"it isn't his death that grieves his wife most."
"But, monsieur, how do you know--how did you learn of this event? And
even if my husband is dead, how do you know that he was ruined?"
"Be good enough to listen a moment, madame. This noon, after
breakfasting at Passy with some worthy people,--who must be expecting me
to dinner at this moment, by the way, but I shall not go,--I had gone to
smoke a cigar in the Bois de Boulogne, where there were very few
people, the cold being so intense. There I met your husband; we were
acquainted, he had seen me on a certain occasion--in short, he knew what
sort of man I am. He came to me and asked me if I would do him an
important service; as you may imagine, madame, I placed myself at his
disposal. We went to a cafe, where he wrote two letters. One was for me,
which he made me promise not to open until half an hour after he had
left me; then he went away. I waited the half-hour, then opened the
letter. He told me therein of his deplorable determination, and of the
reasons which had led him to it; then he requested me to take the other
letter--to its address."
"For whom was that other letter?"
"For you, madame. Here it is."
Fanny took in a trembling hand the letter which Cherami handed her, and
read in an altered voice:
"'I thought, madame, that by marrying you I ensured the happiness
of both; I was mistaken; I needed a loving wife to calm and allay
the vivacity of my passions; I found in you simply a woman who
adored money and pleasure above all else.'"
At that, Fanny paused, and read the remainder of the letter to herself:
"I make no reproaches, madame; a woman cannot recast her nature,
especially at your age. Feeling is a gift of nature, as selfishness
is a vice of the heart; I judged you ill; it was my fault, not
yours. Being unable to enjoy the domestic happiness of which I had
dreamed, I tried to replace it by all the enjoyments arising from
vanity; I have failed, and I have lost all that I possessed. You,
too, are interested in the Bourse; take my advice, madame, and do
not speculate."
Again Fanny paused, to heave a tremendous sigh, then read on:
"But, madame, do not fear that I leave you burdened with debts; I
have met all my obligations; I have paid everything, and my name
will remain without blemish, at all events. You can bear it without
a blush."
The young woman made a slight movement of the shoulders, which seemed to
indicate that she was not overjoyed because her husband had paid all his
debts; she even muttered between her teeth:
"That's a valuable thing for him to leave me--his name! and nothing with
it! Ah! there's something more written here."
"I have not touched your _dot_; you will find it intact in the
notary's hands. With what you obtain from the sale of our
furniture, which is very handsome, and our horses and carriages,
you will have enough to live in a modest way. Adieu, Fanny; be
happy! I cannot be happy again in this world, and that is why I
leave it; adieu!"
The last paragraph seemed to have soothed Fanny's despair in some
measure; however, she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and held
it so for some time. Cherami, who had watched her closely while she read
her husband's letter, said to himself at that proceeding:
"Oh! it's of no use for you to put your handkerchief to your eyes; I'll
bet that you're not crying; and yet--a young husband--to lose him like
that, and after hardly six months of married life! There are some women
who would have fainted; but she's a strong one!"
Thereupon he rose and took up his hat, saying:
"Madame, I have carried out the melancholy commission which your husband
intrusted to me. As I imagine that my presence is no longer necessary, I
will retire."
XXXVII
A WEAK WOMAN
Fanny hastily uncovered her face.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she said; "but as you were kind enough to carry
out Monsieur Monleard's last wishes, may I hope that you will show
yourself equally obliging to his widow?"
"I will do whatever you bid me, madame, too happy to be able to be of
some service to you as well as to him."
"Thanks a thousand times, monsieur! You know now the position in which I
stand. It seems to you, perhaps, that I have taken very coolly the
calamity which has come upon me?"
"Madame, I do not presume to pass judgment upon your feelings."
"But put yourself in my place, monsieur; do you think that I can take as
a proof of affection what my husband has done?"
_"Dame!_ a proof of affection!" said Cherami to himself, scratching his
nose.--"But, madame, if he feared that he should no longer be able to
make you happy, if that thought made him lose his head----"
"At Monsieur Monleard's age, monsieur, a man should have strength of
mind, courage. People lose their fortunes every day; but when a man is
intelligent and persevering, he makes another."
"It may be that that's not so easy as you seem to think, madame. I, too,
had a very neat fortune once; I ran through it; which, to my mind, is
much better than gambling it away; it leaves sweeter-smelling memories;
but I have never been able to get rich again."
"Monsieur Monleard finds fault with me; he says now that I care for
nothing but pleasure; but, when he sought my hand, monsieur, why did he
fascinate me by the prospect of a life of luxury and fetes, of splendid
equipages and magnificent gowns? in short, of all the things which will
always make a girl's heart beat fast? He married me from caprice, and
when that caprice was gratified he was sorry he had married. Oh! I saw
that more than once, and that is why, monsieur, I bear up so bravely
under the news you have brought me."
"You had no need to tell me all this, madame; but I do not see----"
"I beg your pardon! this is what I ask you to do. In my present
position, you can easily understand that I must see my father and
sister; but I do not wish to go to them, or to be compelled to tell them
of this fatal event."
"I understand, madame: you wish me to undertake to tell them of what has
happened?"
"Oh! monsieur, if it would not be too great an abuse of your
good-nature."
"I will go to your father's house, madame. Mon Dieu! while I am in the
way of doing errands, it won't cost me any more."
"Ah! monsieur, how kind you are! how grateful I am to you!"
"I have always been at the service of the ladies. Monsieur Gerbault's
address, if you please?"
"Ah! you know my father's name?"
"Yes, madame. Indeed, there are many things that I know; but I won't
tell you them at this moment."
"Here is my father's address."
"Very good; I will go there at once, madame. If I can be of any further
use to you, command me; Arthur Cherami, Hotel du Bel-Air, Rue de
l'Orillon, Belleville--but prepay your letters. I present my respects,
madame."
"I am a sort of dead man's messenger just now," said Cherami to himself,
as he went away; "but, after all, I couldn't refuse that young woman;
she's so pretty, and she's no fool; far from it! Ah! I can understand
how she bewitched Gustave. Never mind; for my part, I prefer a weak
woman to a strong one."
Monsieur Gerbault was at home, and with his daughter, when Cherami made
his appearance. Fanny's father, who had never seen his visitor, offered
him a chair, and waited for him to explain the object of his visit. But
Adolphine, as soon as he entered the room, recognized Cherami as the
person who had dined with Gustave on the day of her sister's wedding;
and Cherami, on his side, bestowed a graceful salutation upon the young
lady, as upon a person whom he had met before.
"Do you know my daughter Adolphine, monsieur?" inquired Monsieur
Gerbault, in surprise.
"Yes, monsieur; I had the pleasure of seeing mademoiselle on the day of
your other daughter's wedding. I dined at Deffieux's that day, with
someone who is not a stranger to you."
"Monsieur is a friend of Gustave," interposed Adolphine, hastily.
Monsieur Gerbault frowned slightly, for he remembered being told that it
was with a friend of Gustave that his son-in-law had fought a duel on
the day after his wedding; however, he confined himself to saying, in
rather a sharp tone:
"I am waiting for monsieur to be good enough to let us know the object
of his visit."
The decidedly unamiable manner in which Monsieur Gerbault said these
words began to irritate Cherami, who threw himself back in his chair,
crying:
"Faith! my dear monsieur, if you think I came here to amuse myself,
you're most miserably mistaken; my errand isn't a very agreeable one, at
best."
"Monsieur, I beg you to----"
"Ah! but, you see, you assumed an air which--look you! that air of yours
doesn't suit me at all, and if you were not this charming young lady's
father, I'd have demanded satisfaction before this."
"Oh! monsieur, for heaven's sake!" exclaimed Adolphine, clasping her
hands; "father didn't mean to offend you."
"Your father looked like a bulldog, mademoiselle, when you said that I
was a friend of Gustave. Why was that? am I a friend to be despised, I
pray to know? Friends like me, always ready to risk their lives in order
to prove their devotion, don't grow on every bush, I beg you to
believe. But here I am losing my temper, and I am wrong. I will tell you
in a word what brings me here; it's no use to put on gloves. I come to
inform you of the death of a young man of your acquaintance."
"O mon Dieu! Gustave is dead!" shrieked Adolphine, and fell back
unconscious, while a ghastly pallor overspread her features.
"My child! my child! what is it, in God's name?" cried Monsieur
Gerbault, trying to revive Adolphine; but she did not open her eyes.
Madeleine was summoned, and brought salts and vinegar. They carried the
girl to an open window, while Cherami exclaimed:
"No, no; it isn't Gustave who's dead.--Poor girl! on my word, I was far
from anticipating this. And it's because she thought Gustave was dead
that she fainted. Well! well! well! Ah! the color's coming back a
little; it will amount to nothing. See! she's opening her eyes; I will
bring her back to life entirely."
He stooped over Adolphine, who was gazing listlessly about, and said:
"Let me set your mind at rest, mademoiselle; it's not Gustave who is
dead; I wasn't talking about _Castor_."
"Is that true, monsieur?" she cried eagerly.
"I swear it by your head--and I wouldn't for the world endanger such a
charming head!"
"Pray explain yourself then, monsieur!" said Monsieur Gerbault; "of
whose death did you come to tell us?"
"Of your son-in-law, Auguste Monleard's; he died about two o'clock
to-day, in the Bois de Boulogne."
At that, it was Monsieur Gerbault's turn to fly into a rage, and he
strode toward Cherami, saying:
"Ah! you have killed him this time, shameless villain, and you come in
person to announce his death! And you are not ashamed of your victory!
One duel was not enough; you were bent on having his life!"
"Ta! ta! ta! now it's papa's turn. Deuce take it! where did I ever get
fathers and uncles of this breed?--No, monsieur; I didn't kill your
son-in-law; he killed himself; and, to speak frankly, it would have been
much better for him to have met his death in the duel we fought; for it
would have been a more honorable end. However, I will show you the
proofs of what I state; for you are quite capable of not believing me: I
expected as much; but you will have to surrender to the evidence."
Cherami handed Monsieur Gerbault the letter Auguste had written him,
then told him all that we know already: what had happened in the Bois de
Boulogne, and his visit to Fanny. During his narrative, Adolphine wept
profusely, murmuring:
"Poor Auguste! Oh, dear! how my sister must suffer!"
The news of the suicide affected Monsieur Gerbault deeply, although
officious friends had already told him that Monleard was speculating
heavily, and in such wise as to risk his fortune. He attempted,
thereupon, to apologize to Cherami for the suspicions he had conceived;
but Cherami offered his hand, saying:
"Put it there, and let's say no more about it. You are quick, so am I;
besides, when one learns of such an entirely unforeseen catastrophe, one
has the right to get a little bewildered. Now that I have performed all
the commissions that were intrusted to me, you have no further need of
me, and I will go. Adieu, Papa Gerbault! Mademoiselle, your servant!"
As Adolphine accompanied him to the door, he seized the opportunity to
ask her in an undertone:
"Do you know where Gustave is?"
"No, monsieur; but, I think, in Germany."
"I will unearth him, never fear; I have my cue!"
XXXVIII
THE TWO SISTERS
A fortnight after her husband's death, Fanny was installed in small and
unpretentious apartments in the upper part of Faubourg Poissonniere.
With her dowry of twenty thousand francs, the proceeds of the sale of
her furniture, horses, and carriages, and the sum which she had made by
speculating in railway and other shares, the young widow had an income
of about twenty-five hundred francs. That was very little, when compared
with the handsome fortune she had enjoyed for a moment, but it was
enough to enable a woman who was a skilful manager to live comfortably.
Monsieur Gerbault had suggested to the young widow that she should come
to live with him and her sister, as she had done before her marriage,
but Fanny had refused; she preferred to remain free; and then, too, in
all probability, she cherished some hopes for the future, and as she
looked at her reflection in her mirror,--for she had retained enough of
her furniture to furnish her new abode handsomely,--the pretty creature
said to herself that plenty of aspirants to the honor of putting an end
to her widowhood would surely come forward; and that, by living alone,
she would be more at liberty and better able to choose.
As for the deceased, his suicide had been the sensation of the Bourse
and of society for a week; a fortnight later, it was rarely mentioned,
and at the end of a month everybody had forgotten it.
But, no: there was one person who often thought of him, to deplore his
melancholy end, to regret that fortune had been so cruel to that young
man, who, for his part, had treated fortune too cavalierly when she
smiled on him. That person was not his widow, but her sister Adolphine.
The poor child had at first felt terribly ashamed because she had
betrayed the deep interest she felt in Gustave; but she was unable to
control the emotion which had seized her when she thought that Cherami
had come to inform her of his death. Later, when she knew the truth, she
had wept a long while over Auguste's death; then she had hurried to her
sister, to comfort her, to mingle her own tears with hers; but she had
found Fanny much more engrossed by her pecuniary affairs than by the
loss of her husband. Finally, as the young widow found that her sister
came to see her every day, and that she persisted in talking about
Auguste and shedding abundant tears to his memory, she said to her one
day:
"My dear girl, if your purpose in coming here is to divert my thoughts,
you go about it very awkwardly. Monsieur Monleard is dead, because he
preferred it so; he left me, because he chose to, without troubling
himself overmuch as to what was to become of me; frankly, it was hardly
worth while to marry me, just to act like this after only six months. He
was responsible for my refusing a young man who, as it turns out, would
have made me much happier--that poor Gustave, who loved me so dearly!
For he really did love me, did Gustave, and, according to what you told
me the other day, he is doing very well indeed now. Ten thousand francs
a year, he earns, I believe?"
Adolphine wiped her eyes and swallowed her tears, as she replied in a
faltering voice:
"Yes--I think so."
"What! you think so? So you're not sure of it now?"
"Why, yes; he told me so himself."
"Very good! with ten thousand francs one can live comfortably enough.
One can't have such a stable as I had with Monsieur Monleard; but it's
better never to have a carriage than to have to give it up. In fact, I
don't see why I should cry my eyes out for the dead man. In the first
place, I despise men who kill themselves; everyone is entitled to his
own opinion, but that's mine. A man should be able to endure the blows
of destiny. Do you know where Gustave is now?"
"No, I don't; he intended to leave Paris again."
"That's strange. Formerly, he always told you where he was going; and
now that I ask you, you don't know anything about him."
"He said something about Germany, that's all I know."
"On his uncle's business, I suppose?"
"I think so."
"Well, people don't travel forever; he'll return some time, poor
Gustave! and we shall meet again. Ah! he had changed tremendously for
the better when he came back from Spain; he had acquired ease of manner
and refinement, hadn't he?"
"I didn't notice."
"Oh! how angry you make me!--It seems to me, however, that it's more
interesting to talk about the living than the dead."
"Everybody isn't consoled as quickly as you."
"Do you propose to give me a lecture?"
"No, sister; I meant simply that anyone was very fortunate to have such
a temperament as yours."
"My dear Adolphine, I have been a widow two months now, and I know a
little something of the world. When you have had as much experience as I
have, you will realize that you should be able to find consolation for
anything."
"I don't think I shall ever be as philosophical as you."
Whenever the two sisters met, Fanny did not fail to lead the
conversation to the subject of Gustave. That subject, although intensely
interesting to Adolphine, was very painful to her when Fanny introduced
it; but, being accustomed by long practice to conceal the secrets of her
heart, to confine therein a sentiment which she dared not avow to
anyone, Fanny's younger sister contrived to listen with apparent
indifference to the project which Auguste's widow already had in
contemplation.
One day, while talking with Adolphine, Fanny suddenly asked:
"By the way, do you know who that man was whom Monsieur Monleard
employed to inform me of his death? I never saw him at the house, and
yet Auguste must have been intimately acquainted with him to intrust him
with such a commission."
"That was Monsieur Cherami."
"Yes, that's the name he gave me when he left his address and offered me
his services. He has a most original aspect, that individual. But who is
Monsieur Cherami, anyway? When I asked him to go to tell you, he seemed
to know father's name."
"Indeed! he probably learned it from Gustave."
"Does the man know Gustave too? For heaven's sake, does he know
everybody? Was it through Gustave that he knew my husband, also?"
"Why, yes, in a certain sense; for----"
"For what? Do go on, Adolphine; I don't know what's the matter with you
nowadays, but I have to tear the words out of your mouth."
"I thought you knew about it at the time. Your husband fought a duel the
day after your wedding."
"I know all about that; with a fellow who called out, when I left the
ball that night: 'There goes the faithless Fanny!'--Mon Dieu! I remember
it as well as if it were yesterday. But what connection----"
"The man who made that remark when he saw you leaving the ball was
Monsieur Cherami."
"That man? nonsense! Do you mean to say that it was he whom my husband
fought with?"
"Yes, it really was."
"Ha! ha! ha! that is too funny!"
"What! you laugh?"
"Why shouldn't I laugh, pray? Ah! how little idea men have of what they
want, and how richly they deserve, as a general rule, that we should
make sport of their mighty wrath! Think of it! Monsieur Monleard fights
a duel with Monsieur Cherami, and, a few weeks later, selects him as the
confidant of his last wishes! You see that men don't know what they are
doing, and that these lords of creation, who assume to deem themselves
much more reasonable than we, are infinitely less so."
"There may have been other reasons that we don't know about."
"Oh! you will always take sides with the men!"
"Why accuse those who are no longer able to defend themselves?"
"Oh! that is a superb retort; but, I may ask, why give the dead credit
for qualities which they had not when they were alive? I have heard that
done a hundred times in society. There was some artist or author, of
whom they said things much too bad for hanging: he was ill-natured,
envious; he decried his fellows, he had neither talent, nor style, nor
imagination. But, let him die--the same people all sang the palinode:
the deceased was a most delightful man, kind-hearted, obliging to his
fellow artists, full of talent, gifted with a marvellous imagination.
How many times I have heard all that! and I used to shrug my shoulders
in pitying contempt, thinking: 'For heaven's sake, messieurs, do at
least try to remember to-day what you said yesterday!'--But I would like
right well to know why this Monsieur Cherami called me 'the faithless
Fanny.' Do you know, Adolphine, you, who know so many things without
seeming to?"
Adolphine blushed, as she replied:
"That gentleman dined with Gustave at the restaurant where you gave your
wedding supper and ball. Gustave, in all probability, told him of his
love and his disappointment; and then Monsieur Grandcourt, Gustave's
uncle, came there after his nephew and took him away. Monsieur Cherami
stayed at the restaurant, and it seems that he was a little tipsy."
"And in his devotion to his friend, he reproached me for my perfidy! Ah!
that was very well done! To fight to avenge one's friend is a deed
worthy of the knights of old. When I see Monsieur Cherami again, I will
offer him my compliments."
"Do you mean that you bear him no ill-will for calling you faithless?"
"Oh! not the least in the world! If women lost their tempers every time
they were called faithless, they would spend most of their time in
anger."
While interviews of this sort were constantly taking place between the
two sisters, both of whom were engrossed by the same thought, although
one was compelled to stifle her sighs, while the other made no secret of
her hopes, a certain person was taking much pains to bring back to them
the subject which interested them so deeply. The reader will have
guessed that we refer to Cherami.
XXXIX
THE HUNT FOR THE FEATHER-MAKERS
After Auguste's death, the ex-Beau Arthur had reflected thus:
"I must wait until a few weeks have passed; it wouldn't be decent for my
lovelorn Gustave to return at once and throw himself at the pretty
widow's feet; _non est hic locus_; it isn't always best to take active
steps; in order that they may succeed, they must be taken at the
opportune moment. I still have some debris of the five hundred francs my
dear friend loaned me, and I have the change of the hundred-franc note
which poor Monleard left me to pay for the breakfast, which cost only
seventeen francs fifty. With that, and with a passably pretty switch,
and a passably decent costume, one can enjoy this paltry life of ours to
some slight extent. Gad! at this moment I should be very glad to meet
those two grisettes whom I saw one day at an omnibus office at Porte
Saint-Martin. Parbleu! the same day I made the acquaintance of Gustave.
They were both pretty--one was a brunette, the other a blonde--one plump
and one thin--a morsel for an attorney; and, judging from appearances,
one bright and one stupid. Their names were Laurette and Lucie, and they
were feather-girls on Rue Saint-Denis. I have never met them since. Par
la sambleu! it's my fault, I'm a jackass! I had only to go into all the
feather-shops on Rue Saint-Denis--to tell the truth, I haven't always
been in a position to play the gallant with young ladies--to invite them
to the play and to supper, and I can't do anything less than that by way
of renewing the acquaintance. But, now that I'm in funds, what prevents
me from looking them up? That idea smiles upon me. It reminds me of
happy days.--My mind is made up: before I begin my search for Gustave, I
will go in quest of Laurette and Lucie; this very evening, after dinner,
I will try my hand at hunting the feather-girls."
Cherami dined, and acquitted himself of the task like one who had not
breakfasted twice. Then, his head being a little heated by the fumes of
a bottle of old Pommard, he betook himself to Rue Saint-Denis, looking
to right and left in quest of feather-shops. He did not go far without
discovering one. He opened the door and entered with a haughty air,
scrutinizing all the young women in the establishment.