It was she who was the cause of my being in that bed. It was impossible
that she should not have recognized me, for her horse passed close to
me; and she did not return! Had she heard the commotion caused by my
accident? That I did not know. While I shunned society as if I were
guilty, Eugénie was indulging in all forms of pleasure. She, who used to
mount a horse only in fear and trepidation, and to ride very quietly,
now rode through the Bois de Boulogne at a fast gallop and displayed the
rash courage of an experienced horseman! It still seemed to me that I
was dreaming, that I was delirious. Since the Eugénie of the old days no
longer existed, it seemed to me I must forget the new one, I must think
no more of the woman who had wrecked my life.
I believed that, if I could embrace my little Henriette, I should be
entirely cured at once. I determined to go to see her before leaving
Paris, and to take her in my arms without her mother’s knowledge; and
even if her mother should know it, had I not the right to kiss my
daughter? I would be patient until then.
The doctor came again to see me. He was a man whom I did not know; he
seemed abrupt and cold; he talked little, but he neither made a show of
his knowledge nor used long words to his patients. I like doctors of
that sort.
After a few days I was much better, and I began to recover my strength.
Pettermann was still in my room; he had told me to dismiss him as soon
as he annoyed me, and I had kept him. I had become accustomed to his
services and attentions. I could not doubt his attachment, for he had
given me proofs of it. One especially convincing proof was that he had
not drunk too much a single time since he had constituted himself my
nurse. It was not selfish interest that guided him, for by refusing my
purse when I went up to his room he had proved that he did not care for
money. I had noticed also that he was neither prying nor talkative.
I indulged in all these reflections one evening as I lay upon a couch.
Pettermann was seated by the window; he said nothing, for he never tried
to converse when I did not speak to him. Sometimes we passed several
hours in succession without a word; that was another quality which I
liked in him.
“Pettermann.”
“Monsieur.”
“Are you very much attached to your tailor’s trade?”
“Faith, monsieur, I have had so little work lately that I shall end by
forgetting my trade. And then, I may as well admit that I have never
been able to distinguish myself at it, and I am sick of it!”
“As soon as I have fully recovered my strength, I propose to leave Paris
and travel, for a very long time perhaps. If I should suggest to you to
go with me, to remain with me, not as a servant, but as a confidential
friend and trusted companion, how would that suit you?”
“Suit me! prout! that would suit me completely, monsieur. I will be your
groom, your valet, whatever you choose; for I am sure that you will
never treat me in a way to humiliate me.”
“Of course not. But, Pettermann, you have one failing----”
“I know what you mean; I get drunk. That is true; but it never happened
to me except when I had nothing to do. You will keep me busy, and that
will correct my habit of drinking. However, I don’t mean to swear to
give up wine entirely, for I should break my oath. If you take me with
you, you must allow me to get drunk once a month. I ask only that.”
“Once a month, all right; but no more!”
“No, monsieur.”
“It’s a bargain! You will stay with me. You have nothing to keep you in
Paris?”
“Bless my soul, no, monsieur; I have nothing but my wife.”
“We start in a few days; but I warn you that I intend to travel like an
artist, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a carriage; to defy the rain and
the sun when that is my pleasure.”
“Monsieur is joking. I am not a dainty woman; I will do whatever you
do.”
“One word more: do you know my name?”
“I have heard the concierge mention it once; I don’t remember it,
but----”
“Don’t try to remember it. I mean to assume another under which I intend
to travel. I shall call myself after this, Dalbreuse, and I do not wish
to be called anything else.”
“That is enough, monsieur; you understand that I will call you whatever
you please. So I have a profession at last. I have no further need to
try to get waistcoats and breeches to make! The deuce take sewing! And
then too I am very glad not to have to leave monsieur.”
Pettermann’s delight pleased me. I was very glad to have someone in my
service who had not known me during my married life.
On the day following this agreement, Ernest entered my room, ran to me
and embraced me.
“Do you know that I have been near death?” I asked him.
“I have just learned it from your concierge. Ungrateful man! not to send
us any word! Is that the way that a man should treat his friends?”
“My dear Ernest, when I was in condition to send you word, I was out of
danger; then I preferred to wait until I was entirely well, in order
that I might come and tell you myself.”
“But what was this accident that happened to you?”
I told Ernest the whole story; I did not conceal from him that I was
knocked down because I had gazed too long after Eugénie. Ernest was
indignant at my weakness, and he started to scold me.
“My friend,” I said, “you will have no further cause for such
reproaches; to prove it, I refuse from this instant to hear my wife
mentioned. You will promise never to mention her name again, will you
not?”
“Oh! I shall not be the one to break that promise!”
“Besides, I am going to leave you, for a long time perhaps. I am going
to travel.”
“Despite my grief at being separated from you, I can only approve this
plan. Change of scene will do you good. But are you going alone?”
“No, I have found a faithful companion; that man who left the room when
you came in. You did not recognize him, did you? It is that poor
journeyman tailor who lived in the attic room near your dear Marguerite,
and who used to get into his room by breaking the window.”
“Is it possible? And that man----”
“Did not leave me for one minute while my life was in danger. And yet I
was a mere stranger to him. He is to travel with me, he will go wherever
I go.”
“I am very glad to know that you will have some devoted friend with
you.”
“Here, my friend, take this memorandum book.”
“What shall I do with it?”
“It contains the portrait of the woman whom I used to call my wife. I
must not keep it any longer. Later, if you choose, you may give the book
to--to her son.”
“Her son? But, Blémont, he is your son too. Are you not going to see him
before you go away?”
“No, the sight of him is too painful to me. I have told you all that I
thought,--all my torments. I shall never see that child again.”
“My dear Blémont, are you not wrong? Is that child responsible for his
mother’s wrongdoing?”
“It is possible that I am unjust; why did she give me a right to be? I
entrust you to look after everything that concerns him, and to put him
at school when he reaches the proper age. I will give you a letter to my
notary, instructing him to supply you with money whenever you need it.
Forgive me, my friend, for all the trouble I cause you.”
“Do not speak of trouble. But consider that that child----”
“Not another word about him, I beg you. I propose to try to banish from
my memory those persons whom I am forced to banish from my heart. By the
way, you must cease to call me Blémont, too; from this moment I lay
aside that name and assume the name of Dalbreuse. So that is the name
under which you must write to me, Ernest; for I trust that you will
write to me, my friend.”
“Yes, to be sure; but I trust that you will not stay away from us a
century. There will come a time, my dear Henri, when you will be able to
live in Paris and to meet the--the person whom you avoid now, without
its producing too serious an effect upon you.”
“I hope so. Meanwhile, I shall go away; I propose to visit Switzerland,
the Alps, the Pyrenees, Italy--no, I shall not go to Italy. But I shall
stop wherever I find that I enjoy myself. I shall try to paint some
lovely views, some attractive landscapes.”
“Above all things, paint some portraits of beautiful women; they will
distract you better than anything else. But when are you going? You must
wait until you are perfectly well.”
“I flatter myself that in a week I shall not feel my wound; meantime,
you will see me often; I am to be allowed to go out to-morrow, and I
will go to your house.”
Ernest took his leave and I made arrangements for my journey. Ernest
would let my apartment all furnished during my absence, and I left him
in full charge of everything. I had but one wish, that was to be far
away from Paris; but first I absolutely must see and embrace my
daughter.
At last I was able to leave my room. I purchased two horses, for I
proposed to travel by short stages as long as it amused me. Then I went
to see my mother; I trembled lest she should have learned that I was no
longer living with my wife. She did know it, in fact; some kind friends
had not failed to inform her that I had separated from Eugénie; but she
thought that it was nothing more than a quarrel which had caused the
rupture. She proposed her mediation to reconcile us, for she also
believed that it was I who was in the wrong; and she preached me a
sermon.
I thanked my mother and told her of my approaching departure, which I
said was due to important business. She hoped that at my return
everything would be forgotten between my wife and myself; I encouraged
her in that hope and bade her adieu. I was very certain that she would
not go to see my wife, for that would disturb her habits.
I gave to Ernest and his companion all the time that remained before my
departure. They were sorry to lose me, and yet they were glad that I was
going; it was the same with myself. I urged them to send me news of my
daughter; in leaving her I was separating from a part of myself, but if
I remained I should not see her any more. I made them swear that when
they wrote to me they would never mention Madame Blémont. Finally, one
night I embraced Ernest and Marguerite and their children
affectionately; I was to start early next morning.
Pettermann had long been ready. He told me that he was an excellent
rider. We had a good horse each, and at six o’clock we left Paris. My
comrade was very glad to be on the road; he hummed a refrain from the
_Mariage de Figaro_, which he had not done since my illness.
I started in the direction of Montmorency, for Aubonne is in that
neighborhood, and I proposed to go there to see my daughter. During the
past few days I had made inquiries concerning Madame Blémont at her
house on Rue d’Antin. In Paris, by the use of money, one may learn
whatever one desires. The result of my inquiries was that Madame Blémont
was now at Paris, and that her daughter was not with her. So that
Henriette was in the country without her mother; I could not hope to
find a more favorable moment to see my daughter.
We rode through Montmorency and arrived at Aubonne. Pettermann rode
behind without once asking where we were going, and his discretion
gratified me. When we came in sight of the first houses of Aubonne, I
said to him:
“I have business here, Pettermann; I have to see someone who is very
dear to me.”
“Whatever you please, monsieur; it looks to be a pleasant place.”
“First of all, you must inquire where Madame Rennebaut lives; she is an
old lady who owns a house in this neighborhood.”
“Madame Rennebaut? All right; I will ask the first baker that I see.
Perhaps there’s only one in the village, and Madame Rennebaut must
necessarily trade with him. Wait here for me, monsieur, I will soon be
back.”
I let Pettermann go; I was then on the summit of a hill from which I
could see several country houses nearby; I had stopped my horse and my
eyes strove to look inside those houses, to find my Henriette; the hope
that I should soon see and embrace my child made my heart beat faster.
Pettermann returned.
“Monsieur, I have found out about Madame Rennebaut: she is an old widow
lady, very rich and with no children, who keeps a gardener, a cook and a
maid.”
“And her house?”
“It is at the other end of the village; if we take this road to the
pond, then turn to the left, we shall see the house in front of us. It
is a fine house with an iron fence in front of it, and a garden with a
terrace, from which there is a splendid view.”
“Let us go on, Pettermann.”
We followed the road that had been pointed out to him. As I knew that
Madame Blémont was at Paris, I had no hesitation about calling at Madame
Rennebaut’s house; I did not know what Eugénie might have told her, but
I would ask to see my daughter, and I could not believe that they would
deny me that satisfaction.
We had passed the pond and were on a sort of path with the fields on one
side, leading to the lovely valley of Montmorency.
I spied the house that had been described to us; I urged my horse, and
we were already skirting the garden wall, when I saw a woman walking on
the terrace which ran along the wall on that side, leading a little girl
by the hand.
I recognized the woman and the little girl at once; and, instantly
turning my horse about, I rode into the fields and away from the house
as rapidly as we had approached.
I did not stop until several clumps of trees concealed me from the
house. Eugénie was there; therefore my informant must have been misled,
or perhaps she had returned the night before. However that might be, she
was there and I could not go to that house; her presence debarred me;
perhaps she would think it was she whom I wished to see. I should be too
humiliated if she should have such a thought.
However, I did not wish to go away without embracing my daughter. I did
not know what to do. Pettermann had followed me closely, and was right
behind me; but he waited and said nothing. I dismounted, and he was
about to do the same.
“No,” I said, “remain in the saddle and hold my horse; we shall go away
again soon. Wait for me behind these trees.”
I left him and walked toward the house, taking a roundabout way in order
to avoid being seen by the persons on the terrace; I was certain that
they had not seen me before, for they were not looking in my direction.
At last I reached the garden where I had seen them; a hedge concealed
me. I saw the edge of the terrace, but I could not look into the garden.
There was a walnut tree within a few feet of me; I looked about to see
if anyone was observing me, and in a few seconds I was in the tree. From
there I could look into the garden easily and had no fear of being seen.
There they were; they were coming in my direction from a path where they
had been out of my sight. Henriette ran about playing. Her mother walked
slowly, her eyes often on the ground, or gazing listlessly about. Ah!
how much lovelier than ever my daughter appeared to me! How happy I was
when she turned her head in my direction!
They drew near. The mother sat down on a bench near the corner of the
wall. She had a book, but she placed it by her side and did not read.
Why did she not read? Of what was she thinking? She did not talk with
her daughter; her brow was careworn and her eyes were heavy. Was she
already weary of dissipation?
Henriette ran to her and offered her some flowers which she had just
plucked. She took her daughter between her knees, gazed at her, and
suddenly kissed her several times in a sort of frenzy, then released her
and relapsed into a reverie.
Never had she embraced her daughter like that in my presence; was it
that she was afraid of pleasing me by allowing me to witness the
caresses which she bestowed upon our child?
Nearly an hour passed. She was still there, sitting on the bench, not
reading, from time to time glancing at her daughter, who was playing on
the terrace. And I gave no thought to the passing of time, to poor
Pettermann who was waiting for me; I could not turn my eyes away from
that garden.
Suddenly, as she ran toward her mother, Henriette made a false step and
fell on her face. I uttered a cry simultaneously with Eugénie. She ran
to the child, lifted her up and kissed her; the little one cried a
little, but soon became calm and smiled, and I heard her say:
“It isn’t anything, mamma.”
Thereupon Eugénie looked about in every direction. Still holding her
daughter in her arms, she walked to the edge of the terrace and looked
out upon the road. I heard her say to her daughter:
“It wasn’t you who cried when you fell, was it?”
“No, mamma.”
“Who was it then?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“Is your nurse in the garden?”
“I don’t know.”
“But no; it wasn’t the nurse who cried out in that way.”
Her eyes were still searching; she looked in every direction, and I
dared not stir; I was afraid to move a leaf; but in a moment she said:
“Let us go in, Henriette.”
“I’d rather stay in the garden.”
“But if you should fall again----”
“No, I won’t run any more; I will play quietly.”
She walked away, and my daughter remained behind. I wondered if I might
take advantage of that moment. But the wall was rather high; how could I
get to her? Ah! by mounting my horse, I could do it perhaps.
I climbed down from my tree, and ran back to Pettermann, who was still
in the saddle; I mounted my horse and motioned to my companion to follow
me. In a moment I was beside the garden wall again. I stood on my horse,
reached the top of the wall, jumped, and in a moment was on the
terrace, leaving Pettermann staring at me with amazement, but without
uttering a word.
I walked a few steps into the garden; I saw my daughter, I ran to her,
took her in my arms and covered her with kisses before she had time to
recognize me; at last she was able to look at me and she cried joyfully:
“It is papa! my little papa! you have come back, haven’t you? I keep
asking mamma every day if you are coming back.”
“Hush, hush, my child; come this way, on the terrace; I don’t want to be
seen from the house.”
“Wait; I will go and call mamma.”
“No, no; don’t go; stay with me, don’t leave me; it is so long since I
have kissed you, dear child! Do you think of me sometimes?”
“Oh! yes, papa, I longed so for you.”
“You longed to see me? And your mother, what does she say when you ask
her about me?”
“She doesn’t say anything; she just says: ‘That will do; don’t mention
your papa.’”
“She doesn’t want you to think of me, she wants you to forget me!”
“And yet she talks about you all day.”
“Your mother?”
“Let me go and tell mamma that you are here.”
“No, my dear love, I haven’t time to speak to her now. I must leave you
too, for a very long time perhaps.”
“What? are you going away again? Oh! stay with us, papa, don’t go away!”
Poor child! I should have been so glad to stay with her. I sat down on
the bench where her mother had sat just before, I took her in my lap and
threw my arms about her. For a moment I had an idea of taking her with
me, of stealing her from Eugénie; but the dear child could not travel
with me, and perhaps she would cry for her mother every day in my arms;
for a child can do without her father much better than without her who
gave birth to her. No, I must leave her with her mother; it was much
better that I should be the one to suffer and to be unhappy.
These reflections made my heart ache; I sighed as I held my little
Henriette in my arms; she gazed at me, and, seeing that I was sad, she
dared not smile. Poor child! and I had thought of taking you with me!
No, in my arms you would too often lose that lightness of heart which is
the only treasure of your age.
Suddenly I heard a voice calling:
“Henriette, Henriette, aren’t you coming?”
“Here I am, mamma,” cried the child. I sprang to my feet, placed her on
the ground, kissed her several times, and ran away.
“Why, papa, wait, here comes mamma.”
Those words gave me wings; I reached the wall, I dropped on the other
side, then I ran to Pettermann, leaped on my horse, and shouted:
“Gallop! gallop!”
We both urged our horses and were already far away from Aubonne before I
dared to turn, for fear of seeing her on the terrace.