Henri was ready, and had taken great pains to dress for the occasion in
an apparently careless style. He was wearing one of those morning suits
in which a young man nearly always looks well.
At the time appointed in the letter there was a ring at the door. Henri
opened it and Mme. Bourjot entered. She passed by and walked on in front
of him as though she knew the way, until she reached the study. She took
a seat on the divan, and neither of them spoke a word. There was plenty
of room by her on the divan, but Henri drew up a smoking-chair, which he
turned round, and, sitting down astride on it, folded his arms over the
back.
Mme. Bourjot lifted her double lace veil and turned it back over her
hat. Holding her head slightly aside, and with one hand pulling the
glove slowly off the other, she gazed at the things on the wall and on
the mantel-shelf. She gave a little sigh as if she were alone, and then,
glancing at Henri, she said:
"There is some of my life here--something of me--in all that." She held
out her ungloved hand to him, and Henri kissed the tips of her fingers
respectfully.
"Forgive me," she went on, "I did not intend speaking of myself; I have
not come here for that. Oh, you need not be afraid, I am quite sensible
to-day, I assure you. The first moment--well, the first moment was hard!
I won't deny that I had to pull myself together," she continued, with a
tearful smile, "but it's all over now. I scarcely suffer any more, and I
am quite myself again, I assure you. Of course everything cannot be
forgotten all in a minute, and I won't say that you are nothing to me
now--for you would not believe me. But this I can assure you, and you
must believe me, Henri, there is no more love for you in my heart. I am
no longer weak; the woman within me is dead--quite dead, and the
affection I have for you now is quite pure."
The light seemed to annoy her as she spoke, as if it were some one
gazing at her. "Will you put the blind down, dear?" she said. "The
sun--my eyes have rather hurt me the last few days."
While Henri was at the window she arranged her hat and let the cloak she
was wearing drop from her shoulders. When the light was not so strong in
the room she began again:
"Yes, Henri, after struggling a long time, and enduring such anguish as
you will never know, after passing nights such as I hope you may never
have, and after crying and praying, I have conquered myself. I have won
the victory, and I can now think of my daughter's happiness without
being jealous, and of yours as the only happiness now left for me on
earth."
"You are an angel, Laure," said Henri, getting up and walking up and
down the room as though he were greatly agitated. "But you must look at
things as they are. You were quite right the other day when you said
that we must separate forever--never see each other again. The idea of
our constantly meeting! You know we could not. It would take so little
to open wounds as slightly closed as ours are. Then, too, even if you
are sure of yourself, how do you know that I am as sure of myself? How
can I tell--if we were meeting at all times--with such constant
temptation--if I were always near you," he said, speaking very tenderly,
"why, some day, unexpectedly--how can I tell--and I am an honourable
man."
"No, Henri," she answered, taking his hands in hers and drawing him to
the seat at her side, "I am not afraid of you, and I am not afraid of
myself. It is all over. How can I make you believe me? And you will not
refuse me? No, you cannot refuse me the only happiness which remains for
me--my only happiness. It is all I have left in the world now--it is to
see you, only to see you--" and throwing her arms round Henri's neck she
drew him to her closely.
"Ah, no, it is quite impossible," said Henri, when the embrace had
lasted a few seconds. "Don't say any more about it," he continued,
brusquely, getting up as he spoke.
"I will be brave," said Mme. Bourjot very seriously.
When they had played out their comedy of renunciation they both felt
more at ease.
"Now, then, listen to me," began Mme. Bourjot once more, "my husband
will give you his daughter."
"How foolish you are, really, Laure."
"Don't interrupt me--my husband will give you his daughter. I fancy he
intends asking his son-in-law to live in the same house. Of course you
would be quite free--your suite of rooms, your carriage, meals, and
everything quite apart--you know what our style of living is. Unless M.
Bourjot has changed his mind, she will have a dowry of forty thousand
pounds, and unless he should lose his money, which I do not think is
very probable, you will have, at our death, four or five times that
amount."
"And how can you seriously imagine that Mlle. Bourjot, who has forty
thousand pounds, and who will have four or five times that much, would
marry----"
"I am her mother," answered Mme. Bourjot in a decisive tone. "And
then--don't you love her? Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of
expediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. "You provide her with happiness."
"But what will the world say?"
"The world? My dear boy, we should close the world's mouth with
truffles," and she gave her shoulders a little shrug.
"And M. Bourjot?"
"That's my part. He will like you very much before the end of two
months. The only thing is, as you know, he will want a title; he has
always intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can do is to get
him to consent to a name tacked on to yours. Nothing is simpler,
nowadays, than to get permission to add to one's name the name of some
estate, or forest, or even the name of a meadow, or a bit of land of any
sort. Didn't I hear some one talking to your mother about a farm called
Villacourt that you have in the Haute-Marne? _Mauperin de Villacourt_;
that would do very well. You know, as far as I am concerned, how little
I care about such things."
"Oh, but it would be so ridiculous, with my principles, and a Liberal,
too, bound as I am. And then, you know----"
"Oh, you can say it is a whim of your wife's. Every one goes about with
names like that now; it's a sort of cross people have to bear. Shall I
say a word for you to any one in authority?"
"Oh, no; no, please don't! I didn't think I had said anything which
could make you imagine I should be inclined to accept. I don't really
know, frankly. You understand that I should have to think it over, I
should have to collect myself and consider what my duty is; to be more
myself, in fact, and less influenced by you, before I could give you an
answer."
"I shall call on your mother this week," said Mme. Bourjot, getting up
and pressing his hand. "Good-bye," she said sadly; "life _is_ a
sacrifice!"