you for so many years so persistently! You must see that he is as
furious as ever against you; consequently, I fancy that he would not
grieve very bitterly over your death!"
"You are wrong, madame; the count is no longer furious with me; rage
doesn't last twenty years; it dies long before that time. It is nothing
but the sentiment of honor that impels your husband now; and that
sentiment would not stifle the regret that he would feel if he should
kill a man whom he once loved with the most sincere affection."
"But whom he now holds in the greatest possible detestation!"
"No, madame, I assure you that he no longer detests me. When a man grows
old, he remembers the happy days of his youth much more vividly than the
troubles of his maturer years; the latter are effaced in the jolting and
hurly-burly of life; the first remain and rise to the surface, to divert
our thoughts, to charm our memories--and that is why I believe that De
Brevanne no longer detests me.--What I say surprises you--you do not
agree with me; but women do not understand friendship!"
"You have an amusing way of practising it! However, how do you propose
to prevent this duel?"
"As I have prevented it for twenty years; I propose to elude the count's
search. I have moved already; I no longer live in furnished lodgings,
and I should be very much astonished if he should find me where I am
now."
Madame de Grangeville said nothing more; Roncherolle seemed to reflect;
and the ex-lovers were silent for a considerable time. At last the gouty
gentleman put out his hand toward his hat, and seemed about to go, when
his former friend detained him, saying with some hesitation:
"Monsieur de Roncherolle, I have something to say to you on another
subject of--of deep interest to us both."
"A subject of interest to us both?" repeated Roncherolle, replacing his
hat on the table; "you surprise me; I thought that we no longer had
anything of interest to say to each other. What is it all about?"
"You must have a very short memory, monsieur, since it is necessary for
me to remind you of that--that result of our liaison--of our
wrong-doing, alas!"
"Ah, yes! thrice alas!"
"Well, monsieur, that child, that little girl--for it was a girl--tell
me, monsieur, what became of her? Formerly, when I questioned you on
that subject, you always answered: 'Don't be disturbed, I know where she
is, we shall find her again.'--But that was more than twelve years ago,
monsieur, and it seems to me that it is high time that I should know
what became of that child!"
Roncherolle moved about on the _causeuse_ as he replied:
"Yes, yes, that is very true; there is the subject of the little girl; I
had forgotten about her entirely, and you will understand in a moment
why I had forgotten her; it was because it would have done no good to
think of her, for I have no idea what became of her after I put her out
to nurse."
"You don't know what became of her! why, that is abominable, monsieur,
it is frightful; you break my heart!"
"No fine words, my dear friend. I beg you; with me, as you must know,
they will miss their effect; I break nothing at all of yours; for if you
had chosen to be a mother, to know and to enjoy the happiness which that
title affords, you would not have begun by begging me to rid you of your
child as soon as possible the instant that it came into the world."
"Monsieur, that is not true; you insult me, you slander me!"
"You are beginning again. Come, Lucienne, stop acting and listen to me.
When you were in an interesting condition and on the point of emerging
from it, we were journeying through the fertile pastures of Normandie;
suddenly the fancy seized you to visit Ermenonville, the village that
became so famous because a so-called philosopher--for I consider that
that Monsieur Jean-Jacques had little claim as such, and that a man can
hardly call himself the friend of mankind when he constantly inflicts
injury on those who have conferred benefits on him--but no matter, he
made the village of Ermenonville famous by living there, and especially
by being buried there. I remarked to you that it was imprudent to
approach Paris, where your husband might be, especially in your
condition; but you were always obstinate in your whims, and I have never
been able to thwart a lady. We reached Ermenonville in horrible weather;
very good. The next day you felt ill and insisted on returning to Paris,
to be sure of having all the necessary assistance in your condition;
that was another imprudence. But no matter--I yielded. We reached Paris;
we had hardly arrived, when whom should we see on the street but your
husband! Very good; he didn't see us; you wanted to go away again, but
it was too late; you brought a daughter into the world.--- In the
confusion and embarrassment into which that event, anticipated though it
was, cast us, you began by saying to me: 'Take the child away at once!
find a nurse instantly, and let her go back to her home in the country
this very day,'--I continued to do your will; I carried the little
one--who was a sweet little thing, on my word!--to a room above yours,
which I was occupying temporarily; and I said to my servant--I had
Comtois then, a most intelligent fellow, whom I could never replace--I
told him to find me a stout, healthy nurse. Comtois went away and very
soon returned with the desired object: she was a peasant woman of
excellent appearance--a Picard. I remember distinctly that she was a
Picard. I gave her the child, and she raved over her; then she asked me
for the _layette_; I confess that that embarrassed me sadly; you ought
to have thought of that, madame, but you never considered it. I gave her
all that I found at my hand: trousers, dressing-gown, shirts, cravats;
I remember too that I gave her a handkerchief that belonged to you, and
that I happened to have in my pocket. The nurse laughed heartily when I
gave her all those things. I handed her a hundred francs in addition.
She made a price for nursing the child, and it wasn't exorbitant. She
asked me the little girl's names, but you and I had not fixed upon any.
I said to the Picard: 'You may call the child Evelina de
Paulausky'--yes, those are the names I gave her; I had just read a novel
the heroine of which bore that name.--I then asked the nurse for her
name and address, so that I might send her money and have news of the
child. She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling.
It was all arranged very quickly, as you see."
"Certainly, monsieur, I have nothing to reproach you for, up to that
point--except the _layette_, which you might have bought."
"That is to say, which you should have bought beforehand."
"Oh! monsieur, when one is travelling all the time, has one any
opportunity to make purchases?"
"In that case, madame, when could I have bought it, as I was travelling
with you?--Besides, is that sort of thing a man's business?"
"Well, monsieur, let us drop that and return to the nurse. You heard
from the child through her? you sent her money?"
"I never heard from the nurse, madame, for the very simple reason that I
did not give her my address; I refrained, from prudential motives; and
then too we were always in flying camp at that time, and I really don't
know what address I could have given her."
"Then, monsieur, you must have written to her?"
"Mon Dieu! that is what I expected to do, and to send her some money;
and then I would have given her an address, _poste restante_, so that
she might answer me. But at that point difficulties arose. Imagine, if
you please, that, when that woman gave me her name and address, I did
not take the precaution to write them down at once; we were in such a
hurry, so completely upset! What with giving my clothes for the
_layette_, and the child's crying, and your sending to ask what was
going on--in short, I didn't write down the confounded address at the
time, feeling sure that I should remember it. The nurse went away. We
had a thousand things to do: I had to obtain money to resume our
travels, and we were constantly beset by the fear of being discovered by
your husband.--As you will remember, we started for the Pyrenees as soon
as you were in a condition to endure the journey."
"I know all that--well?"
"At last, one fine day, you asked me about the child. I answered: 'She
is well; she must be all right.' But that reminded me that I had
neglected to send the nurse any money since the little one came into the
world, six months before. I said to myself: 'Pardieu! I must repair that
neglect.'--I instantly wrote a few lines in haste, but when it came to
writing the woman's name and address, I could not possibly remember
them! She was from Picardie, and her first name was Marguerite; but
Marguerite what? there are Marguerites everywhere! And the name of that
wretched village--I could not remember that either!--I said to myself:
'A little patience and it will come back to me.'--Six more months passed
and I thought again of the child; I tried once more to remember the
nurse's address; but I could not recall it!"
"And you kept telling me that the child was well!"
"What would you have had me tell you? I couldn't say that she was ill,
because I didn't know.--In short, for nineteen years I have tried very
often to think of that address, but it hasn't come back to me yet."
"And so, monsieur, by your fault, I am deprived of my daughter forever,
and the poor child is without a family! It is shocking!"
"Pardon me, madame, pardon me; on mature reflection--in the little one's
behalf first of all--I am not sure that it is a great calamity that she
has never known the secret of her birth; she would still have been in a
false position; and then life in Paris wouldn't have been as good for
her health as the fresh country air--especially in Picardie. That's an
excellent region; they drink cider there, which is very healthy. If she
is still alive, I am sure that she must be in good health. She lives in
the fields and woods--bless my soul! she is happier, no doubt, than she
would be here; especially as I could never give her an establishment
with the remains of my fortune."
"But what of me, monsieur?--do you make no account of my regrets? I am
deprived of my daughter's caresses!"
"I beg pardon, madame, but the longing for those caresses takes you
rather tardily."
"Why, monsieur, it is twelve years since I last saw you."
"But for seven years we were almost never apart, and you were perfectly
willing to leave the child at nurse; you asked me about her
sometimes--at long intervals; but you never said: 'Do send for
her.'--You thought that the attention you would have to give the child
would disturb your pleasures; and for my part, I believe that her
presence would embarrass you even more now; for the girl is nineteen
years old; and a daughter of nineteen would be terribly repugnant to
you; she might rob you of conquests!"
"Monsieur, you do not mean to insult me, I trust?"
"By no means, my dear friend! We have had an explanation, and I have
confessed the truth. 'I had to do it!' as Bilboquet says; and now I will
take my cane and my hat and return to my Marais."
"Do you live in the Marais? What a horrible neighborhood!"
"Oh, no! however, one lives where one can! I have not, as you have,
anonymous admirers who make me an allowance; but I congratulate you; you
can still gratify your taste for pleasure, for fine clothes. I consider
you very rich now--compared with myself."
"No, indeed! no, indeed!" Madame de Grangeville replied eagerly, with an
embarrassed air. "I have only what I need to live; a woman requires so
many things, you know; it would be impossible for me to accommodate
anybody."
Roncherolle put on his hat, leaned on his cane and exclaimed with a
savage glance at the baroness:
"Did you suppose by any chance, madame, that I intended to ask you for
anything, or to borrow anything of you? I hoped that you had lived with
me long enough to know me. I have spent a devilish lot of money on
women; they have led me into all sorts of folly, but nothing base. I
have ruined myself for them, and I had a right to do it. I have made
love to them much, loved them sometimes, deceived them often; but thank
God! I have never accepted anything from them; I am entitled to say to
them just what I think, and I avail myself of that right on
occasion.--My respects, my affectionate friend!"
With these words, Roncherolle bowed to Madame de Grangeville with a
mocking expression, and left her apartment, saying to himself:
"Ah! these women whose lives have been nothing but coquetry--when you
search their hearts, what a barren soil you find! Sow benefactions there
and you never reap anything but ingratitude."
As for Madame de Grangeville, as soon as her former lover had left her,
she called her maid and said:
"If by any chance that gentleman should come again to see me, Lizida, I
shall not be at home to him! The idea! a ruined man, who dresses
shabbily, who drags one leg, and who has nothing but disagreeable things
to say!"
"Madame is quite right. That is a good sort of man to keep out."
XXXVII
THE CONCIERGE-NURSE
In a hasty, violent, nervous disposition, wrath is quick to come; it
bursts out violently, but it does not last long; the heart that feels
the most profoundly the wounds that it receives, is also the most
sensitive to the tears that it sees shed, and it very speedily repents
of the pain it has inflicted.
The Comte de Brevanne, who had only a few hours before acquired the
certainty that his wife had had a child by Roncherolle, had been unable
to control his wrath and his jealousy when their child appeared before
him; at the first blush, he had imagined that it was a fresh insult, an
additional affront purposely put upon him. All his sufferings, all his
anguish had returned to his mind and to his heart, and we have seen how,
as a result of all these circumstances, he had received poor Violette.
But when a half hour had passed after the young girl's departure, the
count, who had remained alone in his study, had had time to grow calm;
moreover, the storm that was in the air had broken, the rain was falling
in torrents; at such times nervous people always feel relieved, they
breathe more freely, their brain becomes clearer and their irritation
falls with the rain.
Brevanne looked about him, passed his hand over his forehead, and said
to himself:
"So that girl has gone. How I treated her! why, I must have lost my
reason. She came here to ask me for help, for protection, and I brutally
sent her away, drove her out of doors. Poor child! is it her fault that
she is the fruit of adultery? She does not know who her mother is, as
she came to ask me for information concerning her parents. They
shamelessly abandoned her, and I turn her out of doors! Can it be that I
propose to be as shameless as they? Ah! I behaved very badly. And this
storm--great heavens! the rain is falling in sheets. Can she have gone
away in such weather?"
The count rang violently and Pongo quickly answered.
"Master, he ring?"
"Yes; that young girl from Paris who came just now to speak to me--where
is she? Go and find her, and bring her back; I don't want her to go
away."
"Yes, master."
And the mulatto, who had seen no girl, ran all over the house, the
courtyard and the garden, shouting at the top of his voice:
"Young girl from Paris! come right back. Master ask for you; master want
to see you. She no answer.--Oh! me find you!"
Georget spied Pongo just at the moment that he was applying to a great
chestnut tree, saying to it:
"You see young lady who come to speak to master?"
"What are you doing there, Pongo?"
"Monsieur Georget, me look for someone master want, and me no find."
"And you are applying to that tree to learn where she is?"
"Oh! he understand all right; he no speak, but he understand."
"Whom are you looking for?"
"A young girl from Paris, who come to speak to master; he no longer want
her to go away."
"A young girl from Paris has been here to see Monsieur Malberg?"
"Yes."
"What was she like, Pongo? Describe her to me."
"Me no see her. It was master, him tell me."
"Who let her in then? Ah! there's the gardener."
Georget ran to the gardener, and Pongo ran about the garden, talking to
the trees and the flowers.
"Did you see this girl who came from Paris to speak to monsieur?"
"Yes, to be sure; it was me who let her in and took her to the master."
"What was she like?"
"Pretty as a picture, on my word; she's a fine slip of a girl."
"Did she tell you her name before you let her in?"
"No, she said it wasn't worth while."
"Did she stay long with monsieur?"
"Why, yes, quite a while."
"And she has gone?"
"Yes, as much as half an hour ago; the storm was just beginning, and
when I saw that, I asked her to wait in my house; I told her she'd get
wet; but she wouldn't stop; she made me feel bad because she was
crying."
"She was crying? What! she was crying when she left Monsieur Malberg?"
"I should say so! big tears too! she looked as if she was in very great
trouble, but she started off all the same."
Georget waited to hear no more; he ran to the count, and could hardly
say what he wished to, he was so excited.
"Monsieur, the girl who came--a young girl came from Paris,--and talked
with you, monsieur?"
"To be sure; well?"
"Why, she went away again, monsieur; and the gardener noticed that when
she went away, she was crying, she was very unhappy."
"Ah! she was crying?"
"Yes, monsieur. I ask your pardon, monsieur, for questioning you; but
this girl--was it she, monsieur?"
"She--who?"
"Violette, monsieur, the little flower girl; the one that--you know,
monsieur."
"No, no, it wasn't she;" replied the count, trying to calm Georget's
excitement. "Why do you suppose that that girl would come to see me?"
"Mon Dieu! I don't know, monsieur; but as you spoke to her one day, in
Paris, I thought that perhaps she might have something to say to you.
But it wasn't she who came here and of course that makes a difference;
excuse me, monsieur."
At that moment Pongo appeared in the count's apartment, all out of
breath, crying:
"Master! master! girl from Paris--I no bring her back, her gone."
"All right, I know it."
"Oh yes; but me know from Thomas,--he meet her in the country, and her
out in all the storm! he call to her: 'stop, mamzelle; come, get under
cover.' But her run all the time just like her not hear, and her all
soaked with water. Poor girl, her get sick for sure!"
The count turned pale, but he concealed his emotion and requested to be
left alone. Pongo went back to Carabi, saying:
"He want to go out too; but me no want him to get wet like the young
girl; poor girl, in the fields when it storm; that not right!"
Georget said no more; but although Monsieur de Brevanne had assured him
that the girl was not Violette, although he dared not doubt his
protector's words, yet he felt sad and oppressed, and he deeply
regretted that he had not seen the poor girl who had gone away weeping.
Early the next morning, without a word to anybody, the count started for
Paris; and he had no sooner arrived than he betook himself to Boulevard
du Chateau d'Eau. The weather was cold but fine; it was one of those
beautiful autumn mornings when the sun shines on the yellow leaves and
promises a fine day.
It was not a flower market day; but some of the flower girls were in
their places, none the less. As the count approached, he looked about
for Violette, but in vain. The girl, who was ordinarily so faithful to
her occupation, had not opened her booth, had not appeared in her place.
Monsieur de Brevanne waited for a long time, walking back and forth on
the boulevard; he entered a cafe nearby, breakfasted, read the
newspapers, and then returned to the place where the flower girl always
stood; but Violette did not come.
"She is probably kept away to-day by the necessity of buying flowers for
her trade," said the count to himself; "I will go back to Nogent and I
will see her to-morrow."
But on the next day, the young flower girl was not in her place, and the
count was again obliged to go away without seeing her.
The girl's health had been seriously impaired by the events and the
agitation resulting from her journey to Nogent. One does not experience
a violent disappointment with impunity; one does not defy the storm and
wind without feeling the effects of it. On leaving the coal barge,
Violette shivered on her companion's arm, and he noticed it; on reaching
her room, the girl had gone to bed at once, and on the next day, despite
her earnest desire to attend to her business, it had been impossible for
her to rise.
Luckily, Mere Lamort was always at the service of her tenants. The
concierge passed her time going up and down the six flights of stairs in
her house. Her dog kept her lodge, and barked when anyone entered and
attempted to ascend the staircase. At that signal from her substitute,
Mere Lamort instantly went to the window of the floor where she happened
to be, and conversed from there with the persons who came to see some of
the tenants.
Chicotin, who was now deeply interested in Violette's health, finding
that she did not come to the boulevard on the day following the evening
when he had prevented her from accomplishing her fatal design, did not
fail to go and enquire of the concierge, who replied:
"The girl's sick and in bed; I am making her some herb tea, because that
breaks up a fever."
The young messenger, whom Mere Lamort's information failed to reassure,
climbed the six flights rapidly and entered Violette's room; he found
her in bed, with the flushed face and hollow, burning eyes which
indicate a violent attack of fever. But the girl smiled at Chicotin and
offered him her hand, saying in a weak voice:
"Thanks, Chicotin, for coming to see me; what you said last night was
true; that shower has made me sick; but it won't amount to anything."
"Don't you want me to fetch a doctor, mamzelle?"
"No, it's not necessary; it won't amount to anything. Besides, the
concierge is very kind, she takes good care of me."
"She is going to bring you up some herb tea; but I will come every day
to find out how you are getting on,--twice a day rather than once."
"I don't want to interfere with your work, my friend."
"Oh! that won't interfere with me. In fact, I have a customer in your
house, just below you,--a gentleman who isn't always steady on his legs;
but just at present he seems to walk very well. Would you like me to
tell him to come up to see you? You see, he is no fool; he talks better
than I do."
"Thanks, Chicotin, I don't need any company; I am never bored when I'm
alone, for I know how to read, I like to read; and besides that, I have
plenty to think about."
"But not about such miserable things as you thought about yesterday?"
"No, no; that's all over."
"Good. I spoke to you about your neighbor because he ain't a young man
and it wouldn't make any gossip; but if you don't want him to come--Ah!
here's Mere Lamort with a pitcher in each hand. You will have something
nice.--Good-by, mamzelle, I'll come again soon."
On leaving Violette, Chicotin met Monsieur de Roncherolle on the stairs,
going up to his room.
"Ah! are you coming from my room, my boy?" said the gouty gentleman when
he recognized his usual messenger.
"No, bourgeois, no; I am coming from the room over yours."
"Over mine? What, are there people perched higher than I am? I thought
that I acted as lightning rod for the house."
"Oh, no, monsieur, there's a very pretty young girl, who lives all alone
above you."
"Ah! you rascal! I see,--this girl is your mistress!"
"No, monsieur, you don't see at all. The poor girl is adored by one of
my friends, and I should never think of such a thing as making love to
her, because, you see, I ain't capable of being false to a friend,
although I'm only a messenger."
"You are right, my boy, you are right," murmured Roncherolle, hanging
his head, "for that doesn't bring good luck."
"But if you knew all that has happened to the poor girl! Just imagine,
monsieur, that if it hadn't been for me, she would have jumped into the
canal last night."
"Indeed! for what reason? Desperate with love--her lover has abandoned
her, I suppose?"
"No, he still loves her, he thinks of nothing but her; he thinks that
she was unfaithful to him; he is convinced that she has listened to a
fine young dandy who makes eyes at her, and who has boasted of having
been her lover."
"And why do you think that it isn't true?"