Two years had passed since I left Paris. Accompanied by my faithful
Pettermann, I had travelled all over Spain; the memory of Gil Blas made
my sojourn there more delightful; I looked for him at the inns, and on
the public promenades; and more than once, when a beggar threw his hat
at my feet, I looked to see if he were not taking aim at me with a
carbine. The scullery maids and the mule drivers reminded me also of Don
Quixote and his facetious squire; I would have liked to meet them riding
in search of adventures. All honor to the poets who depict their heroes
so vividly that one becomes convinced that they have really existed. Gil
Blas and Don Quixote are only imaginary characters, and yet we sometimes
fancy that we recognize them; we look for them in the country where the
author has placed them. They must be very lifelike therefore, those
pages of the novelist, since we attribute life to them, and they become
engraved in our memories. For my own part, I know that it would be
impossible for me to visit the mountains of Scotland without recalling
Rob Roy; to visit Mauritius, without talking of Paul and Virginia; and
to visit Italy without thinking of Corinne.
I crossed the Pyrenees, but the idea of seeing Switzerland occurred to
me, and we left France again. My depression had vanished, I was no
longer morose and taciturn as when I left home; Pettermann too had
resumed his habit of singing. We had travelled on horseback for some
time; then I sold our steeds and we went through a large part of
Andalusia on foot; after that, public conveyances or hired post-chaises
carried us to other places. It was by diversifying thus our random
journeyings, that I triumphed over the trouble that was consuming me;
and it was not an easy matter. In truth, there was still a tinge of
bitterness in my smile, and I concluded that that was something of which
I could never rid myself.
In the different countries I had visited, I had seen many husbands who
were in my position and who worried little about it. Some, jealous
through self-esteem, were themselves unfaithful and tyrannized over
their wives; others, pretending to be philosophical, treated very badly
in private the wives whom in society they seemed to leave entirely at
liberty. Many of them closed their eyes, and the great majority believed
themselves too shrewd to be betrayed. But I had seen very few who really
loved their wives, and who deserved by their attentions and their
conduct that those ladies should be true to them.
I had had some love-affairs, but I had not lost my heart. I believed it
to be no longer susceptible to love; it had been too cruelly lacerated.
My heart was like an invalid with whom I was travelling; it was still
weak, and it dreaded violent emotions.
Pettermann gave little thought to the other sex, and I was very glad of
it for his sake; but he did not forget the promise I had given him, and
he got completely drunk once every month. The rest of the time he drank
moderately. I had had no reason to complain of him since he had entered
my service. His disposition was equable and cheerful; he sang when he
saw that I was in good humor, he held his peace when I was pensive. But
never a question, never an inquisitive word; he did not once mention
Aubonne, where he had seen me scale the wall. I had every reason to
think that he believed me a bachelor.
During the first year of my absence, I received letters from Ernest
quite frequently, and I wrote to him whenever I sojourned for any length
of time in one place. Faithful to the promise he had given me, he had
abstained from mentioning her whom I hoped to forget entirely. He wrote
me about my daughter and little Eugène; he said that my Henriette was as
fascinating as ever; he had seen her several times. Did that mean that
he had been to her mother’s house? That was something that I did not
know. Ah! how I longed to see my daughter again, and to embrace her! It
was for her that I had determined to return to Paris; I would hold her
in my arms just once, and then I would set out on my travels again; I
should have laid in a store of happiness which would last for some time.
As for my--as for little Eugène, I could not think of that child without
reviving all my suffering. I should have taken such pleasure in loving
my son, in dividing my affection between him and his sister! and that
happiness I was destined never to enjoy! Poor Eugène! what a melancholy
future for him!
The last letters which I had received from Ernest had seemed to me
different from the first ones; the style was no longer the same, and I
detected embarrassment and reticence in them. In the last of all, I had
noticed this sentence:
“There has been a great change here of late, my friend; you would not
recognize the person from whom you fled. I dare not say more for fear of
breaking my promise and being scolded. But come back soon, my dear
Henri; your children long to see you and your friends to embrace you.”
My children--he persisted in saying my children. But I had only one. As
for the change that he mentioned, what did it matter to me? Did he want
to arouse my interest in that woman? No, I could not believe that. I did
not mention the subject in my reply.
I was anxious, before returning to Paris, to see Auvergne, that
mountainous and picturesque province, the Scotland of France, which
those Frenchmen who rave over cliffs and glaciers and precipices would
visit oftener if it were not so near them. We admire only what is at a
distance; our only ambition is to see Scotland and Italy, and we do not
give a thought to Auvergne, Bretagne, and Touraine.
I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and
the Puy-de-Dôme. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I
would turn to Pettermann and say:
“What do you think of this?”
But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his
face; he would shake his head and reply coldly:
“It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn’t come up to the views in
Munich.”
Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own
country.
As we passed near Mont-d’Or, I determined to go there to taste the
waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and
sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know
what to do with their time.
I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of
guests there; many foreigners, especially Englishmen, but many
Frenchmen too, notably those _chevaliers d’industrie_, men with refined
manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go
to Mont-d’Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those
watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome
carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a
result of yielding to the passion for play.
I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties.
Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano
made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pass
my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every
day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be
about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of
the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness
and amiability which seemed to say: “I am a flirt but I can’t help it;
you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never
change.”
Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or
a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest a
_demoiselle_; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and
already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still
unmarried,--it was probable that it was her own choice.
She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin
man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes
gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and
attentive to the fair sex; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may
well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover,
he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.
Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she
had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of a _petite-maîtresse_.
One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most
friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue
and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had
determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were
her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to
make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was
enough.
Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent,
or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his
favorite companion.
“Monsieur Dalbreuse,” he said to me on the day after my arrival at
Mont-d’Or, “just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the
waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece
that she would like to see Mont-d’Or, and crac! we had to start. I
remember being at Plombières thirty-five years ago, with the famous
Lekain. Did you know Lekain?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain’s presence the
part of Crispin, in _Les Folies Amoureuses_.”
“Ah! you have acted, have you?”
“Because I enjoyed it,--with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had
a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to
play the upper servants.”
“And your niece?”
“My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was
saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a
contractor’s country house. We had a pretty little theatre, on my word,
and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know
Mademoiselle Contat?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Ah! you haven’t seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and
such a face! One day--I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that
it was _Tartufe_. No, it wasn’t _Tartufe_.”
Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in
no wise regretted. She took her uncle’s arm and said:
“This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you
can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur
Dalbreuse?”
She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that
I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which
resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me
then whether I was mistaken or not.
I went to drive with Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. A pretty
calèche was awaiting them at the door. I noticed that the male visitors,
as they bowed to Caroline, gazed at me with an envious eye as I took my
seat opposite her in the carriage. I could understand that a charming
woman of twenty-five, who had her own carriage, was likely to make
numerous conquests everywhere. Some were in love with the woman, and
others with the carriage. But I, who coveted neither, took my seat with
the utmost tranquillity opposite Mademoiselle Derbin, and enjoyed the
drive at leisure, because I was not occupied in making eyes at my
vis-à-vis.
At times, Mademoiselle Derbin raved over the landscape; then, all of a
sudden, she would begin to laugh at the costume of a water-drinker who
passed us. While laughing at her remarks, I pretended to be listening
attentively to her uncle, who described the effect he had produced
playing Mascarille before Molé.
The drive seemed short to me. We returned to the hotel, and in the
evening we met again in the salon. I amused myself watching Mademoiselle
Derbin. In company she was more coquettish and therefore less agreeable
than in private. As I was not paying court to her, I discreetly walked
away when I saw a number of adorers coming her way. So that, as a result
of that eccentricity which is not uncommon in women, Mademoiselle Derbin
seemed to seek my company, and often came to my side.
“You do not dance?” she asked me toward the end of the evening.
“No, I no longer care for dancing.”
“And you do not play cards?”
“They play for very high stakes here. I have an income which is
sufficient for my needs; I do not care to endanger it with men who would
consider it the most natural thing in the world to rob me of it.”
“You are a wise man!”
“Oh, no!”
“And you have no love-affairs here?”
“Do you think then that one must absolutely have love-affairs when one
goes to a watering-place?”
“I don’t say that, but I think you are a most original person.”
“Original? no, I assure you that there are many men like me.”
She left me, after glancing at me with a singular expression. Did she
desire to number me among her numerous conquests? It was possible; what
she had just said to me might give me a poor idea of her virtue. An
unmarried woman who considers it strange that a man has no
love-affairs! And yet, I preferred to think that that was simply due to
her original character.
I had been a fortnight at Mont-d’Or, and I had intended to pass only one
week there. But I was enjoying myself; the company was agreeable;
however, if Caroline and her uncle had not been there, I should have
gone away; I was becoming accustomed to their society. There was nothing
to do there but converse, so that we were together almost all day. I was
not making love to Caroline, but she was very pretty; her black eyes
alternated in expression between gentleness and mischief. Although one
be not in love, there is always a charm attached to the presence of a
pretty woman; it was probably that charm which detained me.
There was not a ball or a concert in the assembly room every day; when
there was none, we remained at the hotel, and those guests who were
congenial met in the salon in the evening. Some played cards, but the
greater number conversed. There were some titled persons, and they were
not the most agreeable; but we left them to bore one another in their
corner, and we chatted with the clever artist, who always had a store of
amusing anecdotes in reserve, or with the lady’s man, who told us of his
latest adventures. In that circle, Monsieur Roquencourt was not among
those who talked least. If anyone mentioned a city, he had acted there;
if anyone mentioned a famous personage, he had known an actor who had
mimicked him to perfection, and he would proceed to give us a specimen.
I enjoyed listening; but I talked very little, and in what I did say, I
did not mention myself. Caroline, who, for all her frivolous and
coquettish air, observed very closely everything that took place in the
salon, said to me one day:
“Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody here tells us his or her own experiences;
you alone have kept silent thus far. Why is it?”
“Presumably, I have none to relate, mademoiselle.”
“Or that you don’t choose to relate them. However, you are your own
master. For my part, I tell everything that concerns me, because
hitherto I have had nothing to keep secret. I am an orphan; my father,
who was an army contractor, left me twenty-five thousand francs a year.
I live with Monsieur Roquencourt, my mother’s brother and my guardian;
and he lets me do just as I choose, because he knows that I have been
accustomed to that from my childhood. That is my whole history, and you
know me as well now as if we had been brought up together.”
She thought perhaps that her confidence would provoke mine; but I
replied simply:
“How does it happen that, being as rich and lovely as you are, you have
never married?”
“Ah! I was certain that you would ask me that question; I am asked it so
often! Bless my soul! monsieur, is there such a terrible hurry about
being married, and placing myself under the control of a man who perhaps
would not let me do as I wished? I am so happy with my uncle and he is
so good, especially when he doesn’t talk about his Crispins and his
Lafleurs! really, I tremble at the thought of losing my liberty; and
then, I tell you frankly, I have never yet met any man who deserved that
I should sacrifice so much to him.”
“You are happy, mademoiselle; believe me, you are very wise to remain
so; do not risk the repose of your whole life by binding yourself to
someone by whom you think that you are loved, and who will betray you in
the most dastardly way! No, do not marry.”
Caroline gazed at me in amazement; she was silent for a few moments,
then she began to laugh, saying:
“You are the first person who ever talked to me like that; I was right
in thinking that you did not resemble the rest of the world.”
On the day following this conversation, after listening, and laughing
heartily the while, to the gallant remarks of a number of young men,
Mademoiselle Derbin came, as she was accustomed to do, to the window
from which I was gazing at the landscape which stretched out before us.
“Always admiring these mountains, are you not, monsieur?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I consider this region very interesting.”
“Are you a painter, monsieur?”
“No, mademoiselle; I paint a little, however, but simply as an amateur.”
“Ah! you paint? in what line?”
“Miniatures.”
“Do you paint portraits?”
“I have tried it occasionally.”
“Oh! it would be awfully good of you to paint mine. We have a great deal
of time to ourselves here. I will give you sittings as often as you
choose. I have been painted many times, but I have never thought the
likeness good. Will you do it, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”
How can you refuse a lovely woman when she addresses a request to you,
with her charming eyes fixed upon yours? Indeed, I had no reason for
refusing what she asked.
“I will paint your portrait, mademoiselle, but I do not flatter myself
that I shall be more fortunate than those who have done it before.”
“Oh! perhaps you will; at all events, what does it matter? It will amuse
us, and occupy the time. When shall we begin?”
“Whenever you choose.”
“Right away then; we will have a sitting in my uncle’s room; but I must
have my hair dressed first, I suppose?”
“No, I prefer to paint you as you are, and not in a ball dress; do not
make any preparations at all.”
“As you choose.”
“I will go for my box of colors.”
“And I will go to tell my uncle. Oh! it is awfully good of you.”
On going to my room, I found Pettermann humming a tune as he brushed my
clothes, which he was always careful to look over to see if there were
any buttons missing, or any holes in the pockets; and he always repaired
the damage.
“Is monsieur going to paint?”
“Yes, Pettermann; and I fancy that we shall stay here a few days longer.
You are not bored here, I hope?”
“No, monsieur, I am never bored anywhere, myself; besides, the wine is
good here. By the way, what day of the month is it?”
“The seventeenth.”
“The deuce! only the seventeenth! this month is very long!”