On waking the next morning, my first thought was that Eugénie was under
the same roof with me. How changed she was! How pale and sad! Was it
remorse, repentance, that had caused that change? Ah! it was very good
of me to assume that it was; had she shown any remorse when I wrote to
her to inform her that we must part and to ask her for my daughter? Had
she shown any when she passed me so haughtily in the Bois de Boulogne?
No; and moreover the sin that she had committed is the one for which
repentance is least frequently felt; this is not a moral truth, but it
is the truth none the less.
No matter, I was determined to go. I did not propose to have a
repetition of the previous evening. I did not propose to meet Madame
Blémont again, and I did propose to return to my daughter. Poor child!
With whom had she been left? And Ernest did not write to me! But I
forgot that I had not let him know that I had made a prolonged stay in
that town, where I expected to remain only a day or two.
I rose and was about to ring for Pettermann, when, happening to glance
at my mantel, I saw a note and a memorandum book which were not there
the night before.
I walked toward the mantel. That memorandum book was mine; it was the
one that I had handed to Ernest when we parted; by what chance did I
find it there? I took up the note. Ah! I recognized that writing. It
was Eugénie who had written: “For Monsieur Dalbreuse.” It was she who
had sent me that book. The idea of her wanting me to have her portrait!
What insolence! Should I not send it all back to her, without reading
her note? Yes, I should have done it; but as one does not often do what
one should do, I did not resist my curiosity, but I opened the note.
“I have learned, monsieur, that you wished to leave this hotel last
night. Let not my presence cause you to leave a place where you
seem to be enjoying yourself; I swear to you, monsieur, that you
will not meet me again; I shall not leave my room again, and if my
strength had allowed, I should have gone away instantly. I have
left your daughter with Madame Firmin. She and her husband
consented to undertake to act as parents to your children. I think
that you will approve of my having left your Henriette with them;
however, you will be at liberty to dispose of your daughter as you
choose; I give her back to you, I no longer desire to retain
anything except my tears and my remorse.”
How weak we are! I was incensed with her when I opened the note, and
when I had read it I was deeply moved, completely upset! That letter was
still wet with her tears. What a difference between it and the one with
which she answered mine two years before! If she had written thus to me
then--I did not know what I would have done. She gave me back my
daughter, she had left her with Marguerite; how did it happen that she
had entrusted her daughter to her? What change had taken place in her in
two years? I was utterly at sea; but I was delighted to know that my
little Henriette was with my loyal friends.
As for the memorandum book, I could not understand with what purpose she
had sent it to me. Did she hope to force me to love her again, did she
hope to obtain forgiveness by restoring that portrait to me? Oh, no! I
had loved her too dearly to forgive her. Why had Ernest given her that
souvenir? I determined to send it back to her.
I took the book in my hands and turned it over and over, as if to make
sure that it was really mine; finally I opened it, to see if the
painting had faded much in two years.
What did I see? The portrait of Eugénie was no longer there, but the
portrait of my daughter, of my Henriette! Dear child! Yes, it was really
she; there was her smile, there were her eyes. It seemed to me as if I
had her before me! I kissed my child’s image. “Dear book,” I thought,
“you shall never leave me again now; for although a child may tire of
seeing her father, a father always takes pleasure in gazing at his
child’s features.”--Ah! how grateful I was to Eugénie for sending me
that portrait! If anyone could still plead for her, who could undertake
that duty better than her daughter?
I desired to know who had placed those things on my mantel. I rang and
Pettermann appeared, still rubbing his eyes.
“Pettermann, you were drunk yesterday?”
“Yes, monsieur, it was my day.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Why, not very long. I had a downright good one yesterday. Prout!”
“I know it, for I saw you and spoke to you.”
“Faith, I didn’t see you or hear you, monsieur.”
“Then you haven’t told anybody in the inn that I intended to go away
last night?”
“Go away last night?”
“And it wasn’t you who placed this memorandum book and this note on my
mantel this morning?”
“No, monsieur, I haven’t been into your room since yesterday morning.”
“Pettermann, send me the little maid-servant, whose name I believe is
Marie,--a stout, short girl.”
“Oh! I know, monsieur, she is the one who brought me my breakfast
yesterday.”
The maid appeared. She denied having brought the note and the book; but
she confessed that she had said that morning, before the other servants,
that I had wanted to go away in the night.
What did it matter by whom Eugénie had sent me those things? I was no
longer angry with her for doing it; but as I did not wish to compel her
to keep her room, I would go away. And yet, if I should go at once, she
would think that I could not endure to be near her, and I did not want
to convey that idea to her, as a reward for the presents she had made
me. I did not know what course to pursue.
I had ordered breakfast served in my room, and was about to sit down,
when Monsieur Roquencourt appeared.
“Good-morning, Monsieur Dalbreuse.”
“Monsieur, accept my respects. What happy circumstance affords me the
honor of this early visit?”
“My dear friend, my niece has sent me to ask you to come to breakfast
with us and to drink a cup of tea. She hurried me, she hurried me so!
Luckily, I dress very fast. When one has acted in theatricals, one is so
accustomed to change one’s costume! By the way, my dear Monsieur
Dalbreuse, what is this that my niece tells me? You attempted to go
away last night, to leave us without even bidding us good-bye?”
“It is true, monsieur, that----”
“The idea of skipping scenes like that! of running away! I don’t
understand that anyone is pursuing you, like Monsieur de Pourceaugnac.
Ha! ha! ha! how I have made people laugh playing that devilish
Pourceaugnac! It is a terribly hard part; many people have acted it, but
the man whom I rank above all others in it is Baptiste Cadet. Ah! such
admirable fooling, monsieur! For Pourceaugnac is not stupid, he’s a
fool, but a well-bred fool; he shouldn’t be made an idiot with no
manners. Baptiste Cadet grasped perfectly all those delicate shades of
character, and----”
“But, monsieur, if mademoiselle your niece is waiting for us----”
“Yes, you are right, she is waiting for us. I warn you that she is
terribly angry with you. That’s why she wants you to come to breakfast
with us. She said that you were a horrid man. Ha! ha!”
I followed Monsieur Roquencourt. So Caroline proposed to scold me
because I had intended to go away; had she a right to do it? To my mind,
she had not.
Mademoiselle Derbin was sitting down and drinking tea; she honored me
with a slight nod; I saw plainly enough that she was angry, but that she
did not mean to appear so.
Monsieur Roquencourt took my hand and presented me to his niece with a
comical expression on his face.
“‘Bourguignon, here is Lisette; Lisette, here is Bourguignon.’”
“What does all this mean, uncle?” said Caroline testily. “What are you
talking about, with your Bourguignons and your Lisettes?”
“What! what does that mean? Do you mean to say that you never saw _Les
Jeux de l’Amour et du Hasard_?”
“Did you bring monsieur here to act? I thought that it was to breakfast
with us.--Pray sit down, monsieur; my uncle is unendurable with his
theatricals!”
“In other words, you are cross this morning; that’s the real fact.”
“I, cross? Upon my word! why should I be cross? What reason have I for
being cross?”
“I tell you that you are. However, I warned Monsieur Dalbreuse; I said
to him: ‘My niece is mortally offended with you!’”
“Really, uncle, I don’t know what is the matter with you to-day. Did I
tell you to say anything like that? Why should I be offended with
monsieur? Because he intended to go away last night without even bidding
us adieu? But after all, is not monsieur his own master? We are nothing
more than mere acquaintances of his; people with whom he is content to
amuse himself when it does not put him out, but of whom he ceases to
think as soon as he has left them.”
“Oh! I trust you don’t think that, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, monsieur, I do think it; in fact I am convinced of it; if you had
looked upon us in any other light, if you had had ever so little regard
for us, you would not have wanted to leave us thus, and we should not be
indebted solely to the drunkenness of your servant for the pleasure of
seeing you again to-day.”
“Mademoiselle, an unexpected circumstance sometimes forces us to part
from those persons who are most attractive to us.”
“Yes, to be sure, when there are other persons whom we are in a hurry to
see, and for whom we forget even the simplest rules of courtesy.”
“My dear fellow, I warned you--she is very angry with you.”
“Mon Dieu! how disagreeable you are to-day, uncle!”
Monsieur Roquencourt laughed and drank his tea; I did the same. Caroline
said nothing more, and did not turn her eyes in my direction. The uncle
bore the whole weight of the conversation.
After a few moments, Caroline said to him:
“Have you heard from Madame Blémont this morning, uncle?”
“No, not yet.”
“That lady has a most distinguished air; I like her appearance very
much.”
“Yes, she has very beautiful eyes; she reminded me of Mademoiselle
Contat in----”
“Uncle, would it not be polite for you to go in person to ask how she
passed the night?”
“I! why my dear girl, that lady is all alone; would she care to receive
a visit from a man?”
“Oh! you have reached the age, uncle, when visits from you are of no
consequence.”
“What do you say, niece? Do you know that I am still quite capable of
making conquests? And if I chose----”
“But I am sure that you do not choose, my dear uncle. Go up to that
lady’s room, I beg you.”
“I will go, but I will not answer for the consequences.”
When her uncle had left us, Caroline turned to me, and said in a tone
which denoted a depth of feeling that I had not supposed her to possess:
“Why were you going away so suddenly and without seeing me? Tell me why,
I beg you.”
“Urgent business summoned me to Paris.”
“I do not believe that; you had no letter yesterday. What had I done to
you to cause such an abrupt departure? Had I said anything which hurt
you? I am sometimes so foolish, so thoughtless----”
“No, mademoiselle, far from it. I am overwhelmed by your kindness, your
indulgence.”
“My kindness! my indulgence! anyone would think that you were talking to
your tutor! But why were you going, then?”
“I cannot tell you, mademoiselle.”
“Aha! so monsieur has secrets. All right! I prefer to have you tell me
that. But my portrait--did you intend to carry that away?”
“No, mademoiselle, I should have had it delivered to you.”
“You would have sent it to me! but it is not finished; there is a great
deal still to be done on it.”
At that moment the uncle returned and said:
“The lady is not visible yet. I expected as much. But she is greatly
touched by our thoughtfulness and feels a little better this morning.”
“I am glad of that. I will go to see her.--By the way, uncle, when do we
return to Paris?”
“When! upon my soul! that is a sensible question! I do exactly as she
wishes, and she pretends to wait upon my desires. Ha! ha! that’s a good
joke!”
“Well, it seems to me that we might pass another week here. And if
Monsieur Dalbreuse’s business were not so urgent, we would invite him to
accept a seat in our carriage, and take him to Paris with us.--Well,
monsieur, will you tell us what you think of my uncle’s proposition?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; for although my niece always arranges everything
to suit her own whim, I must needs pretend to have done it. However, be
sure that I shall be most delighted to have you for a travelling
companion.”
I did not know what to say, what to decide upon; it seemed to me that I
ought to go, and yet it would be most agreeable to me to remain. A week
soon passes. I should not come into contact with Madame Blémont, since
she would remain in her room, and she herself had entreated me not to go
away.
While I made these reflections, Caroline came to my side. At last she
tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
“Whenever you are ready, monsieur,--we are waiting for your reply.”
“Oh, excuse me, mademoiselle; I was thinking----”
“Will you return to Paris with us?”
“I am afraid of incommoding you. I have someone with me.”
“Your German? There is a seat behind the carriage.”
“Very well, I accept, mademoiselle.”
“Ah! that is very kind of you!”
Once more Mademoiselle Derbin was in a charming humor. She arranged a
drive for the day, intending to visit some points of view in the
neighborhood of which someone had told her. We must be ready in an hour;
she left us to attend to her toilette; we were to have no sitting for
the portrait that day.
Caroline was a spoiled child; that was evident from her wilful manner,
from her fits of impatience when her whims were not gratified; but she
was so attractive, so fascinating when she chose to be agreeable, that
it was really difficult to resist her. I believed that she had an
affectionate, susceptible heart, a little inclined to enthusiasm
perhaps. The interest that she manifested in me troubled me sometimes; I
dreaded lest she should be in love with me. I dreaded it, because that
love could not make her happy; but in the depths of my heart I should
have been flattered, yes, enchanted; for our self-esteem is always more
readily listened to than our reason.
To divert my mind from such ideas, I gazed at my daughter’s portrait, I
asked her pardon for not returning to her at once; but I knew that she
was with Ernest and his wife, and I was certain that she was well and
that they often talked to her about me.
The hour for our drive arrived and I joined Mademoiselle Derbin and her
uncle. Caroline wore a lovely costume; her great dark eyes shone with a
deeper light than usual; they expressed pleasure and satisfaction.
“Do you think that I look well in this dress, monsieur?” she asked.
“I think that you always look well, mademoiselle.”
“Is that true? Do you mean what you say?”
“To be sure I do. Besides, I am only the echo of the whole world.”
“I do not like to have you an echo; I don’t ask you what other people
say; that is entirely indifferent to me.”
We were just about starting when Caroline exclaimed:
“By the way, suppose I should invite Madame Blémont to go with us?”
“You know very well that she is ill, mademoiselle; she will refuse.”
“A drive cannot fail to do her good. I am going to ask her.”
“You are taking useless trouble, mademoiselle.”
“We will see about that, monsieur.”
She paid no heed to me and left us. But I was not alarmed; Eugénie
certainly would not accept.
Monsieur Roquencourt came up to me and, pointing to his waistcoat, which
was made of white silk, with colored flowers, and cut after the style of
Louis XV, said to me:
“What do you think of this waistcoat?”
“It is very original.”
“I wore it in the part of Monsieur de Crac.”
“I can well imagine that it must be very effective on the stage.”
“All the ladies raved over it; but I played Monsieur de Crac very nicely
too. In the first place, I talk Gascon as well as if I were a native of
Toulouse, and Dugazon gave me a few lessons for that part. My first
lines were admirable:
“‘Enfants, pétits laquais qué jé né logé pas,
Jé suis content; allez, je paîrai vos papas.
On né mé vit jamais prodigué dé louanges,
Mais ils ont rabattu commé des pétits anges.’”
Monsieur Roquencourt might have recited the whole play if he pleased,
for I was not listening to him; I was awaiting Mademoiselle Derbin’s
return most impatiently. At last she appeared, and, as I hoped, alone;
there was an expression of something more than annoyance on her face.
“Let us go, messieurs,” she said; “Monsieur Dalbreuse predicted that my
trouble would be thrown away; Madame Blémont refuses to come with us.”
We entered the carriage and began our drive. I was most anxious to know
what those ladies had said to each other, but I dared not question
Caroline. She saved me the trouble, for she said, gazing earnestly at
me:
“Monsieur Dalbreuse, do you know Madame Blémont?”
“I, know that lady? Why,--no, mademoiselle.”
“You act as if you weren’t quite sure.”
“I beg your pardon, but why did you ask me that question?”
“Because she did nothing but talk about you all the time I was with her;
asking me if I had known you long, if we had ever met anywhere before.
That struck me as rather strange. When I told her that we intended to
return to Paris together, she made a wry face. Ha! ha! it is very
amusing.--And you say that you never met her in Paris?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Then you apparently made a conquest of her last night; isn’t that so,
uncle?”
“My dear girl, what would there be so extraordinary in that? I myself
made ten conquests in the part of Figaro. To be sure, my cherry and
white costume was very elegant.”
“It seems that Monsieur Dalbreuse does not need to be dressed as Figaro
in order to fascinate the ladies. I confess that this particular one
does not attract me so much as she did. I looked closely at her this
morning. Great heaven! such thinness! such pallor! She certainly can
never have been very pretty.”
I was on the point of contradicting her, but I restrained myself and
said nothing.
After a drive of several hours, we returned to the hotel. We noticed
much commotion among the people of the house, and a servant informed us
that new guests had arrived: two English lords and their ladies, and a
gentleman from Paris, who alone made as much fuss as four people.
Caroline went at once to change her dress, in order to outshine the
Englishwomen, and perhaps also to turn the heads of the Englishmen and
the Parisian.
I returned to my room and reflected upon what Mademoiselle Derbin had
told me of her conversation with Madame Blémont. What did my intimacy
with Caroline or with any woman matter to Eugénie? Was I not at liberty
to dispose of my heart as I chose? But women have so much self-esteem
that even when they no longer love you they are vexed to see that you
follow their example. Men are much the same too.
I went without apprehension to the evening reception, being fully
persuaded that Madame Blémont would not be tempted to appear.
There were many people in the salon. The English party was already
there; the two young women were young and pretty and their travelling
companions--I did not know whether they were their husbands--paid no
attention to them, but were already deep in politics with the Spaniard
and some Frenchmen. Several young men were already playing the gallant
with the young women. I joined Mademoiselle Derbin, who was almost
deserted for the new arrivals, although they were not to be compared
with her.
I sat down beside her; I was pleased to see that she was not annoyed at
the desertion of her little court.
“So you don’t do like the rest?” she said with a smile; “you don’t go to
offer incense to the strangers?”
“I have no inclination to do so; why should one change when one is well
off?”
“That often happens, however.”
“Alas, yes! but apparently it may be that one is well off and does not
realize it.”
“I trust that I shall never have the experience.”
I do not know how it happened that at that moment Caroline’s hand was
under mine. She did not take it away, and we sat thus for a long while,
paying no heed to what was taking place in the salon. But the touch of
that hand reminded me of Eugénie and of the time when I was paying court
to her. Doubtless Caroline had no suspicion that the pressure of her
hand made me think of another woman, and that it was that which made me
pensive. But we very often deceive ourselves with respect to the
sensations which we arouse. And the thing which flatters our self-esteem
would sometimes cause us naught but vexation if we knew its real cause.
Suddenly the door of the salon was noisily opened and someone entered,
talking very loud and making a great uproar. I turned, for whenever
anyone entered the salon, I felt a thrill of uneasiness.
“This is the gentleman from Paris, no doubt,” said Caroline.
I looked at the newcomer, who was just saluting the company; it was
Bélan!
He had already turned in our direction; he bowed to Mademoiselle Derbin,
and, in spite of the signals that I made to him, exclaimed when he saw
me:
“I am not mistaken! it is Blémont! dear Blémont, whom I have not seen
for two years! Ah! my dear friend, embrace me!”
He opened his arms; it seemed to me that I could choke him with great
good will. All eyes were turned upon us. I could not conceal my
embarrassment, my irritation. Bélan seized me and embraced me in spite
of myself, still exclaiming:
“Dear Blémont! how pleasant it is to meet a friend when travelling,
isn’t it?”
“Hum! may the devil take----”
“What’s that? He has not yet got over his surprise.”
Caroline, her attention attracted by the name of Blémont, gazed
steadfastly at me and said to Bélan:
“Why, are you not mistaken, monsieur? It is Monsieur Dalbreuse whom you
are speaking to. Am I not right, monsieur? Pray answer!”