The next day arrived and I hesitated about calling upon the two ladies.
Would it not be showing too much eagerness? No, it would be no more than
polite; since they chose to have confidence in my talent, I ought not to
keep them waiting.
I waited until the clock struck two; then I went to Madame Dumeillan’s.
The condition of affairs there was not the same as at Giraud’s. The maid
had finished sweeping the rooms. The one who admitted me ushered me into
a room decorated without display, but with taste; there was a good fire
and I found the young lady of the house practising upon the piano.
Mademoiselle Eugénie left her music to inform her mother of my arrival;
I dared not tell her that it was on her account alone that I had come;
that would have been going too fast. What a pity it is that one cannot
go straight to one’s goal. How much time we waste!
The mother appeared. After the first salutations she explained her
business to me and showed me her papers. Eugénie left the salon while
her mother was talking to me; and it was well that she did, for I was
listening distractedly, and I think that I answered incoherently. After
she had gone I was all attention. The mother’s business concerned a
small farm which had descended to her husband, and her possession of
which was disputed by his brother-in-law. Her right seemed to me
incontestable; but I could not read all the papers at once. She thought
it quite natural for me to take them away in order to study them at
home.
Eugénie returned and we talked of less serious things. The mother was
very agreeable; Eugénie was bright and well informed, and although I had
not yet become intimate with them, I was already on very good terms with
them. After an hour’s visit, I took my leave; I did not need to ask
permission to call again, for I had a foothold in the house.
I did not go to Madame Dumeillan’s again for two days. I am a peculiar
man; I was determined to conceal my sentiments, and I should have been
distressed to have Mademoiselle Eugénie suspect the impression that she
had produced upon me. At last I made my second call. I had made a
thorough study of the case in which the widow was threatened with a
suit. I was persuaded that she was in the right; I so assured her and I
offered my services to look after the matter, which I considered as
already won. Madame Dumeillan was overjoyed; she thanked me and accepted
my offer. I was no longer a stranger in the house; they seemed to look
upon me as a friend.
The mother and daughter received much company; but they had one special
reception day during the week. On that day there were cards and music
and sometimes dancing. Their guests were more select than those one met
at Giraud’s; they were an entirely different set. And yet there were
some whom I should have been glad not to see there; they were the young
men, very attractive young men, who were attentive and devoted to
Eugénie. How absurd I was! I had no objection to young women coming
there, but as to men, I would have liked to have none but bewigged
heads. Those I found extremely agreeable.
For my own part, I think that I was not often agreeable. No one ever is
when he is really in love. I liked to see the ladies in private; then I
was much happier. If Eugénie played, there was no young man leaning over
the piano, ready to turn the leaves for her. If I talked with her, we
were not interrupted by some dandy coming to pay her a compliment; and
yet I realized that they could not receive me and no one else.
I did not neglect the business that was entrusted to me; the prospect of
winning the suit was doubly agreeable to me: I should oblige the ladies
and I should give them a favorable opinion of my ability. It did not
require much eloquence to succeed; madame triumphed over an adversary
who had sued her because he had a mania for litigation. Only two months
from the time of my first call, I had the pleasure of bringing the
affair to a successful termination.
Although the property at stake was of no great value, Madame Dumeillan
thanked me effusively; mothers think a great deal of money. Eugénie
thanked me courteously, but that was all. As a general rule our
relations were rather cool. Why did she not treat me as she did other
men? Had she noticed that I was annoyed when men paid court to her, that
I moved away when others approached? Did she not like my disposition? In
truth she must have found me far from amiable. I was much less so than
any of the other men who visited her mother. I never made any flattering
remarks to her, I made no pretence of being devoted or gallant to her.
Was that the way for me to succeed in making myself agreeable to her?
Yes, I preferred that she should love me as I was! I wanted her to prove
to me that she had read my heart, and I did my utmost to conceal from
her what was taking place in it! Love sometimes makes us very eccentric.
Sometimes I promised myself to change my manner toward Eugénie; I tried
to do as the other young men did who came to her house: to be agreeable
and gallant, to laugh and joke when others were about her; but I did not
play my part well, my gayety was forced; Eugénie seemed to notice it,
and that made me still more awkward.
The young men who were received at Madame Dumeillan’s were all men of
breeding; there was nothing in their attentions to Mademoiselle Eugénie
which could offend the greatest stickler for propriety. Why then should
I take offense? Because I could not be agreeable to her, was it any
reason that others should not be? I realized that I was wrong; but I was
determined to study and become thoroughly acquainted with Eugénie’s
character. I thought her a little inclined to flirt. In a girl of her
age, and so pretty, that is very excusable; and besides, are not all
women flirts? Yes, all, a little more or a little less; but it is a
failing inherent in their nature. But is it a failing? Innocent coquetry
is nothing more than a desire to please; that desire leads them to take
more care with their dress, with the arrangement of their hair, with
their whole personal appearance. What should we say of a woman who
neglected all such things? We should blame her, or we should think that
she had no taste. Why then should we call that a failing which is done
to charm and fascinate us? By their education, by the place they fill in
society, women are debarred from occupations in which they would be more
successful perhaps than we are; from important negotiations, which they
would untangle more quickly than many diplomatists; and from political
discussions, in which so many men do not know what they are saying. We
have left to women the simple and less arduous occupations of the
household; but those occupations, even if they suffice to employ the
time, can not furnish sufficient occupation for the mind and the
imagination, to prevent them from seeking other employment. Some men
think that a needle, an embroidery frame, or a piano ought to be enough
to keep a woman busy. I do not think, like Cato, that wisdom and common
sense are incompatible with the female mind; I believe that their
intellects, their imaginations require other resources than a needle and
a piano. They are forced to become coquettes because the desire to
please is an employment which occupies the mind and gives it food for
dreams; they would be much less coquettish if they were employed upon
the same tasks that we are. And then there are so many degrees in
coquetry! The sort of which I speak is perfectly natural, and perfectly
legitimate for women. Eugénie had no other. She was fond of amusement,
that was natural; and yet she never showed any disappointment when her
mother declined an invitation to a ball. I was sure that she had an
affectionate heart; her eyes sometimes had such a tender expression, and
I had seen her shed tears at the performance of a sad play. But that was
not sufficient proof that she would ever love passionately.
I was inclined to believe that she took no interest at all in me; she
was most cold and reserved with me. She noticed doubtless that I
followed her with my eyes, that I constantly watched her. I did not see
the sense of going to a house to be dismal when others are merry, and
perhaps to make oneself ridiculous. That thought made me blush for my
weakness; self-esteem has so much influence on our hearts! I determined
to think no more of Eugénie, and in order to forget her more quickly I
determined not to call at her mother’s for a fortnight.
It was very hard for me to adhere to that resolution, for I had never
passed more than two days without seeing her! However, a week passed,
and I had kept my word; on the ninth day I reflected that Madame
Dumeillan, who always was very friendly to me and always seemed to be
very glad to see me, would think it strange that I had allowed so long a
time to pass without calling. After all, if her daughter was cool to me,
it was not that excellent lady’s fault, and it should not make me
discourteous to her. On the tenth day I decided to call there in the
evening.
I did not select a reception day; however, I found some old
acquaintances of Madame Dumeillan there who had come to play boston; two
ladies and an old gentleman were playing with the mother, and Eugénie
was alone, in a corner of the salon, embroidering.
Madame Dumeillan inquired with interest for my health; she had been
afraid that I was ill and was intending to send to my apartment the next
day. I thanked her, and apologized on the plea of a press of business;
then I left the mother to her game and took a seat beside Eugénie.
She bowed coldly to me; she did not raise her eyes and addressed to me
only the most trivial remarks; she was not even so polite as to reproach
me for having allowed a long time to pass without calling. It seemed to
me then that that young woman was as odious to me as she had been
fascinating; if I had dared, I would have taken my hat and left the room
instantly; but that would have been discourteous.
Ah! if we had loved each other, how much we should have found to say at
that moment, when we were practically alone in the salon, for no one
paid any heed to us! But we must needs confine ourselves to exchanging a
few meaningless words! Sometimes we were several minutes without
speaking; she would not raise her eyes from her work. Ah! how I should
have delighted to destroy that embroidery, which seemed to engross her
so completely!
A half hour passed in this way. She continued to work with the same
assiduity, and I was still beside her, saying little and sighing
involuntarily. Suddenly the door of the salon opened; it was Monsieur
Gerval, one of Eugénie’s most persistent suitors, who often played and
sang with her in the evening. This Gerval was a good-looking fellow and
very agreeable; so that he was one of those whom I detested most
heartily. I am sure that I changed color when he came in; I instantly
felt an enormous weight settle down upon my chest. While Monsieur Gerval
went to pay his respects to Madame Dumeillan, I walked quickly to the
corner of the room where I had placed my hat; for I did not propose to
stay a minute longer; I wished that I were a hundred leagues away; I was
angry with myself for having come. I already had my hat in my hand and
was on the point of leaving the room without a word to anyone, when a
hand clasped mine, pressed it gently, and detained me; at the same
moment Eugénie, for it was she, said to me in a tone which I had never
before heard from her lips:
“Why are you going away? To pass a fortnight without coming and then go
away like this! Really, I can’t understand you. What have we done to you
here, that you should stop coming?”
I stood like a statue. That soft voice, in which there was reproach and
affection at the same time, that hand which still held mine, and those
eyes which looked into mine with a fascinating expression--all those
things startled me, but also caused me a thrill of happiness hitherto
unknown to me. One must have loved truly to understand all that I felt
at that moment. I squeezed her hand frantically, and it returned the
pressure; then she gently withdrew it, still looking at me. All this was
the affair of a moment, but that moment decided the rest of my life.
Eugénie loved me; she had read my heart, and I felt that I could not
live without her, that Eugénie henceforth would be all in all to me.
I thought no more about going away. Eugénie returned to her seat and
Gerval came to speak to her; but I was not jealous any more, Gerval had
ceased to be offensive to me; it had required only an instant to change
the whole current of my thoughts. I returned to Eugénie’s side. While
talking with Gerval, she succeeded in looking only at me. The young man
suggested to her that they should sing together. She looked at me again,
and seemed to ask me if that would be agreeable to me. I added my
entreaties to Gerval’s. She consented to go to the piano, but on her way
there she passed close to me and our hands met. When she sang with
Gerval a duet in which two lovers sing to each other of love, her eyes
addressed to me the words that she sang. Ah! when two hearts understand
each other, there are a thousand ways of proving it.
After that duet, Gerval proposed another; she declined on the ground of
a sore throat, and returned to her seat by my side. Gerval remained for
some time; it seemed to me that he was less merry, less sparkling that
evening than usual. At last he said good-night and left.
I drew nearer to Eugénie; she still held her work, but she was not
working; our eyes met often; we talked in undertones; I had so many
things to say to her now, and yet we exchanged only a few words; but
our glances were more eloquent than our speech.
How rapidly the time passed! I was so happy with her! The card players
finished their game, and Madame Dumeillan called to her daughter to give
her her purse. The others were going away, and I must needs do the same.
“I hope that it will not be so long before you come again,” said Madame
Dumeillan kindly. And Eugénie, as she passed me, whispered:
“You will come to-morrow, won’t you?”
My eyes alone answered, but she must have understood them; I saw a
loving smile upon her lips. I went away, drunk with love and pleasure. I
returned home hardly touching the ground. It seemed to me that my
happiness bore me aloft and transported me to the third heaven,--that is
to say, if there is a third heaven.
As I went upstairs, I thought of my young lovers on the fifth floor. I
had neglected them sadly for some time! But I had been constantly
depressed and jealous and in ill humor, and the picture of their love
would simply have aggravated my suffering. Now I could safely go to see
them. I should not be sad and gloomy with them, and they would
understand my happiness.
It was only a quarter-past eleven, and I decided to see whether they had
gone to bed. I went upstairs, knocked and mentioned my name; Ernest
opened the door.
“Where on earth have you been?” he said, laughing; “it’s a month since
we’ve seen you.”
“He has just come from his Eugénie,” said little Marguerite. “Oh! how
happy we look! It seems that our love-affair is progressing finely!”
“Yes, very well indeed. Ah! I am the happiest of men to-night! She loves
me, I am sure of it now; she prefers me to all the men who have made
love to her; and yet I was much less attentive, much less agreeable than
the others.”
“What difference does that make? One is always agreeable when one is in
love.”
I told them all that had taken place that evening between Eugénie and
me. They listened with interest, they understood me, for they loved each
other dearly. When I had finished my story, I sprang up and danced about
the room; I could not keep still.
“Look out!” said Marguerite; “you’ll smash everything. Why, don’t you
see how fine it is here now, monsieur?”
I had not so much as looked about the room. In fact, there was some
change: the wretched bed was replaced by a low bedstead of painted wood,
but very neat and clean. There were curtains and a canopy above the bed.
The chairs, which I remembered as almost all broken, had been replaced
by six new ones; and a black walnut commode had replaced the little
sideboard. Lastly, there was almost a good fire on the hearth.
“Do you see how fine it is?” said Marguerite; “my Ernest gave me all
this. His play has succeeded. Oh, it is very pleasing indeed, his play
is! When the author was called for and his name was given, I was so
happy that I longed to shout: ‘It was my little man who did that!’--He
has a great mind, has my little man!”
“Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite?”
“No, monsieur, I propose to talk. We are not so poor now as we were.
See, look at my mantel, see those two cups and the porcelain sugar bowl!
That box is to put the money in for the week’s expenses. When there’s
anything over, I put it in a Christmas box. Oh! we are very happy now!”
Poor child! how little she needed to esteem herself rich! So many people
would have considered that chamber a wretched place still. I
congratulated her and admired everything that she showed me. I
complimented Ernest on the success of his play. I shared their happiness
most sincerely; it made me happier to see how happy they were. I
remained with them for more than an hour, talking of Eugénie and of our
love. They told me of their little plans for the future, of the hopes in
which they indulged,--very modest hopes, which proved that, being
engrossed by their love, they knew neither ambition nor vanity.
I had not begun to think of retiring, and I believe that we should have
passed the whole night talking thus; but suddenly we heard a loud noise
on the roof, and broken glass falling on the leads and into the yard. I
was startled at first; but I soon recovered myself and began to laugh as
I glanced at Ernest and Marguerite, who did the same. It was Monsieur
Pettermann breaking into his room.