“Is madame at home?”
“No, monsieur, madame went away about ten o’clock, in a cab, with
bundles and boxes, and with mademoiselle her daughter.”
“My daughter? She took my daughter?”
“Yes, monsieur; it looked to me as if madame were going into the
country. Didn’t monsieur know it?”
I was no longer listening to the concierge. I went upstairs and rang
violently. The maid admitted me; the poor girl began to tremble when she
saw me.
“Your mistress has gone away?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame said that she was going into the country. In
fact, when madame returned from the bath she looked very ill.”
“From the bath?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame went out very early to go to the bath.”
“Does she go often to the bath?”
“Why, yes, monsieur, quite often lately.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“Madame--told me not to.”
“Oho! Well?”
“At first, madame shut herself up in her bedroom for a long time; then
she called me and told me to pack up, and to make haste; then she told
me to go and call a cab; she had the bundles taken down, and then she
went away with her daughter, saying: ‘Give this letter to monsieur.’”
“A letter! where is it?”
“I put it on your desk, monsieur.”
I rushed to my study. There was the letter. What could she have to write
to me? I broke the seal and looked for the marks of tears upon it, but
there were none. She had left me, left me forever, without even
shedding a tear! My heart sickened. Ah! if heaven were just, I thought,
the day would come when I should make her shed as bitter tears as I had
shed. I read the letter.
“Monsieur, I have deceived you. I might perhaps deny it still, but
I prefer to be more honest than you were with me. I am guilty, I
know it; but except for your example, I never should have been.
And, although in the eyes of the law, I am a greater culprit than
you, I do not consider myself so. I realize that we can no longer
live together. Indeed, I think that it will be a blessing to us
both to part. I shall keep my daughter, and you your son. My
fortune will suffice for me, and I shall never need to have
recourse to yours. Adieu, monsieur, pray believe that I sincerely
wish you happiness.
“EUGÉNIE.”
What a letter! not a word of regret, not a syllable of repentance! Well,
so much the better; that gave me courage. But my daughter, my Henriette;
so I must live without seeing and embracing her every day! What
inhumanity! Eugénie knew how dearly I loved my daughter, and she had
taken her away. It was not from maternal affection; no, she did not know
what it was to love her children. So that it was simply to make me more
unhappy. Henriette, dear child, you would no longer come and climb on my
knees every morning; I could no longer pass my hand through your fair
hair and hold your head against my breast; and, ceasing to see me,
perhaps you will cease to love me.
I threw myself into a chair, and laid my head on my desk; I do not know
how long I stayed in that position.
I heard the maid; the poor girl was standing behind my chair and had
been talking to me for a long time, for all that I knew.
“What do you want?”
“Will not monsieur dine? It is after six o’clock; that is why I
ventured--I was afraid that monsieur was ill.”
“No, thanks, I will not dine. But what did my daughter say when she went
away? What did she do, poor child?”
“Oh! she wanted to carry her doll, monsieur, but her mother would not
let her; she told her that she would buy her another one.”
“Is that all?”
“Then Mamzelle Henriette said: ‘Why don’t we wait for papa before we go
to ride?’”
“Dear child, she thought of me!”
Those words did me good. I came to my senses. Eugénie had not said where
she was going, but I could learn through her banker. I simply must know,
and then we would see if she would refuse to give me back my daughter. I
cast my weakness behind me and thought only of avenging myself on Dulac.
I knew where he would be that evening. I was to take madame there. But
suppose that she had written to him, suppose she had informed him of
what had taken place? But no, her first thought had been to fly.
I asked the maid if madame had written any other letters; she did not
know. Ah! if Dulac should escape me that evening! It was nearly seven
o’clock, so I dressed to go out. To go into society! to pretend to be
calm, to smile, when my heart was torn! But it would not be for long, I
hoped.
I put a large sum of money in my pocket. It was still too early to go to
an evening party, so I walked about my apartment. “Accursed apartment,”
I said to myself, “where I began by being unhappy, you will not see me
much longer!”
At last the clock struck eight; I left the house. The reception was at
the house of the lady where the magic lantern had been exhibited. It was
there that I had first had any enlightenment concerning my misfortune;
it was just that I should be revenged there.
Some guests had arrived; but very few, and he was not among them. People
asked me about madame; I said that she was not feeling well, and I took
my place at a card table.
Whenever the door of the salon opened, I turned with an involuntary
shudder. He did not come.
Bélan and Giraud arrived, and came to me to say good-evening; I
pretended to be very intent upon the game, in order not to have to enter
into conversation with them; but Bélan succeeded in coming close enough
to me to whisper in my ear:
“My friend, I am not; everything has been explained to my perfect
satisfaction. I will come some morning and tell you about it.”
I contented myself with shaking his hand; a little convulsively, no
doubt, for he withdrew his, saying:
“I am deeply touched by the pleasure which it gives you.”
At last he appeared! he entered the salon and looked about; I divined
whom he was looking for. He came toward me. Good! he knew nothing! He
had the assurance to inquire for my wife’s health, and why she had not
come. I restrained myself, I said a few vague words in reply, and I
walked away from him.
I waited until he took his place at the écarté table, which he did at
last. I bet against him. At the second deal, when we lost two points, I
declared that our adversary had not cut the cards; I spoke as if I
thought the cards had been stacked. The others looked at one another in
amazement, and said nothing. Monsieur Dulac became thoughtful and
distraught; he proposed to throw the hand out, but I refused.
We lost. I instantly took the vacant seat. I trebled my stake, so that
the bettors should not bet on me; then I held my cards so that nobody
could see them. I discarded my aces in order to lose. I demanded my
revenge, and although it is customary to leave the table when one loses,
I did not rise, and I doubled my stake again, indulging in more epigrams
on my adversary’s good luck.
Monsieur Dulac showed great patience; he seemed ill at ease, but he said
nothing. I lost again; I assumed the air of a determined gambler and
increased my stake again. Again I lost; thereupon I rose and threw my
cards in my adversary’s face.
It was impossible to take that peacefully. Dulac rose in his turn and
asked me if I had intended to insult him. I laughed in his face and made
no reply. Others tried to adjust the affair by representing to him that
I was a bad loser and that my losses had irritated me. I saw plainly
that everybody thought me in the wrong. Dulac said nothing, nor did I. I
had done enough in public amply to explain a subsequent duel.
After a few moments I walked up to Dulac and said to him in an
undertone:
“I shall await you to-morrow, at seven o’clock, with a friend, at the
entrance to the forest of Vincennes; do not fail to be there, and be
sure that this affair cannot be adjusted.”
He bowed in assent; I walked about the salon once or twice, then
disappeared.
I required a second; my choice was already made; our real friends are
never so numerous as to cause us embarrassment.
I went to see Ernest at his new home. They had gone out, they were at
the theatre with their children. But they kept a servant now. I decided
to wait for them, for I felt that I must see Ernest that evening.
The certainty of vengeance near at hand, or of an end of my troubles,
calmed my passions a little. I reflected on my situation. I was going to
fight. If I killed my opponent, that would not give me back my
happiness. If he killed me, my children would be delivered over to the
tender mercies of a mother who did not love them; so that even that duel
could not have a satisfactory result. Was it really necessary? Yes,
because I abhorred Dulac now. And yet he had only played the part of a
young man, he had done only what I myself had done when I had been a
bachelor. My wife was much the guiltier, and her I could not punish.
I had nothing to write, in case I should be killed; for my children
would inherit all my property. I prayed that they might always remain in
ignorance of their mother’s sin.
How much misery may result from an instant’s weakness! If a woman could
ever calculate it, would she be guilty? But did I myself calculate it
before my marriage? No; we must have passions and torments and
excitement. A pure and tranquil happiness would bore us, and yet there
are some people who know that happiness; there are privileged beings;
and there are some too who have no passions, who love as they eat, or
drink, or sleep. Having no knowledge of veritable love, they do not
suffer its torments; perhaps they are the happier for it.
After five years and a few months of married life, and a love marriage,
too! She seemed to love me so dearly! was it not real love at that time?
If not, what constrained her to tell me so and to marry me? Her mother
did only as she wished. The woman who is forced to give her hand to a
man whom she does not love is much less guilty when she betrays her
faith. But to manifest so much love for me, and--But no, I must forget
all that.
Ernest and his wife returned from the play, and were told that a
gentleman was waiting for them in their salon. They came in and
exclaimed in surprise when they saw me:
“Why, it is Blémont!”
“It is Monsieur Henri! How long it is since we have seen you! how do you
happen to come so late?”
“I wanted to see you; I have a favor to ask of Ernest.”
They both looked at me and both came toward me simultaneously.
“What’s the matter, pray? What has happened to you?”
“How pale he is, and how distressed!”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Oh! yes, my friend, something is wrong; is your wife sick? or your
children?”
“I no longer have a wife, I have no children with me; I am alone now.”
“What do you say?” cried Marguerite; “your wife?”
“She has deceived me, betrayed me; she is no longer with me.”
They did not say a word; they seemed thunderstruck. I rose and continued
in a firmer voice:
“Yes, she has deceived me, that same Eugénie, whom I loved so dearly;
you know how dearly, you who were the confidants of my love. It was only
this morning that I obtained proofs of her perfidy. I am not used to
suffering as yet; I shall get used to it perhaps; but I swear, I will do
my utmost to forget a woman who is not worthy of me. I have been
unfortunate in love; I shall at least find some relief in friendship.”
Ernest and Marguerite threw themselves into my arms; Marguerite wept and
Ernest pressed my hand affectionately. At last I released myself from
their embrace.
“It is late, my friends; forgive me for coming thus to disturb your
happiness. Good-night, my little neighbor.--Ernest, a word with you,
please.”
He followed me to a window.
“I am to fight to-morrow; you can guess with whom and for what reason. I
need not tell you that there is no possible adjustment, although we are
supposed to be fighting because of a dispute at cards. Will you be my
second?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I shall expect you to-morrow morning, promptly at seven o’clock.”
“I will be on time.”
Marguerite had gone into another room. She returned at that moment and
said:
“Don’t you wish to kiss our children before you go?”
At that suggestion, tears came to my eyes; for I reflected that I could
not kiss my daughter before going to bed that night.
Marguerite evidently divined my thought.
“Oh! pray forgive me,” she said; “I have pained you. Oh dear! I didn’t
mean to.”