; and when the whole company had fled toward the house, she was still there, not daring to turn her head in the direction in which she had seen her husband; for in Monsieur Malberg she had instantly recognized the Comte de Brévanne, whom she had married long before.
The part of the wood in which they were was still lighted by the lamps on the stage and by the lanterns placed at intervals in the enclosure reserved for the audience. But the rain had extinguished some of the lights, the wind swung the lanterns to and fro so that the light that remained was as uncertain as the weather, which, however, had not become so bad as they had feared; the rain, which had fallen at first with considerable violence, had already diminished, and the wind, which had aroused such terror, seemed also to have abated.
“Why does she stay there alone? Why didn’t she follow all those people? What is the reason that she remains exposed to the rain? She is in a ball dress. Can she have seen me? No, I was standing aloof; and if she had seen me, she would not have recognized me; time has passed for both of us alike, and I had to examine her a long time to be certain that it was she.”
Such were the reflections of the man whom we now know to be the Comte de Brévanne, but whom we shall call Malberg more than once, because we have become accustomed to it.
The count, however, was mistaken in thinking that his wife had not recognized him; in the first place, ladies have a glance which carries much farther than ours; and then time, which had wrought such changes in her, seemed to have treated her husband with respect; in fact, as he had very strongly-marked features, and a face which had always been serious, even grave, he had seemed older than he really was when he might still have been ranked with young men; and so time had aged him less, and except for his hair, which had turned gray, and for some few deep wrinkles on his forehead, he had changed very little. So that Madame de Grangeville had recognized her husband in the person whom Madame Glumeau had pointed out as Monsieur Malberg; a single glance had sufficed to make her certain of the truth. Then she had sat a long while without turning her head; she hoped that her husband did not see her, and yet she was burning with the longing to know if he had seen her. As a woman is not in the habit of resisting curiosity, she turned her head once more in the direction where the count was; it was then that their eyes met; in despair because she had shown herself, and having no doubt that her husband had recognized her, Madame de Grangeville wished that she were a hundred leagues away; and yet, when she sat trembling in her chair and the other guests had left the wood, she was so perturbed that she had not strength to walk, and she was utterly at a loss what course to pursue.
Several minutes passed after all the others had gone. Nothing could be heard in the woods except the patter of the raindrops on the leaves. Madame de Grangeville gathered her shawl about her shoulders as if she were cold; she dared not turn her head to see if she were alone, and yet she said to herself:
“He must have gone away with the others; it isn’t probable that he has remained here. Why should he? If he recognized me, as I think, he must have been all the more eager to go. Oh, yes! I am very sure that he has not gone to Monsieur Glumeau’s house. What a fool I am to tremble like this! but I can’t help it; I had so little expectation of this meeting, after so many years! It is strange! he has hardly changed at all; he still has the same serious look; he is still—Ah!”
As she spoke thus to herself, she slowly turned her head, to make sure that there was no one behind her, and she saw her husband standing motionless against a tree, with his eyes still fixed upon her.
Thereupon she felt her blood run cold, she was almost terrified. And yet there was nothing terrifying in the Comte de Brévanne’s eyes; they expressed amazement rather than anger; but she upon whom they were fixed instantly turned her own away, feeling that she had not courage to endure their gaze.
“He is there, still there! he doesn’t take his eyes from me!” said Madame de Grangeville to herself; not daring to move or to turn her head. “Mon Dieu! what can be his purpose? It seemed to me that he was glaring savagely at me!”
“She doesn’t dare to move; no doubt I frighten her!” said the count to himself; “I will go away. I can understand that my presence is not likely to produce a pleasant impression upon her. I must go; she is not the one whom I sought here.—Great heaven! how she has changed!”
The count was preparing to go away, and had already taken several steps, when he heard a dull sound, resembling a prolonged groan, apparently very near the stage.
“Mon Dieu! what is that?” cried Madame de Grangeville.
The count stopped to listen; the same groan made itself heard again, even more distinctly.
Madame de Grangeville, terror-stricken, uttered a shriek, left her chair, and no longer fearing to look at her husband, turned her eyes in all directions, exclaiming:
“Mon Dieu! in pity’s name, will no one come to help me?”
But her eyes sought in vain the Comte de Brévanne; he had disappeared under the trees, uncertain as to what he ought to do, but desirous to learn the cause of the strange noise he had heard.
At that moment, voices arose in the distance and came rapidly nearer. Little Astianax, jovial Chambourdin, young Miaulard and Beau Saint-Arthur were coming in search of the baroness; for when all the guests had assembled in the salon, that lady’s absence had been noticed; and as Madame Glumeau declared that she had been in the woods, her failure to return caused apprehension that some accident had happened to her, and that the little pond had done further execution.
The four gentlemen entered the wood, shouting with all their strength:
“Madame de Grangeville!”
“Madame la baronne!—Are you here?—Has anything happened to you?”
“Answer, please!”
“This way, messieurs, this way; yes, I am here!” the lady made haste to reply, overjoyed by the arrival of the young men. “Come, come, messieurs! come! mon Dieu! how opportunely you arrive!”
“But, madame, how does it happen that you remained alone in the wood? You did not follow the crowd, the torrent——”
“No, messieurs, I didn’t follow the other ladies at first, because I had lost my—my handkerchief; it is quite a fine one and I stopped to look for it.”
“Oh! if we had known that, madame, we would have saved you the trouble. Did you find it?”
“Yes, I have it; but then, as I was about to leave this spot, I had a fright, I heard a noise that terrified me so that I was too weak to walk when you arrived.”
“The deuce! what can it have been?”
“It isn’t probable that there are robbers in our wood,” said little Astianax.
“It would be strange, at least, that they should have selected the day when it was full of people to come here,” said Chambourdin.
“Unless,” said Miaulard, “they are robbers who are very fond of a play, and who were unable to resist the desire to see the fine performance going on here!”
“Fichtre! if I had acted!” muttered young Saint-Arthur.
“You are pleased to jest, messieurs, but I believe that I still hear the noise which frightened me just now.—Yes, there it is; listen.”
The young men ceased to speak and did in fact hear the prolonged groan.
“Parbleu! we will find out what that is!” said Astianax, arming himself with a chair.
The others did the same, except Saint-Arthur, who deemed it prudent to return to the gate. Miaulard took down a lantern, and they went in the direction from which the noise came; they speedily discovered the gardener lying at the foot of a tree; he was asleep, but his sleep was greatly disturbed, for he groaned and muttered:
“Ah! the villains! In pity’s name, don’t hurt papa!—Here, take that, you!”
The young men returned to Madame de Grangeville, laughing heartily, and told her what had caused her terror.
“It’s the actor who dealt blows in earnest,” said Chambourdin. “He is so full of his subject, that even when sleeping off his wine, he fancies that he is acting still.”
“Let us go back to the company and allay their anxiety,” said Astianax, offering Madame de Grangeville his arm. “Come, madame; I trust that nothing more will interrupt the pleasures of the night.”
“Faith,” said Chambourdin, “we are all in excellent mood to enjoy ourselves, to dance. Even Monsieur Glumeau, who seemed not to feel well when he was playing his tyrant’s rôle, is recovering all his agility and high spirits; he no longer has a stitch in his side.”
“Yes, I noticed that,” muttered Miaulard; “the anisette has produced its due effect.”
The young men returned to the house with the lady they had found in the woods, and the Comte de Brévanne, who had been an invisible witness of all that had happened, returned home, still saying to himself:
Since Monsieur Malberg had gone to live at Nogent-sur-Marne, Georget, having no errands to do for him, had plenty of time to see the pretty flower girl and to talk to her; when she scolded him because he did not work, the messenger would reply with a sigh:
“Bless me! mamzelle, it isn’t my fault if no work comes to me! I certainly don’t refuse any, and although I am very happy with you, I often regret that I don’t earn more money during the day—not for myself, for I always have more than I need, but for my mother, whom I would like to make more comfortable.”
Georget meant what he said, for when he saw his mother persist in sitting up late, in robbing herself of sleep in order to earn a few sous more, he thought of the happy life he might have provided for her, of that life, free from hard labor and from care, which would have been hers if he had accepted Monsieur Malberg’s offer; and that thought often clouded his brow; as he gazed at the pretty flower girl, he sometimes blamed himself for loving her, because he felt that that love had been fatal to his love for his mother.
One morning, the young fellow waited in his usual place, looking in the direction of Violette’s booth, from which she had been absent for some time. Georget was more melancholy than usual; in the first place because he could not see the object of all his thoughts, and secondly, because he had earned nothing as yet that morning, and his mother had had a very scanty supper the night before.
Soon he noticed a young man pacing back and forth in front of Violette’s booth, and recognized in him the little fellow with the squint, whom he knew to be one of the flower girl’s adorers. Monsieur Astianax was sauntering along the boulevard, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he was very proud to be smoking, and the smoke of which he seemed to take pleasure in blowing into the faces of the ladies who passed; a method of attracting attention which did not fail to be very agreeable.
Suddenly another young man, somewhat older, came toward little Glumeau; they met and stopped just in front of Georget, who, seated upon his stool, with his head in his hands, seemed to be asleep.
“Ah! it’s young Astianax Glumeau!”
“Good-morning, Monsieur Chambourdin; so you are not at the Palais?”
“At the Palais! Why should I be, if you please, young man?”
“Why, to plead; I thought that an advocate——”
“I am an advocate only in the Gazette des Tribunaux. I publish little articles there which I invent for the pleasure of the subscribers. I plead at my leisure, in my office, before my desk, and I am never called to order; that is the way I understand the advocate’s profession. But you, my beardless youth, how does it happen that you are not in the country with papa and mamma? For I presume that your dear parents are still there? In such lovely weather, it is good luck to be in the shade and fresh air!”
“Yes, my parents are down at Nogent, and that is just the reason that you find me strolling on the boulevard! Ha! ha! when the parents are in the country I am my own master here; I do just what I choose!”
“Oh! I understand you, you young rascal; we have some little intrigues on the carpet. You are right, it is never too early to begin to make one’s way in the world. If I had a son, I would say to him: ‘Sow your wild oats early; in that way, you will have less to sow later.’—What do we need in order to be virtuous? experience; and to have experience, we must have lived! How is that for logic? Doesn’t that smell of Cujas and Barthole?—And dear papa is well, I trust? The stitch in the side hasn’t come back?”
“No, but he has a constant itching on the sole of his foot just now.”
“Indeed! all he has to do is to scratch.”
“It isn’t very convenient to scratch the sole of your foot; you can’t do it while you’re walking. You know my father—it makes him anxious, he’s afraid that it’s some humor.”
“Well, that’s an idea! He has chilblains, that’s all.”
“I went to friend Fourriette, the druggist’s; he’s making something for father to put on his feet.”
“An excellent way to bring on a disease where there isn’t any.—But no matter, you gave us a delightful party! The play, although it wasn’t finished—or perhaps because it wasn’t finished—was very amusing. And the ball and the supper! Fichtre! we did go it!”
“I say, what about that young lady that you perched on a branch; it seemed to me that you were very attentive to her.”
“Madame Boutillon? Oh, yes!”
“It’s a pity that you fell when you were waltzing with her.”
“I did it on purpose; it’s a stratagem I invented, to make a woman become attached to me!”
“Why? because you throw her down while waltzing?”
“To be sure; when she feels herself falling, she clutches me, she clings to me, and squeezes me as tight as she can! Do you understand, young man, what intimate relations that brings about between us?”
“To be sure, that’s true.”
“Just try it, my dear fellow; take my advice, ask a lady to waltz, then fall with her; and tell me what you think of it.”
“Shall I fall underneath or on top?”
“Underneath is more polite; but on top is more rakish.”
“I will remember that; and at the first ball I go to, if I see a lady who takes my eye, I will ask her to waltz.”
“The rest will go all alone!”
“And that method served with Madame Boutillon?”
“Don’t I tell you that it’s infallible?”
“And you call on that lady now?”
“To be sure; I play cards with her husband; we play Pope Joan; he’s very fond of it.—And you, little Astianax—whom are you looking for on the boulevard? are you expecting to meet some one?”
“Yes, I am expecting some one, who seems in no hurry to come.”
“You have an appointment on the boulevard, at the flower market? That is very pleasant; you walk amid agreeable odors. Ladies often make their appointments at the flower market.”
“No, I have no appointment; I came here because I am in love with a little flower girl; and very pretty she is! Ah! she beats Madame Boutillon, I tell you!”
“That is very possible! I never thought that Madame Boutillon could not be beaten.—Where does your lovely flower girl stand?”
“Over yonder, opposite us—that booth where there is no one just now. She has probably gone to carry a bouquet somewhere.”
“How goes your love-affair? have you triumphed?”
“I have not triumphed yet——”
“So your flower girl is a model of virtue, an untamed beauty, is she?”
“A model of virtue! Oh! I thought so for a long while. When I found how cruel she was, I fancied that Violette—that is her name—I fancied that Violette was virtuous; but I was mistaken; I was a blockhead; the flower girl is not cruel with everybody, I have a proof of it. She does her work on the sly!”
Georget, who had not lost a word of the conversation between the two young men, sprang to his feet like a flash, and planting himself in front of Astianax, said to him, glaring at him with eyes inflamed by wrath:
“You lie! you insult Violette! just because she refuses to listen to you! But you are nothing but a slanderer, do you hear?”
Little Glumeau was thunderstruck; he rolled his eyes about in all directions, and utterly failed to understand that apostrophe which fell from the clouds upon him; but Chambourdin, who was perfectly calm, stepped between Astianax and Georget, and said to the latter:
“Why do you put your oar in, my boy? Who spoke to you? Why do you presume to interfere in our conversation? Are you a spy, that you busy yourself listening to us? The deuce! you are beginning that trade very young!”
“That’s so,” said Astianax, beginning to recover from his surprise; “what does this mean? whom is this little voyou, this blackguard, talking to?”
“Oh! don’t insult me, monsieur, or I’ll punch your head; I am a messenger, a respectable young man!”
“Once more,” retorted Chambourdin, “we don’t know you; why did you listen to what monsieur was saying to me?”
“Why did you stop and talk right in front of me? I should have had to stuff my ears to keep from hearing. Still, I didn’t pay much attention to your words, until monsieur began to talk about Mademoiselle Violette the flower girl; then I listened with all my ears, it is true, because it interested me, because I know Mamzelle Violette, because I know that she’s an honest girl, who doesn’t listen to what men say to her, when they try to induce her to make a fool of herself; and you said that she wasn’t cruel to everybody, that she wasn’t virtuous, that she wasn’t a model of virtue! You lied, and I couldn’t listen to that without saying something, for I should have been a coward if I had heard you insult Violette without taking up her defence.”
“It seems that this is another lover of the flower girl,” said Chambourdin, turning toward Astianax to laugh; but the latter had turned as red as a rooster, and he said to Georget:
“I might send you to the devil; but I am willing to answer you. I didn’t lie in what I said about the flower girl. No, I didn’t lie, I said nothing that I’m not sure of. No, Mademoiselle Violette isn’t virtuous; for girls who mean to remain virtuous aren’t in the habit of calling on young men who live all alone.”
“Do you mean to say that Violette has been to your house?”
“No, not to mine! but to the rooms of a young man who lives on the same landing that I do,—his door is just opposite mine.—I say, Monsieur Chambourdin, it’s Monsieur Jéricourt the author, who came to our party at Nogent with a friend of his, who was dressed so nicely——”
“That he looked like a tailor’s manikin.—Oh! I remember those two gentlemen perfectly!”
Georget, who had turned pale at the mention of Jéricourt’s name, said to Astianax:
“I too know the gentleman you speak of; I have seen him often enough come here and play the gallant with Mamzelle Violette; but she has never listened to him, and it was he who lied when he told you that she had been to his room.”
“He didn’t need to tell me anything, because I saw,—do you hear?—because I saw the pretty flower girl come out of his room.”
“No, no! you made a mistake; it wasn’t her, it couldn’t have been!”
“I couldn’t have made a mistake, for I know her perfectly well, and she passed close to me.”
“It wasn’t her, I say.”
“Ah! this is too much! What if I should tell her so when she returns, in your presence—then would you believe me, young messenger?”
“You would dare to tell her that—her?”
“Why should I hesitate, as it’s the truth?”
Georget seemed completely upset, he was pale and agitated, and did not know what to think.
“Come, come, my poor boy,” said Chambourdin, “I see that you too are daft over this flower girl, who is very fascinating, it seems; but after all, perhaps it’s a great service that my young friend does you, by opening your eyes with respect to this girl. You credit her with all the virtues, because you are in love with her; that is easily understood, you are so young! but that is a common thing; oh! these women! they are very fragile! When five years more have passed over your head, I should like to hear what you say about them.”
Georget said nothing more, but Astianax exclaimed:
“The flower girl has returned to her place, and I am going to talk with her. Monsieur Chambourdin, come in that direction, as if by accident, and bring this fellow who doesn’t choose to believe me; in a moment you will know if I have said anything other than the truth.”
“I have no objection,” said Chambourdin; “indeed I ask nothing better than to approach the flower girl; she is enchanting, and I believe that I am falling in love with her too!”
Little Astianax walked for some distance among the booths and shrubs, for it was flower market day on Boulevard Saint-Martin; then he approached Violette with an indifferent air and began to look at her flowers. The girl, recognizing the little man with the squint, acted as if she did not see him and kept on making a bouquet.
“All these flowers are lovely! they are all as fresh as you are!” said Astianax at last, vexed because the flower girl paid no attention to him.
“Does monsieur want another bouquet that speaks?” said Violette with a mischievous expression.
“No, mademoiselle; you see, I have found out that there is no need of that to make myself understood; it is much better to say myself what—what I have already said to you several times: that you are maddeningly beautiful, and that I adore you!”
“Dear me! I assure you, monsieur, that it tires me to hear the same thing over and over again.”
“Ah! it tires you, does it?” retorted the little man, assuming an impertinent tone. “Indeed! that’s a great pity! But still I am not inclined to stop. Why should I lose courage? You are not so unkind as you choose to appear; as you have been sensible to the attentions of others, why should you not become so to me?”
“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur, but once more I beg you not to talk this way to me.”
“Ah! don’t pretend to be angry like this, my lovely flower girl; it won’t go down with me again. Have you forgotten that I saw you coming out of Monsieur Jéricourt, my neighbor’s? I live on his landing. Oh! you were tremendously agitated, and well rumpled when you left his room.”
“Monsieur! what you say is outrageous!”
“Outrageous! Do you mean to say that I lie? Will you dare to say that it isn’t so?”
Chambourdin and Georget, who were only a few steps away, had overheard everything. The young messenger could no longer contain himself; he ran forward and stood in front of Violette, pale and trembling, with blazing eyes, and said to her in a broken voice:
“So it is true! so it is true, as you don’t deny it!”
The flower girl, greatly surprised at Georget’s sudden appearance in front of her, was embarrassed for a moment, and stammered at last:
“Well! if it was so, is that any reason for speaking to me like this?”
“The question is decided!” muttered Chambourdin, addressing Georget; “you see, my little innocent, that my friend did not lie!”
“Oh! it is frightful! I would never have believed it! And my mother, my poor mother, whom I sacrificed for her! The good Lord is punishing me for it.—Adieu, Mademoiselle Violette! I will never speak to you again!”
Having said this, Georget ran off like a mad man, and speedily disappeared.
Violette looked after him, and tears gathered in her eyes; she turned to young Astianax, and said to him simply:
“Are you quite satisfied with what you have done, monsieur?”
Astianax lowered one eye and raised the other, then took Chambourdin’s arm, saying:
“Let us go.”
Chambourdin glanced once more at the girl, who tried to conceal her tears with her flowers, and he said to his companion:
“She isn’t of the same style of beauty at all as Madame Boutillon, but she pleases me greatly, none the less.”
Georget ran home to his mother without stopping, without drawing breath; he found her sewing, snatched her work from her hands, and threw it aside, saying:
“Drop that, mamma, don’t work any more, don’t tire your eyes any more; hereafter you will be able to enjoy yourself, to be happy, to walk about all day long. Oh, yes; you are going to be very happy, I tell you! Pack up your things quick, we’re going away.”
Honest Mère Brunoy gazed at her son in surprise, utterly unable to understand what he said; but his wild manner, his excitement, frightened her, and she exclaimed:
“What’s the matter with you, Georget? what has happened to you, my boy? You’re not in your usual condition.”
“It’s joy, mother; yes, it’s pleasure, I tell you, good fortune; that upsets a man a little, but I shall get used to it; I will make the best of it and not think of her any more.”
“You will make the best of your good fortune! you won’t think of her any more! I don’t understand at all! You talk of joy and of pleasure, and you have tears in your eyes, and you are as pale as death! Do you know that you don’t look at all like a person who brings good news?”
“You’re mistaken, mother, I am very happy; for I tell you again, you won’t need to ruin your eyes any more, to wear yourself out working.”
“How is that, my dear?”
“Because Monsieur Malberg—you know, that gentleman on the third floor who is so kind to us——”
“Yes, yes; well?”
“Well, we are going to his house in the country—both of us, mother, both of us. Yes, I will go with you and settle down there; I won’t leave you any more; I won’t come to Paris any more—never! never! oh! I have a horror of Paris!”
“What’s that, my boy? Monsieur Malberg has offered you a place at his country house, too?”
“Why, yes, to be sure; I am to look after the workmen, to take care of his garden and plant it; there are eight acres of it—that’s a pretty good-sized garden, eight acres! He told me that I should be at liberty to arrange it all as I pleased; and you, mother, you will have charge of the house, the linen, the furniture, the poultry yard; and he will give us a thousand francs a year for it.”
“A thousand francs! Mon Dieu! why that is a fortune, my boy! It means that our future is provided for; you will not be a messenger any more. We won’t spend the thousand francs; we will save up money to buy you a substitute when you are drafted! For that is what I am always thinking about.—And was it only just now that that generous man offered to employ you at his country house?”
“Just now—oh, no! It was a long time ago, mother. If you knew—but I won’t keep it from you any more; you shall know what a bad son I have been; but you will forgive me, when you know the cause. Mon Dieu! it was too much for me!”
“You, a bad son, Georget; no, that is impossible; you do yourself an injustice, my child!”
“No, for all this comfort that I offer you to-day, Monsieur Malberg proposed to me some time ago, when I spoke to you about going to his country house; it depended only on me to go there then with you, and I did not tell you that, because then I could not make up my mind to leave Paris; for—mon Dieu!—for I was in love—there! that is what I had at the bottom of my heart, and did not dare to tell you!”
“Is it possible! you in love already! Why, you won’t be eighteen for two months.”
“Still I have been in love a long time.”
“Poor boy! then that is the reason why some days you were so sad and other days so gay! Lovers always go to extremes!—And it’s all over now, is it?”
“Oh, yes! it’s all over, mother; I don’t propose to think of her any more; I don’t propose to see her, either, for if I should see her, I should treat her as she deserves; but that wouldn’t do any good, that wouldn’t prevent—what has happened. You see, mother, I believed that she was so virtuous, I would have gone into the fire for her, and she deceived me.”
“Did she tell you that she loved you, my boy?”
“She didn’t tell me so, except with her eyes,—at least it seemed to me that I could read it there. But I deceived myself, no doubt! However, let us not talk any more about her, mother, let us not talk any more about her. Pack up your things, take only what you need for a little while, and later I will come back and fetch the rest; the most important thing now is to go.”
“But, my boy, our furniture, and these lodgings—we haven’t given notice.”
“Don’t worry about all that, we will give it later. While you are getting ready, I will go and ask Baudoin, the concierge, if Monsieur Malberg is at his country house now.”
Georget left his mother and ran quickly down to the concierge. Baudoin was keeping the lodge, for his wife had drunk so much the night before that she had been taken ill, and was not in condition to leave her bed.
“Monsieur Baudoin, could you tell me if Monsieur Malberg is at his house at Nogent now, or if he is living here?” Georget asked as he entered the concierge’s lodge. That functionary, who was in very ill humor at being obliged to serve as his wife’s nurse, swore like several carters and said as he poured water into a cup:
“Herb tea! I think I see myself making her herb tea, the miserable drunkard! Water is what she needs, to put out the fire that she keeps kindled in her insides!”
“Will you answer me, please, Monsieur Baudoin?”
“Ah! Monsieur Georget, you see a man sorely vexed, sorely humiliated by his social position. My wife is my shame, I am not afraid to say so; she behaves like the lowest of the low! Just fancy, monsieur, that one of the chief clerks in my department—you know that I am employed in a department?”
“Yes, you are an office boy.”
“Boy! good God! I wish I was a boy! But it’s true that they call us office boys although we are married; and the day before yesterday one of my superiors, who is satisfied with my intelligence, made me a present of a bottle of absinthe,—as an extra—genuine Swiss absinthe, a liqueur that I am very fond of. So I came home with my bottle, but I took pains to tear off the label, and to say to Hildegarde, whose vicious tastes I know too well: ‘Don’t touch this bottle, don’t think of tasting what there is in it; it’s Chinese opium, and it would put you to sleep right away; but you’d never wake up.’—‘All right, that’s enough,’ said Hildegarde; ‘but I don’t see why you take it into your head to bring poison here.’ At that I says to her: ‘If I choose to do it, it’s none of your business, as I’m the master.’ Then she made some impertinent remark, I administered a healthy punishment, and we went to bed on it. Yesterday morning I started for my office as usual; I was delighted with my trick, and I said to myself that my absinthe was in no danger. Well, monsieur, I returned at night and what did I find? My bottle empty, no absinthe—Hildegarde had drunk it all, all, monsieur, and hadn’t left me a drop! That is what I can never forgive—I didn’t have a taste of it myself! As for my wife, you can judge what a state she was in, and when I undertook to reprove her, if she didn’t have the cheek to answer: ‘It’s your fault, you villain, I poisoned myself on purpose; I wanted to get away from your hard treatment; but you lied—your poison doesn’t put a body to sleep, and it ain’t bad at all, and if there was any more, I’d take another drink.’
“That, Monsieur Georget, is what the wretched creature dared to say to me; and to-day she is on her back, she can’t move, and I like to think that she’ll never get over it!”
“Oh! that’s a wicked thing to say, Monsieur Baudoin—to wish for your wife’s death!”
“It’s for her good, as she will not mend her ways.”
“But I beg you, tell me if Monsieur Malberg is at his country house or in Paris now?”
“Monsieur Malberg—why, I don’t know myself; but wait, he must be in Paris, for I saw his blackamoor going upstairs just now; indeed I believe he was carrying a bottle in a wooden case—you know the kind of bottle I mean; what there is inside must be fine!”
Georget lowered his head sadly, saying to himself:
“If Monsieur Malberg is in Paris now, we can’t go to his country house without his permission, without finding out whether he still wants us; but I would have liked to start to-day, for if I stay in Paris I can’t do otherwise than go out on the boulevard.”
“I say, Monsieur Georget,” continued the concierge, “if you want, I’ll go up to Monsieur Malberg’s and I’ll ask his yellow negro if his master is here.”
“Oh! if you would have that kindness, Monsieur Baudoin, I should be very much obliged to you!”
“With pleasure. I am not sorry to leave the lodge for a minute. If that creature asks for drink, give her water; she don’t like water and it’s a punishment for her.”
Baudoin went up to the third floor, and Georget remained in the lodge, absorbed, not in his thoughts, but in a single thought; for it was impossible for him to think of anything else than Violette’s going to Monsieur Jéricourt’s room. The concierge was absent a long time, but at last he came downstairs again, swearing as usual. “Ten thousand cursed names! how can a man take such animals as that into his service? They are brutes, and nothing else!”
“Well, Monsieur Baudoin, is Monsieur Malberg in Paris?”
“Just imagine, Monsieur Georget; I rang the bell upstairs,—I was very sure that there was someone there; however, it was a long while before anybody opened the door; I rang again and the black fellow appeared at last. ‘Is your master here just now?’ I asked him. That vagabond of a Ponceau began to laugh and showed all his teeth—I must admit that all colored men have extremely white teeth; probably it’s the white that their skin lacks. I asked my question again, and the slave answered, shaking his head violently: ‘No, no, no, master not here! Me here with Broubrou, Babo, and Zima; me come to fetch Zima!’—As I didn’t understand what he meant with his Broubrou and his Babo, I said to him: ‘But I didn’t come to ask for you.’—With that he made a face at me and left me there, and went back into the salon. But I heard him talking and jabbering; you would have sworn that there were two people disputing. That is what makes me think that the negro lied when he said that his master wasn’t in, for it couldn’t be anybody else that I heard him talking to.”
Georget, understanding only vaguely what Baudoin told him, concluded that he would do better to go up to Monsieur Malberg’s himself, and learn what to expect. He wiped his eyes and left the lodge, without answering the concierge, who asked him if his wife Hildegarde was still breathing.
Pongo opened the door to the young messenger and leaped for joy when he saw him.
“Ah! Monsieur Georget! he nice boy, he come to see Pongo.”
“My dear Pongo, Monsieur Malberg is the one I would like to see; it is he that I have business with; is he in Paris?”
“No, no, me tell concierge so. Big fool, he no understand; he stand there like a stick.—Master, he in the country, in the pretty house, at Nogent.”
“He is at Nogent? Oh! I am glad of that, for then I can go there, I can take my mother there! Monsieur Malberg, who is so kind to us, offered me employment there long ago, and work for my mother; I refused then, but to-day I have decided to go; my mother is packing, and she must have finished by this time; but I don’t know what road to take to go to Nogent; can you tell me, Monsieur Pongo?”
“You, go to Nogent? Then you come with me. Me going back right away to master with Mamzelle Zima, what we forgot. Poor Zima! Her not like not to be in the country. Oh! me very glad if you coming, Monsieur Georget! You will see what a pretty place it is! Lots of fruit, fine garden, pretty flowers! Carabi, he play a lot down there; he grow big like a ball! You go fetch your good mother, and we start right away! I beat Broubrou, Babo, and all the little rugs! Dem nice and clean now. Me all ready.”
“I will go and bring my mother and our bundles.”
“Oh! me go up with you, carry all that! The mother, her never carry nothing.”
And the mulatto, without listening to Georget’s thanks, went up with him to the attic and took possession so quickly of all the bundles prepared by Madame Brunoy, that she had no time to remonstrate; Pongo was downstairs before the good woman had closed her door.
The three travellers passed the concierge’s lodge; Baudoin, who stood in the doorway, heaved a deep sigh as he said to them:
“God forgive me! I believe the wretched Hildegarde will recover!”
When they entered the charming little house at Nogent which belonged to the Comte de Brévanne, Georget’s mother uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. In truth, it was difficult for anyone who loves the country not to be overjoyed to live in such a lovely spot. The house, which was quite modern, had only two floors, and at the top a fine terrace, surrounded by vases filled with flowers. But each window had an artistically carved balcony, with railings of the finest workmanship.
In front of the house a beautiful lawn with a border of orange trees, afforded a pleasant relief to the eye. And on each side, broad paths of lindens afforded during the hottest weather a promenade where the sun was not allowed to penetrate.
Georget himself, despite the painful thoughts which oppressed his heart, could not remain indifferent to all the beauties which nature lavished about him. Those majestic trees, those flower-laden shrubs, that green lawn, the balmy air, everything appealed to his senses; he felt a sort of alleviation of his pain, his brow brightened, and for the first time since his departure from Paris, he looked with interest at his surroundings.
“What! are we going to live here?” cried Georget’s mother. “Why, it isn’t possible! it’s too beautiful! This house is a regular château! I shall never dare to go into it.”
“This not all,” said Pongo; “you’ll see the garden, the orchard, the kitchen garden, fine fruit, big cabbages, nice sweet little peas—we have everything! And then the poultry yard—little chickens, pigeons, ducks, turkeys! Oh! me like roast turkey!”
“This place is a kind of paradise on earth.”
“Monsieur Pongo, it would be very kind of you to go to your master and tell him that we have come, and ask him if he still wants us; for perhaps he may have different ideas now.”
“Oh, he want you! he want you! Me go tell him; look, me see him over there in the garden; me run and take him Mamzelle Zima, to make him pleased. Wait, wait!”
The mulatto left his travelling companions, to tell his master of their arrival. Georget remained with his mother, who continued to admire all that she saw, and walked along the paths with great caution, as if she were afraid of leaving her footprints there. But from time to time she glanced at her son, who had relapsed into reverie.
“I mustn’t seem to notice his sadness,” she said to herself; “it will pass away. At his age, it isn’t possible that it will resist distractions, and we shall have enough of them here! A month from now I will wager that he won’t give a thought to his love-affair in Paris!”
The Comte de Brévanne, notified by Pongo, soon appeared to receive the new arrivals; he greeted Madame Brunoy kindly, and she outdid herself in reverences; then he tapped Georget on the shoulder, and said to him:
“Well! so we have changed our mind, have we? We are willing to live somewhere else than in Paris now?”
Georget, who was deeply moved, and seemed constantly on the point of weeping, replied in a trembling voice:
“Oh, yes! I am very glad, monsieur, very happy now to come here to live with my mother; that is to say, if you care to take us both.”
“Certainly, my boy, my intention is still the same; I take back nothing of what I said and I am very glad to have you settle in my house; I trust that you won’t repent having come.”
“O monsieur!” cried Mère Brunoy, with more reverences, “is it possible not to be happy here? It seems to me that I have grown ten years younger already since we have been here. Mon Dieu! such a lovely house! Monsieur may be sure I’ll do my best to satisfy him.”
“Yes,” added Georget, struggling to master his emotion, “we will work all the time; in the first place, I wish to show monsieur that I am not a lazy fellow; I mean to employ my time better than in Paris, for in Paris I loafed sometimes, but that will not happen again; I shall never go back to Paris. Monsieur won’t make me go there, will you, monsieur? You will allow me to stay here all the time, won’t you?”
Monsieur de Brévanne, who had noticed Georget’s excitement, smiled slightly as he replied:
“All right, my boy, we will talk about all those things hereafter; but go now with your mother and take possession of your quarters. Pongo will escort you.—Pongo! the small building at the left, near the entrance to the kitchen garden—that is where Madame Brunoy and her son are to live.”
While Georget and his mother followed the mulatto, who went before them, dancing a sort of chika and singing: “Me going to see Carabi my friend! oh! he not naughty any more, he going to lick my nose!” the Comte de Brévanne entered one of the avenues lined with linden trees, and as he walked back and forth there, seemed buried in profound meditation. Within a few days, the mood of the man whom his neighbors called the Bear had changed considerably: Monsieur de Brévanne was still pensive, but his reverie was less gloomy, less forbidding than before; his brow had cleared, he avoided society less, and it even happened sometimes that he stopped to talk a moment with his neighbors. This abatement of his misanthropy dated from the day that he had seen his wife in Monsieur Glumeau’s wood.
The count had been walking there for some time, when he spied Georget standing within a few feet of him, apparently afraid to interrupt his revery.
“Ah! there you are, Georget. Have you seen your lodgings? Do you like them? Is your mother better?”
“Yes, monsieur, my mother is overjoyed, and so am I. Monsieur is too kind to us. Now that we are settled, I have come to ask monsieur what work I shall do to-day.”
“To-day, my friend, you must rest, walk about the gardens and the house, and become acquainted with the place; to-morrow we will talk about work. But first of all, Georget, tell me your trouble; for you are in trouble, I can see it in your eyes. Indeed, as you have already confided in me about your love-affair, I ought to know now how it happens that you have been able to make up your mind to leave your young flower girl, with whom you were so deeply in love. You could not endure the thought of passing a single day without seeing her, and now you are here, and you don’t want to hear Paris mentioned! Poor boy! that girl who you said was so virtuous and honest, must have listened to some other man than you—isn’t it true that that is the cause that has brought you here?”
“Mon Dieu! yes, monsieur, you have guessed the truth; at all events, I prefer that you should know everything, I prefer to tell you all my sorrow, for it is so hard always to have to restrain one’s feelings! It stifles one! Oh! allow me to cry, monsieur; I don’t dare to before my mother, but it won’t offend you.”
“Weep, my boy; at your age, tears come readily, and are a relief. You are not a man yet, you have not the strength to endure a woman’s treachery; and even grown men are very weak sometimes in such cases!”
“Ah! who would ever have thought, monsieur, that Violette, who seemed never to listen to any gallant—and she has been to the rooms of one of them, the one that I was most jealous of! Ah! I was right to be jealous of him! a perfumed dandy, a lion, as they say!”
“But how do you know that she has been to his rooms?”
“From another one, who also is in love with Violette, and who saw her come out of this Monsieur Jéricourt’s, who lives on his landing.”
“And how do you know that he tells the truth, especially as the flower girl refused to listen to him?”
“Oh, monsieur! you may be sure that I didn’t believe him either, that at first I called him a liar and an impostor; indeed I would have thrashed him if he hadn’t proposed to repeat it all to Violette herself in our presence; he did it, monsieur; he spoke to her of her visit to his neighbor, the swell Monsieur Jéricourt, and Violette turned pale; and she couldn’t find a word to defend herself, to contradict him!”
“In that case, my poor boy, you can no longer doubt her infidelity; or at least, if she had never given you any promise, her weakness for another. You have done well to leave Paris, and come here with your mother; by ceasing to see this girl, you will triumph over your love, and you will soon find someone else to bestow your affections upon. At your age, one loves so readily!”
“You think so, monsieur, but it seems to me that I shall never be able to love any other woman than Violette. However, I will try, I will do my utmost, and if I don’t see her any more—for you won’t send me to Paris, monsieur, will you?”
“No, my boy, no, that is agreed. Indeed, Pongo always goes when I need anything; and I myself go quite often; but never fear, I won’t take you.”
“So much the better, monsieur, and I thank you. Now I will walk about these lovely gardens with my mother, monsieur.”
“Go, my friend, go.”
Monsieur de Brévanne left his house and walked toward Monsieur Glumeau’s, saying to himself:
“I have not been very polite to my neighbors; they invited me to their party, I saw their play, holding myself aloof, and then I disappeared without even going to pay my respects to them; as they cannot guess the motive that led me to act so, I must repair my discourtesy by going to call upon them.”
The count had almost reached Monsieur Glumeau’s house, when a gentleman who came from it, and walked toward him, stopped and uttered a cry of surprise at finding himself face to face with Monsieur de Brévanne. He in his turn examined the person who stood before him, then held out his hand, saying:
“I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur de Merval!”
“The Comte de Brévanne!” cried Monsieur de Merval, grasping the hand that was offered him. Then he added: “I beg pardon, but you have dropped that name, I believe?”
“Yes, they call me Malberg now; but to you I shall always be Brévanne. This is a meeting which I was far from expecting, but of which I am very glad. Are you coming from Monsieur Glumeau’s?”
“Yes, I have been to apologize for not accepting an invitation which they sent me a fortnight ago, to a party that they gave.”
“I know, I was at that party.”
“You were at that party?”
“That surprises you, does it not? I am a neighbor of the Glumeaus; my place is only a few steps away; will you do me the honor to come there and rest a moment?”
“I should be glad, but you are going somewhere?”
“To my neighbor’s; but that visit can be postponed, whereas our meeting is one of those happy chances which I wish to take advantage of to talk with you,—that is, if you have the time to listen to me?”
“I am entirely at your service.”
“Come then.”
The two gentlemen soon reached the charming house which had now two additional occupants. The count ushered Monsieur de Merval into a pretty salon on the ground floor, the windows of which looked on the Marne; and taking a seat beside him, he said in a tone at once melancholy and resigned:
“How many things have happened since we met! and how many times you must have heard my name! The thing that happened to me made a great deal of talk, more talk than I desired, I assure you! Tell me, Monsieur de Merval, what did you hear about it, and whom did you believe to be to blame in all that? For the world is often mistaken in its judgment!”
Monsieur de Merval felt somewhat embarrassed to answer; he faltered:
“Why, many contradictory things were said; however, if you desire my opinion, why, you are not the one whom I believed to be at fault!”
“You were right, but you should have guessed the truth, for you knew Lucienne Courtenay before I became her husband, fool that I was! I remember that I was jealous of you even after my marriage—of you, who always behaved with the most absolute delicacy; and I was never jealous of the man who was destined to betray my friendship in the most dastardly way!—Monsieur de Merval, as chance has brought us together to-day, allow me to tell you exactly what happened to me, and what was the cause of my separation from my wife. I am very glad to confide the truth to the breast of an honest man. I should not have had the courage to tell you the story a short time ago; but an encounter that I had within a few days has strangely mitigated my suffering; I will tell you that later—I come now at once to the main story.”