myself ill? That is what I was beginning to ask myself; for the more I
saw of Frédérique, the more strongly I felt that it would be impossible
for me to renounce the pure and unalloyed happiness that I enjoyed with
her. I was no longer the same man; in the midst of my pleasures, I had
attacks of melancholy. When Frédérique fixed her eyes on me, I became
embarrassed, almost timid; but when she was not looking at me, with what
joy I gazed at her! with what bliss my eyes feasted themselves upon
every detail of her person! Was it love that I felt for her? I dared not
confess it positively to myself, but I was terribly afraid that it was.
Yes, I was afraid; for if I loved her with love, and she loved me with
friendship only, I must constantly endure the torments of Tantalus in
her presence; if I loved her with love, I should not always be able to
control myself; and my feelings since I had been with her in the
country, the perturbation that I felt when she put her arm through mine,
the flush that rose to my face when I happened to place my hand on her
knee--everything warned me that a time would come--and perhaps
soon--when I should forget respect and social conventions--when the
friend would vanish and be succeeded by the lover! How many times, when
we were walking together along a narrow path, had I been tempted to
press her to my heart! to steal a kiss from her lips! But I remembered
the night that I had supped with her, when we had agreed to be good
friends, when she adopted the familiar form of address, and granted me
the same privilege.--Excited by the fumes of wine,--or perhaps already
assailed by the first flames of the passion that was destined later to
consume me,--I had kissed her passionately. She had taken offence; that
kiss was the signal for our rupture; she forbade me to enter her doors
again. Suppose that she should do the same now! She manifested the
utmost confidence in me, because she believed me to be simply her
friend, because she was persuaded that I would never have any other
feeling than friendship for her. Suppose that upon learning that I
really loved her she should take offence anew, leave me, deprive me of
her presence! That thought froze the blood in my veins, and was
sufficient to recall me to my senses whenever Frédérique's lovely eyes
were on the point of making me forget myself.
Two old bachelors who lived in the nearest house were the only guests
she had received thus far; the brothers Ramonet were very pleasant, and
played billiards or whist with us when the rain compelled us to stay
indoors.
Several times I had had occasion to send Pomponne to Paris. I told him
to say to Mignonne that I was visiting my friend Balloquet, at Fontenay;
I did not know whether he had obeyed my orders strictly, but I doubted
it.
One evening, when the bad weather compelled us to resort to
cards,--which, by the way, I would have been glad to dispense with, but
Frédérique, whether because she was afraid that I would be bored, or
from pure coquetry, took care that our tête-à-têtes should not be too
frequent,--the elder Monsieur Ramonet observed, as he was dealing:
"We have a new neighbor. The small house close by--on the right."
"With the terraces, in the Italian style?"
"Yes. It has been let."
"It must be very recently," said Frédérique, "for all the shutters have
always been closed until now."
"It was only three days ago. A lady has hired it."
"Is she alone?"
"Alone, except for a maid. But it's a very small house, almost no room
at all. It's very pretty, though; I went over it once?"
"Have you seen the new neighbor yet?"
"No, but my brother has.--Haven't you, Jules, seen the lady who has
hired the little house?"
"Yes, when I passed there this morning, she was at the window on the
ground floor; I bowed, and she returned my bow most affably. She's very
pretty--a young woman, with an air of distinction."
"Ah! did you see all that at a glance, Monsieur Jules?"
"Why, yes, madame! Oh! one glance is all I need; however, I bestowed
more than one on her."
"And, of course, you know already who she is, what she does, what her
name is?"
"No, not yet; but I shall know all those things to-morrow. She must be a
widow; for the house would be too small for a lady with a husband and
family. Being neighbors, we will call on her one of these days--eh,
brother?"
"To be sure."
"You have that privilege, messieurs. As for myself, as I pay very few
visits, I think that I shall not make this lady's acquaintance."
After the brothers Ramonet had gone, Frédérique, who seemed more
thoughtful than usual, suddenly said to me:
"You are not bored here, are you, my friend?"
"How many times must I tell you that I am enjoying myself immensely;
that I have never known such happy days as those that have just passed?"
"And you don't regret Paris?"
"I regret nothing."
"And you don't care about making the acquaintance of new neighbors?"
"Certainly not; indeed, I think sometimes that the brothers Ramonet are
in the way."
"Ah! how good you are to be so happy with your friend! Good-night,
Charles; until to-morrow!"
She gave me her hand, and looked at me with such a charming expression
that I was ready to cover her hand with kisses. Ah! if I dared confess
what was taking place in my heart! But she would have had no choice but
to be angry and order me to go. I preferred to hold my peace and remain
with her.
XLVII
THE NEIGHBOR
On the following morning, Frédérique and I were in the salon on the
ground floor; I was trying to extort some melody from a wretched piano,
and she was laughing at my impatience, when her servant appeared and
informed her that a lady desired to see her.
"A lady!" exclaimed Frédérique, in surprise; "but I don't expect any
lady. Where does she come from?"
"It seems that she is the person who has hired the little house near
by."
"And she thinks that, being a neighbor, she owes me a visit. Well, I
will receive her, if it must be; but I propose to show her in short
order that I don't choose to be intimate with my neighbors. Admit this
lady who is in such a hurry to see me!"
The maid retired. I turned toward the door, curious to see the neighbor,
who was said to be pretty; Frédérique continued to sit nonchalantly on
the couch. A lady appeared; I made a gesture of surprise, and Madame
Dauberny uttered a cry; we recognized Madame Sordeville.
Armantine seemed amazed to find me there; but she recovered herself at
once and ran toward Frédérique, saying:
"It is I! You didn't expect to see me, did you? You had no idea that I
had become your neighbor?"
"Why, no, surely not; I had not the slightest suspicion of it!" replied
Frédérique, in a tone that was not precisely affectionate; "but who
told you--how did you know that I lived in this house, where, by the
way, I have been only a short time?"
"Mon Dieu! servants, you know, find out instantly who one's neighbors
are, and, in the country especially, that is the first thing one thinks
about."
"I promise you that I think very little about it."
"My maid said to me this morning: 'Madame, this fine house next to us is
let to Madame Dauberny.'--I needn't tell you that, when I heard your
name, I asked for other particulars; I soon concluded that it must be
you, so I lost no time in coming to see you and embrace you. Did I do
wrong?"
"No, indeed! certainly not!"
The ladies embraced. I was not fully persuaded that their kisses were
sincere. Frédérique was much disturbed; she changed color every second.
Madame Sordeville was still pretty and as great a coquette as ever; I
saw that instantly. She soon turned to me and said:
"When I came to see my friend, I did not expect, I must say, to find
Monsieur Rochebrune here. That is an additional pleasure!"
I contented myself with bowing coldly. Frédérique, who was watching me,
said:
"Yes, Monsieur Rochebrune consented to pass some time with me here. I
thought at first that he would not make a long visit, but he said to me
lately that he did not regret Paris at all."
"That is the truth, madame; you have made me love the country."
Armantine bit her lips, and continued:
"You receive a great deal of company here, no doubt? It's so near
Paris!"
"Why, no; on the contrary, I receive no one. Except for two gentlemen
who live near,--and them we see only once or twice a week,--we are
always alone, Charles and I."
Armantine frowned slightly with vexation, but instantly tried to change
the frown into a smile. It was the first time that she had heard
Frédérique call me Charles, and that evidence of familiarity did not
seem to cause her the keenest pleasure.
"So you have left your place of retirement at Passy?" said Madame
Dauberny, after a pause.
"Oh! a long while ago--I was bored to death there. One sees too many
people in that region, and I prefer solitude now. I came here to take a
house, because I thought it would be quieter, more like the country."
"But, still, if you are bored----"
"It is sometimes unwelcome visitors who bore one. One is happier alone
with one's memories."
As she said this, Armantine cast a melancholy glance in my direction.
Frédérique noticed it, and she at once rose, saying:
"Come, inspect my house and garden.--Will you come with us, Charles?"
"No, madame; I have some letters to write."
I bowed, and returned to my pavilion. I had an idea that Frédérique was
quite willing that I should not attend them; besides, those two old
friends might have innumerable things to say to each other after so long
a separation, and I did not wish to intrude.
The presence of that woman, with whom I had been deeply in love, had
caused some disturbance in my mind, I admit; but it was of very brief
duration; it was surprise, the emotion due to the evocation of the past,
and there was nothing in my heart that at all resembled love for her.
Armantine was still very pretty, there was no denying that; but her
eyes, sometimes so expressive, and her seductive smile, could not efface
from my memory the disdainful, insolent air with which she left me that
day on the Champs-Élysées.
I remained in my room all day. When I returned to the salon, Frédérique
was alone. I sat down beside her.
"Has your friend left you?"
"Yes. Did you hope to find her here?"
"I? Why do you ask me that?"
"You answer my question with another; that is very convenient. But do
you think that I should regard it as a crime if it gave you great
pleasure to meet a woman whom--whom you once adored--whom you still
love, probably?"
"Oho! so you think that I still love her, do you?"
"What would there be extraordinary in that? When a passion has not
been--satisfied--there is no reason why it should end."
"And you think, do you, that it should end as soon as it is satisfied?"
"I think--that I am only your friend, whereas Armantine----"
"Well?"
"Mon Dieu! I don't know what I am saying! That unexpected visit, the
idea of having her for a neighbor----"
"You must have been glad to see your friend again?"
"Oh, yes! of course, I am delighted! She will probably come every day;
as she knows that you are here, she certainly won't miss a day."
"Ah! you think that she will come on my account?"
"On yours--or mine--I'm sure I don't know. However, we shall see."
Frédérique sighed. All the rest of the evening, she was sad and pensive;
for my part, I too was preoccupied. We parted earlier than usual, and
she did not look at me as she did the night before, when she said:
"Until to-morrow!"
On the following day, I proposed to Frédérique that we should take a
long walk; she assented, and we started. We had not walked fifty yards,
when we saw Armantine coming toward us. I noticed that she was dressed
more coquettishly than on the day before. Frédérique could not restrain
an angry gesture as she muttered:
"Ah! it seems that she was watching us! This bids fair to be amusing!"
"Are you going to walk?" asked Armantine, looking at me.
"It looks rather like it," replied Frédérique.
"Will you allow me to go with you? As I don't know the country at all, I
am very glad to find guides."
"You have the right to come with us. But I warn you that I am a good
walker, and Charles and I take very long walks."
"Oh! I can walk very well!--Besides, if I get tired, I fancy that
monsieur will kindly give me his arm."
"It will be at your service, madame," I replied, with cold courtesy.
But Frédérique, who had my arm at that moment, instantly dropped it,
saying:
"In the country, people walk singly; that's the most convenient way."
I looked at her in surprise, for we were not accustomed to walk so.
We started again. Armantine went into ecstasies over the scenery; she
kept exclaiming every minute:
"Why, it is perfectly lovely here! I am delighted that I came; I am
immensely pleased already!"
Frédérique said nothing, or replied only by a few curt phrases. I
carried on the conversation with Madame Sordeville, who constantly asked
me for information about the region, and was never at a loss for
questions which enabled her to talk with me. I fancied that I could see
that Frédérique was irritated by it; but I could not be discourteous to
the other, who talked to me incessantly.
Our walk was gloomy enough. Frédérique was the first to suggest
returning. Thereupon Armantine complained of being tired. It was
impossible to avoid offering her my arm, which she eagerly accepted. I
offered the other to Frédérique, but she refused it. I wondered what the
matter was.
Armantine left us at her door, having informed her friend that she would
pass the evening with her.
Frédérique was pale and excited; I asked her the cause of her anger, and
why she had refused my arm.
"In order to leave you alone with the object of your love!" she replied,
with a piercing glance that seemed to seek to read my inmost thoughts.
That glance gave birth to a hope so delicious that a thrill of joy ran
through my whole being; but I dared not dwell upon that thought. I
should be too happy if I had guessed aright.
Armantine passed the whole evening with her friend. She worked, while we
played and sang. Frédérique asked me to sing a ballad; I complied, and
apparently acquitted myself creditably, for I saw that Armantine
listened to me with amazement; and when I had finished, Frédérique
said:
"That was very good, Charles; you were more successful than at
Armantine's reception."
I laughed at the remembrance of my false note; but Madame Sordeville
lowered her eyes and did not laugh.
She came the next day and the next; nor was there an evening that she
did not pay her friend a visit. Frédérique received her with formal
rather than affectionate courtesy; she had altogether lost the
playfulness and spirit that made our tête-à-têtes so delightful. When I
was alone with her, she said little; when Armantine was there, she said
nothing at all. But Armantine pretended to pay no heed to the melancholy
or capricious humor of her friend; she was fond of talking, and she
often sustained practically the whole burden of what could hardly be
called conversation.
Very often she bestowed a melting glance on me, but I pretended not to
notice. She always seated herself near me. If we walked in the garden,
she walked by my side and talked to me in undertones, as if she had
something to say to me that she did not wish Frédérique to hear.
Frédérique observed all her manoeuvring, and sometimes I saw her
expression change two or three times in a minute. At such times, my
heart beat violently, and I was tempted to throw myself at her feet and
say:
"It is you, you alone, whom I love!"
But suppose that all that was nothing more than what she called the
selfishness of friendship! She was such a peculiar creature! I should be
so confused if I had misinterpreted her feelings! What would she think
of me? That my self-esteem led me to see on all sides women who adored
me!
One morning, after passing an hour with us, Armantine remembered that
she had something to do at home, and left us. I rejoiced to be left
alone with Frédérique, which had come to be a rare occurrence of late. I
proposed a walk in the fields, but she refused on the ground of
indisposition, a sick headache, and left me abruptly, to go to her room.
Why that ill temper with me? If her friend's constant presence irritated
her, was I responsible for it? Had I sought Madame Sordeville's company?
On the contrary, she must have seen that in my intercourse with that
lady I kept strictly within the limits of the most rigid courtesy. As I
said this to myself, I left the salon and the house, hoping to find a
solution of my conjectures while walking.
I paid no attention to the direction I took. What did it matter, as I
had no definite goal in view? But chance willed that I should turn to
the right instead of the left; and to reach the woods I had to pass
Armantine's house.
I did not notice it, but was walking on, musing deeply, when suddenly I
heard my name called. I raised my eyes and found myself in front of
Madame Sordeville's house. She was at a window on the ground floor; it
was she who had called me, and, as I looked up, she bowed affably to me.
I returned her salutation, and was going on; but she called out:
"Won't you do me the favor to come in a moment, Monsieur Rochebrune? I
have long wanted to have a moment's conversation with you; but at Madame
Dauberny's it is impossible; for she doesn't leave you for an instant.
As chance has brought you to my door, will you not grant me this favor?"
To refuse would have been discourteous and in wretched taste. Although
one has ceased to be in love with a woman, one must still be polite to
her, unless one is a wild Indian; and I had no desire to be looked upon
as such.
So I went into Madame Sordeville's house; I continued to give her that
name in my mind. She came to meet me, ushered me into the room, sat
down, and pointed to a chair near hers. I took it and waited to hear
what she had to say to me. She hesitated and seemed embarrassed; but she
looked at me often, and her flashing eyes seemed to try to force me to
speak first. Despite the fire of her glance, despite the dangerous play
of her eyes, I remained dumb. At last, Armantine decided to begin the
interview:
"When I went to call upon Frédérique, monsieur, I did not expect, I
confess, to find you there, and especially to find you established there
as if you were at home."
"What do you mean by that, madame?"
"You must understand me. The familiarity now existing between you and my
friend is evident enough; indeed, she makes no attempt to hide it! But,
I repeat, I did not expect that--not that I presume to reproach you, for
I have no right to do so. You love--you do not love--that happens every
day. As for my friend"--Armantine dwelt significantly on the last
word--"as for my friend, it seems to me that I might be a little
offended with her without laying myself too much open to blame. Her
conduct toward me is hardly that of a really sincere friend. In leading
you on to make love to her, to become her--her lover, in short, she has
not acted with delicacy, and----"
At this point, I interrupted her.
"I don't quite know what you mean, madame," I said; "I begin by
informing you that I am not Madame Dauberny's lover, that I am simply
her friend. But even if I were in love with that lady, and she should
do me the honor to reciprocate my feeling for her, wherein, I pray to
know, could it offend you, or even interest you in the least, madame?"
Armantine was silent for a moment; she sighed, and murmured at last:
"I see that you have not forgotten the way I left you one day on the
Champs-Élysées. I was wrong, monsieur, very wrong; I have often
regretted it since. But do you not know that women sometimes have
caprices, moments of irritation, which they themselves cannot
understand? It may be that I am more subject than other women to such
freaks. But, when I confess my sins, will you continue to bear malice?"
Armantine was really very fascinating; while "confessing her sins," she
indulged in a thousand coquettish little manoeuvres which would have
turned many a man's head. But I was in love with another woman, and that
love must have been most sincere, for Armantine's tender glances had no
effect whatever on my heart.
"I bear you no ill will at all, madame," I said, with a smile. "That
episode faded from my memory long ago, and I supposed that it was the
same with you. You owe me no apology; indeed, as you know, time changes
the aspect of many things. To-day, it seems to me that that old story
does not deserve a moment's thought from either of us. Au revoir,
madame! With your permission, I will continue my walk."
I rose and bowed. Armantine was speechless, utterly crushed; she did not
look at me, she did not even respond to my salutation.
I had just left the house, and was about to resume my walk, when I saw
Frédérique standing a few steps away, with her eyes fixed upon me. I
walked hastily toward her. Her pallor terrified me; the fixed stare of
her eyes cut me to the heart. I tried to take her hand; she snatched it
away.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"What were you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you come out of her house. I was certain that you were
there."
"At Madame Sordeville's? It was the merest chance, my going in. I was
passing, and----"
"You have no need to apologize, or to try to invent excuses. I have told
you a hundred times that you were your own master, that you might have
ten mistresses if you chose, that I did not claim any right to interfere
with your affections. But I do not like to have people lie to me,
deceive me, disguise their thoughts."
"I have done none of those things, Frédérique; and if you will listen to
me----"
"Later--not now. Adieu!"
"Are you going to leave me? Won't you come to walk with me?"
"No! I have something to do, I am going home."
"I am going home, too."
"No; continue your walk, I beg you. It would annoy me if you should go
home with me. You see that my nerves are all on edge, that a trifle
upsets me. Leave me, my friend; au revoir!"
She hurried away; I feared to vex her by following her. She was there in
the road, watching for me; she wanted to see if I was with Armantine.
And that sadness that I read in her eyes, and that she tried in vain to
dissemble--was not that jealousy? If she had no warmer feeling than
friendship for me, would she be jealous of Armantine? Even though I were
mistaken, even though the result were to break off our relations again,
I determined that I would no longer make a secret of my sentiments, of
my consuming love for her. I resolved that I would tell her all, that
very day. It was no longer possible for me to be content with the rôle
of a friend.
I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial
circumstance in Frédérique's conduct that could possibly encourage my
hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour
had arrived, when I returned to the house.
I found nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frédérique was
not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand.
"Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a
coincidence!"
"Where is Madame Dauberny?"
"She has gone, monsieur."
"Gone! What do you say, idiot?"
"I say, monsieur, that we're the masters of the house. Madame Dauberny
has gone away with Adèle, and here's a letter she left for monsieur."
I took the letter, hastily tore it open, and read what follows:
"MY FRIEND:
"I am going away from this house, which has lost all its charm for
me since Armantine has been my neighbor and has passed all her time
with us. I say with us--I imagined that it was still that happy
time when there were only we two! That time passed too swiftly. I
realize that I am a selfish creature, and that it is natural that
you should be happy in having found again a woman whom you once
loved dearly, and whose presence has rekindled the fire which was
not extinct. So, be happy with her. Remain at my house, my friend;
remain there as long as you please, and believe that I go away
without murmuring, but not without regret."
I had hardly finished reading the letter, when I called my servant.
"Pack my valise, Pomponne, and your own things; we are going back to
Paris."
"Going back to Paris! When, monsieur?"
"Instantly! make haste!"
"What about dinner, monsieur? We haven't dined, and I know it's all
ready; Adèle told me so when she went away."
"We will dine in Paris. I do not propose to remain another half-hour in
this house. Come! you should have had everything ready before now."
Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Paris in the first _coucou_
I could find; for there are still _coucous_ at Fontenay.
XLVIII
AT THE OPÉRA