We had had ten sittings and the portrait was almost finished. In fact it
might have been left as it was, for Caroline was delighted with it, and
her uncle considered it as good a likeness as that of himself as Scapin;
but I desired to do something more to it; and Caroline herself wished
for some slight changes in the dress and in the hair. I thought that we
should both be sorry when the sittings came to an end.
One evening, when the weather was bad and we had remained in the hotel
with several other guests, the conversation became general. An old
gentleman who was almost as loquacious as Monsieur Roquencourt, but much
less affable, told us about a scandalous lawsuit which was reported in
the Gazette des Tribunaux. It was a husband’s petition for divorce on
the ground of his wife’s infidelity.
“There are many interesting details,” he said, “which the newspaper
gives with its own reflections thereon.”
The old gentleman went up to his room to get the paper, which he was
determined to read to us. I would gladly have dispensed with that favor.
Whenever that subject was discussed I felt ill at ease. Those gentlemen
laughed and jested freely concerning betrayed husbands. To no purpose
did I pretend to laugh with them; I could not do it. I would have liked
to change the subject, but I dared not; it seemed to me that they would
fathom my motive. Luckily, Mademoiselle Derbin was beside me, and she
did not seem to pay much attention to the trial reported by the Gazette
des Tribunaux.
“Messieurs,” said an Englishman, “among us, the subject is viewed in a
different light. It becomes almost a business transaction. We make the
co-respondent pay very heavy damages.”
“Can damages restore the honor of an outraged husband?” demanded an old
Spaniard. “In my country, the reparation is swift, but it is terrible!”
“Messieurs,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “I remember acting in _Le
Mariage de Figaro_ with a friend of mine who was in the plight of the
husband in the Gazette des Tribunaux. He was playing Almaviva. As
everybody knew what had happened to him, you can imagine the personal
applications of his lines that were made during the performance. There
was much laughter; but for all that he acted very well. I was Figaro. I
had the prettiest costume it is possible to imagine; white and cherry
colored, all silk and embroidery and spangles. It cost me a great deal!
But Dugazon, who saw it, was so delighted with it that he asked me to
lend it to him so that he could have one made like it.”
At that moment I was overjoyed to hear Monsieur Roquencourt talk about
the parts he had acted; I hoped that that would change the subject
permanently, and I was about to ask him for some more anecdotes of
Dugazon when the infernal old gentleman arrived, newspaper in hand,
crying:
“Here is the Gazette; I assure you that there are some very amusing
details, which one may safely read before ladies, however.”
“Does this conversation amuse you?” I asked Caroline in an undertone.
“Do you suppose that I listen to these chatterboxes? No indeed; I think
that my thoughts are worth quite as much as their words.”
As she spoke, she cast a tender glance at me and laid her hand on my
arm, for I had taken a seat beside her. I lowered my eyes; I was
entirely engrossed by the Gazette des Tribunaux.
The old gentleman put on his spectacles and drew near a lamp. We were
definitively condemned to listen to the newspaper. There are people who
insist upon amusing you against your will.
“This is the article, messieurs; it is in the Paris news; and the names
are in big letters.”
“That is very pleasant for the husband!” said the Spaniard, under his
breath; “all Europe will know that he is a cuckold!”
“When a husband is foolish enough to go to law about such a bagatelle,”
said a young Frenchman, “he well deserves to have the whole world laugh
at him.”
“Bagatelle!” repeated the Spaniard, “when a man’s honor is involved!”
“What a devil of a place has he put his honor in? Ha! ha! It was
Beaumarchais who said that, and Beaumarchais had a devilish lot of wit!
When I acted his Figaro, I was with----”
“I say, messieurs, don’t you want to hear the newspaper?”
“Yes, indeed; we are listening.”
“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very
interesting in its details and in the course of the trial, was heard
to-day in the Court of First Instance. Monsieur Ferdinand-Julien Bélan
married in June, 1824, Mademoiselle Armide-Constance-Fidèle de
Beausire. For several years----’”
“Ferdinand Bélan?” I exclaimed, waking from my reverie. All eyes were
turned upon me, and someone exclaimed:
“Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours? What sort of man is he? Tell
us about him.”
“I do know a person of that name, but perhaps it is not the same man. My
Bélan is married, it is true, but I lost sight of him a long while ago.
I know nothing whatever about him.”
“Oh! it’s probably this man.”
“He must look a fool!” cried a young guest.
“It seems to me that to be a betrayed husband must give a man a queer
look!”
“That is a young man’s reflection,” said the Englishman. “If such things
could be read on the face, the French would laugh much less at them.”
“Messieurs, I once played Sganarelle in _Le Cocu Imaginaire_; it was at
Bordeaux. I played it afterward at Paris; but this that I am going to
tell you about happened at Bordeaux. It was a performance that had been
planned long before, and I was not to be in it. But all of a sudden the
amateur who was to play Sganarelle became involved in a disastrous
failure; he lost two hundred thousand francs. You can imagine that he
didn’t care to act in theatricals then. The company was in dire
perplexity, when Molé, who was one of them, said: ‘Pardi! I know a man
who can help us out of the scrape if he will; he is a friend of mine,
who acts like a little angel, and he happens to be in Bordeaux at this
moment.’ And everybody said: ‘Oh! bring us your friend! Bring us your
friend!’ Molé came to me and said: ‘Will you play Sganarelle in _Le Cocu
Imaginaire_?’ I answered: ‘Why not?’
“‘You will restore life to some charming women, whom you will
embrace--Do you know the part?’
“‘No.’
“‘It is very long.’
“‘I will know it to-morrow.’
“‘I defy you to do it!’
“‘What will you bet?’
“‘A truffled turkey!’
“‘Done.’--The next day I played Sganarelle and I had a tremendous
success!”
“I believe, messieurs, that I brought this newspaper in order to read it
to you; and if you will permit me----”
That devil of a man would not be denied; and although I knew very well
that it was about the Bélan whom I knew, I was not at all curious to
hear the report of his suit. Luckily, the mistress of the house entered
the salon at that moment. After saluting everybody, she went to
Mademoiselle Derbin.
“Mon Dieu! if I dared, mademoiselle--if it would not offend you, I----”
“What is it, madame?”
“We have a new guest, a French lady who has been here since morning. She
has come to take the waters, and anyone can see that she is not
travelling for pleasure solely, for she seems to be very ill, to suffer
a great deal.”
“Is it the young lady whom I saw this morning?” asked the Englishman.
“Yes, my lord.”
“She has a very interesting air.”
“But what can I do, madame?” asked Caroline.
“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, it’s like this. This lady, who has very
good style and excellent manners, has nobody with her but her maid. She
has not left her room since morning, and I am afraid that she is bored.
I went up to her room for a moment just now, and told her that the
guests were assembled in the salon this evening, and that she ought to
come down, that it would divert her. She neither consented nor refused.
She seems very shy; but if anyone of the party, like yourself,
mademoiselle, should go up and urge her to come, I am certain that she
would not refuse. Poor woman! she seems so miserable! I am convinced
that in company she would forget her suffering a little.”
Several of the guests added their entreaties to the landlady’s. I
myself, well pleased that the newspaper should be forgotten, urged
Mademoiselle Derbin to bring us the invalid.
“Since you are so curious to see this lady, messieurs,” said Caroline,
rising, “I will go to her as your ambassador. But do not rejoice
overmuch beforehand, for I do not agree to succeed; and you will perhaps
be obliged to content yourselves with addressing your compliments to the
ladies who are in the salon now.”
Having said this with fascinating gayety, she left the salon with the
landlady. That incident cast Bélan’s lawsuit into the shade, and I hoped
that no one would recur to it; but I noticed that the old gentleman, who
did not admit that he was beaten, had gone to a corner of the salon in
evident ill humor, with the Gazette des Tribunaux still in his hand.
Several moments passed.
“Mademoiselle Derbin will not succeed,” said the Spaniard; “if that lady
is ill, she will not leave her room.”
“Why not?” said a young man; “need a person become a hermit because she
comes here to take the waters?”
“I believe that my niece will succeed, messieurs; for in truth she
succeeds in everything that she undertakes, and if she has taken it into
her head to bring this new guest here, be sure that she will not return
alone. My niece takes after me; I have played perhaps thirty parts in my
life--what am I saying? I have played more than fifty!--Well, I assure
you that at least a dozen of them I have learned in twenty-four hours,
on the spur of the moment, like that of Sganarelle. But that was very
long!--By the way, I haven’t told you the effect that I produced on
Molé. He had never seen me except in a servant’s part; to be sure,
Sganarelle is a servant’s part, if you choose, but----”
“Here comes Mademoiselle Derbin, and she is bringing the lady,” said a
young man who had opened the door of the salon.
Instantly in obedience to a natural impulse of curiosity, we formed a
circle and all eyes were turned toward the door.
Caroline appeared, leading the newcomer by the hand. Everybody bowed to
the lady, and I, as I was about to do the same, stood as if turned to
stone; then I fell back upon my chair. In that pale, thin woman,
evidently ill and suffering, who had entered the room, I recognized
Eugénie.
She had not seen me; for, as she came in, she bowed, without looking at
all the people assembled in the room; and then, guided by Caroline, she
went to a seat at once. I was almost behind her; I dared not move or
breathe.
“Messieurs,” said Mademoiselle Derbin, “madame has consented to accede
to my entreaties; but I had a vast deal of difficulty in inducing her to
leave her retreat, and you owe me much gratitude.”
The gentlemen thanked Caroline, who had seated herself near Eugénie. The
conversation began anew. Eugénie took little part in it; she talked with
no one but Mademoiselle Derbin, who questioned her about her health. I
heard one of the young men say to Monsieur Roquencourt:
“I recognize that lady, I saw her at a party in Paris two years ago. Her
name is Madame Blémont, and her husband has deserted her; he was a
good-for-nothing, a gambler, a rake.”
“Poor woman!” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “there are so many of those
rascals of husbands who act in that way! to say nothing of the
Beverleys, the Othellos, the--I was asked once to play Beverley, and it
is the only part that I ever refused!”
I glanced at the young man who had named my wife. I was quite certain
that he did not know me, for I could not remember that I had ever met
him in society. But I cannot describe what I suffered; the sight of
Eugénie had revived all my pain. I would have liked to fly, but I dared
not; I was afraid to move hand or foot; if she should turn her head
slightly, she would see me.
However, that situation could not last long. Caroline, having ceased to
talk to Eugénie, turned to me and said:
“Well, Monsieur Dalbreuse, why do you stand so far away? You look as if
you were sulking. Pray come and talk with us a little.”
I did not know what reply to make. But Eugénie had pushed her chair back
as if to make room for me beside her neighbor; at the same moment she
turned her eyes in my direction. Instantly I saw her sway from side to
side, and her head fell against the back of her chair.
“This lady is ill!” cried Caroline, leaning over her. “Some salts,
messieurs, quickly! Open the window; perhaps she needs air.”
There was a general movement. I rose with the rest and was about to
leave the salon, but Caroline called me, detained me, begged me to help
her to carry the invalid to the window, which had been opened. How
could I avoid doing what she asked? And then too, the sight of that
woman, whose eyes were closed and whose pale lips and emaciated features
indicated great suffering, caused me profound emotion, and a sentiment
which almost resembled pleasure. I was not hardhearted, but she had
injured me so deeply! It seemed to me that I was beginning to have my
revenge. Why then should I leave that salon? Was it for me to fly? No, I
proposed to see how she would endure my presence.
While these ideas flitted through my mind, Caroline pushed me toward the
chair in which Eugénie was sitting, saying:
“Well! for heaven’s sake, monsieur, do you propose to stand there
without budging? Oh! how awkward men are under some circumstances!”
We carried the chair to the window, and someone brought salts.
“Hold the lady’s head,” said Caroline to me. “Come this way. Upon my
word, I don’t know what you can be thinking about to-night, but you act
as if you did not hear me.--Poor woman! how pale she is! But she is
pretty, for all that, isn’t she? Tell me, don’t you think her pretty?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“I am very lucky to be able to get that out of you. Ah! she is coming to
herself.”
Eugénie opened her eyes. She seemed to be trying to collect her
thoughts. At last she looked slowly about her, and I was the first
person whom she saw. She instantly lowered her eyes and put her hand to
her forehead.
“You frightened me terribly, madame,” said Caroline. “How do you feel
now?”
“Thank you, mademoiselle, it was an attack of vertigo; I am better. But
I would like to go back to my room.”
As she spoke, she tried to rise, but fell back in her chair, faltering:
“I feel quite helpless!”
“Pray stay with us; this will pass away; it comes from the nerves. You
will be comfortable by the window. Solitude causes ennui, and ennui
increases one’s suffering. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Dalbreuse?--Well! he
isn’t listening to me; I can’t imagine what is the matter with him
to-night.”
While Caroline was speaking, I had walked away from Eugénie’s chair. She
remained seated there, with her face turned toward the window; she did
not look into the salon again.
“I never had an ill turn but once in my life,” said Monsieur
Roquencourt, “and that was caused by the heat. I had agreed to play the
part of Arlequin in _Colombine Mannequin_; I was not very anxious to do
it, for I dreaded the mask; but the company begged so hard that I had to
yield. It was Madame la Marquise de Crézieux who played Colombine. A
fascinating woman, on my word! I had a weakness for her. When I saw her
as Colombine, she looked so pretty, that I made it a point of honor to
do my best, and I played Arlequin magnificently. I performed a thousand
capers and tricks; I was a regular cat! At the end of the play they
threw flowers to me; the audience was in transports, in delirium! But I,
bless my soul! I could stand it no longer! I fell when I reached the
wings; and if they hadn’t torn my mask off at once, it would have been
all over with me; I should have suffocated!”
Several persons went to Eugénie to ask her how she felt. I did not hear
her replies, but she did not move.
She was afraid of meeting my eyes again, no doubt, if she turned her
head. She had not brought her daughter with her. What a pity! And yet,
if she had brought her, should I have been able to conceal my affection?
Ah! I felt that I had remained there too long! I should have returned to
Paris to see my daughter long before.
For several moments the conversation had lagged; some persons were
talking together in undertones, but there was no animation. The old
gentleman who had remained in a corner, with his newspaper in his hand,
deemed the moment favorable, and drew his chair toward the centre of the
room, saying:
“Gentlemen and ladies, I believe that we were talking just now of the
trial which is reported in the Gazette des Tribunaux, which I have in my
hand; in fact, I was about to read what the paper says, when someone
went to bring madame here. I imagine that you will not be sorry to hear
the report now, and I will begin. Hum! hum!”
“It is very hard to read well,” said Monsieur Roquencourt; “we have many
authors who don’t know how to read their works. Larive was the one who
could read well; yes, he read perfectly! For my part, when I had a
letter to read on the stage, I would not have the prompter give me a
single word! But once a very amusing thing happened to me. It was in
_L’Etourdi_, I believe.”
“Monsieur,” said the old gentleman angrily, coming forward with his
newspaper, “do you or do you not wish me to read you the Gazette?”
“Oh! beg pardon! Read on, I pray you. I will tell you my story
afterward; it will make you laugh.”
I was on thorns. Was I to be compelled to listen to the report of that
trial? And yet, was it not the beginning of my revenge? Eugénie would
suffer terribly on listening to all those details. But it seemed to me
that I should suffer as much as she. The pitiless reader had unfolded
the journal and put on his spectacles; we could not escape him.
“‘A case, of common enough occurrence in its general character, but very
interesting in its details, and in the course of the trial----’”
“You have read us that, monsieur.”
“That is so; let us come to the trial. ‘Monsieur Bélan seeks to obtain a
divorce from his wife Armide de Beausire, for infidelity. The facts
which led Monsieur----’”
At the first words that he read, I watched Eugénie; she tried to rise
and leave the room; but she had taken only a few steps when a low groan
escaped from her lips, her limbs stiffened, and she fell at Mademoiselle
Derbin’s feet.
“It is a nervous attack!” people exclaimed on all sides; “she is very
ill; we must take her to her room.”
Several of the gentlemen offered their assistance; Eugénie was taken
from the room, and Caroline followed. I remained there, and walked to
the window. That sight, that groan which I seemed still to hear, had
rent my very soul. I felt that I desired no more revenge at that price.
I would leave that very night. I did not wish to kill her. If it
depended only upon me, she would speedily be cured. People went and came
in the salon. Some discussed that second swoon; others went to inquire
about the invalid’s condition. The old gentleman alone had returned to
his corner, with an ill-humored scowl, and had put his paper in his
pocket.
Caroline returned at last and everybody crowded about her. “The lady is
a little better,” she said, “but really I am afraid that all the waters
of Mont-d’Or will not restore her health.”
“I say, I can guess what caused that second fainting fit,” said the
young man who had mentioned Eugénie before. “Poor Madame Blémont! That
is the lady’s name----”
“Yes, I remember that the landlady called her so. Well! you were saying
that the lady----”
“She was very unfortunate in her marriage; her husband left her,
deserted her; she probably thought of all that, when she heard something
about a husband bringing a suit against his wife.”
“What, monsieur!” said Caroline; “that lady has been deserted by her
husband?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I have seen her several times at parties in Paris. I
recognized her at once, although she is greatly changed.”
“And her husband?”
“I did not know him; it seems that he was a monster! a gambler,
dissipated and jealous--all the vices, in short; he left his poor little
wife with two children on her hands, a boy and a girl.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! There are some shameless men! That young woman has such a
sweet and amiable manner! Certainly she is well adapted to make any man
happy who is able to appreciate her! and perhaps she still loves him;
for we are so soft-hearted, we cannot hate you, even when you most
deserve it! Uncle, I certainly shall never marry.”
Having said this, Caroline looked at me as if to read in my eyes what I
thought about it. But I looked away and did not say a word.
Everybody prepared to retire. We bowed to one another and said
good-night. Suddenly I felt a hand on my arm; it was Caroline, who said
to me with an offended air:
“So it seems that I must wish you good-night this evening, monsieur! You
can certainly flatter yourself that you have made yourself very
unpleasant!”
That reproach brought me to my senses; I reflected that I proposed to go
away before dawn, and that perhaps this was the last time that I should
see Mademoiselle Derbin; so I stepped forward to take her hand; but she
drew it back, saying in an offhand tone:
“I do not forgive so quickly; to-morrow we will see whether you deserve
that I should make peace with you.”
She left me, and I returned to my room. I felt that I must go away, that
I must leave that house, that town. I felt that I could not endure to be
in Eugénie’s presence; moreover, she was ill and I must have compassion
for her. But why had she come to disturb the happiness which I was
enjoying in that spot? I had almost forgotten the past, Mademoiselle
Derbin was so attractive! But after all, I should have had to leave her
a little sooner or a little later. Suppose that she should find out that
I was that Blémont, that man who was called a monster in society!--How
they abused me! But that did not offend me in the least; on the
contrary, I was overjoyed that people were deceived; I would rather be
looked upon as a scoundrel than to air my grievances before the courts,
like Bélan. Poor Bélan! I suspected that he would come to that.--But
Caroline believed that I was a bachelor; an additional reason for going
away. What could I hope for from that acquaintance? To have a friend?
Oh, no! at Caroline’s age, a husband is what is wanted; love is the
essential sentiment; friendship is not enough for a heart of twenty-four
years. She would eventually fall in with the man whom she was looking
for, and she would forget me as quickly as she had made my
acquaintance. And I--oh! as soon as I had my daughter in my arms, I was
quite certain that I should forget the whole world.
“I will call Pettermann,” I thought, “and send him to the post-house to
order horses, and tell him to pack our trunks.”
I called my faithful companion several times, but I received no reply.
He was not in the habit of going to bed before I did. I went up to his
room, but he was not there. I asked the people in the hotel if they had
seen him; a maid-servant remembered that about noon he had gone into a
small cabinet adjoining a building at the end of the garden, and that he
had had brought to him there, with an abundant luncheon, several bottles
of Burgundy. She assured me that he had not come out since morning. I
remembered then that it was the first of the month, the day which
Pettermann ordinarily selected to divert himself; so I guessed what he
was doing in the cabinet. I requested the maid to show me the way. We
went with a light toward the building which the ex-tailor had selected
for his celebration.
We saw no light through the window, so we went in. Pettermann, who
evidently was as conscientious about getting completely drunk once a
month, as in keeping sober the rest of the time, was stretched out, dead
drunk, by the table, at the foot of a bench upon which he was probably
sitting when he was able to sit erect.
“Mon Dieu! is he dead?” cried the servant; “he doesn’t move!”
“No, don’t be alarmed, he is only drunk; and as that happens only once a
month now, he doesn’t get drunk by halves. What an unfortunate chance,
when I wanted to go away to-night.”
“Go away! Why monsieur has not ordered horses.”
“Can I not obtain horses at any hour at the post-house?”
“Oh, yes! but your servant here is in a fine state to start! I did not
suppose that monsieur was thinking about going away.”
I went to Pettermann, I seized his arm and shook him, and called him by
name.
“Prout! I am asleep,” murmured the tailor at last.
“But, my friend, I need you, so try to wake up.”
“Prout! I propose to drink enough to-day for a month; let me sleep; you
can wake me when I am thirsty.”
It was utterly impossible for me to obtain a word more from him.
“I advise you, monsieur, to let your servant pass the night here,” said
the girl; “he will be left in peace, nobody will disturb him. Anyway,
you see that it would be hard to make him stir. You can’t take him away
in this condition!”
The girl was right; I could not hope for anything from Pettermann that
night. If I left Mont-d’Or, he was in no condition to accompany me.
Should I go without him, or wait until the next day before leaving the
town? The latter course seemed to me the more reasonable. Besides, I
remembered that I was in possession of Mademoiselle Derbin’s portrait;
after all the courtesies which she and her uncle had lavished upon me,
would it not have been boorish to send the portrait to her without so
much as bidding her good-bye? I determined to remain until the morrow;
and to see to it that I did not meet Eugénie again before my departure.
I returned to my room and went to bed. I longed to go away, and yet I
believe that I was not sorry to be obliged to remain.