turned his eyes sadly upon the portraits of his children. His eyes
filled with tears as he looked at those he had lost; then he glanced at
the portrait of Albert, which had been painted more recently, and was a
perfect likeness; it seemed that he hoped to derive consolation and
courage from the features of his only remaining child; but in a moment
his eyes began to wander about the room, as if in search of still
another portrait. At last he threw himself into a chair, and, resting
his head on his hand, abandoned himself anew to his reflections.
It was seven o'clock in the morning when Albert returned to his father's
house. It will be remembered that, after passing the night in the
artist's studio, the young men had gone upstairs to see the pretty
neighbor, whom they had surprised in the loft. So Albert had but just
left his friends, when Florent hurried to Monsieur Vermoncey's room to
tell him that his son had come home.
The father's downcast features were instantly lighted up with an
expression of joy and happiness; his son's long absence had really
disturbed him, but a single word put all his fears to flight. He rose
hurriedly, intending to go at once to Albert, then checked himself,
thinking that his son would be angry if he knew that he had not gone to
bed. But the longing to embrace him carried the day, and he went to his
son's room.
Albert's apartment was on the same floor as his father's; only the width
of the hall separated them. The young man had just taken off his coat,
waistcoat, and cravat, and was putting on a robe de chambre, when his
father appeared.
"What! up already?" cried Albert.
Monsieur Vermoncey's only reply was to go to his son and embrace him;
he, meanwhile, scrutinized his father closely, then said:
"I'll wager that you haven't been in bed; yes, I can tell by the tired
look of your eyes; you have had no sleep, probably because I did not
come home; you are quite capable of sitting up all night for me! Allow
me to tell you that that is utterly absurd. Am I still a child? Am I not
at liberty to stay at a house where I am enjoying myself, if I have an
opportunity, or to play a game of cards with my friends? In a word,
father, may I not venture to pass a night away from home, without your
sitting up for me, like a schoolboy who is thought to be lost? I tell
you again that it is very annoying to me!"
"I have not reproached you," said Monsieur Vermoncey, fixing his eyes
upon Albert.
"No, you don't reproach me, but that makes no difference. Do you think
that I can take any pleasure at a party that happens to last far into
the night, if I know that you are sitting up for me, that you are
anxious about me? Nothing of this sort would have happened if I had
carried out my first idea. I wanted to live somewhere else; then you
wouldn't know at what time I came home. I know very well that you don't
interfere with my doing whatever I choose; but a man is always more at
liberty living by himself, and it would be much better."
Monsieur Vermoncey replied, with a melancholy air, but with dignity:
"After all the misfortunes that have crushed me to the earth, I thought
that I might venture to ask you to comply with my wishes in some slight
measure. Having lost your mother, your brothers, and your sister, and
having nothing but your presence to assist me to endure my grief, I
thought that you would not seek to deprive me of it, but that you would
feel how essential it was for me to be able to rest my eyes on one of my
children, the only one heaven has deigned to leave me. In spite of that,
I did not curtail your liberty at all, I claimed no right to pry into
your acts--although, perhaps, a father is entitled to know what his son
is doing. But as it seems that I have asked too much, that, in asking
you to live in the same house with me, I demand too great a sacrifice,
go, my son, leave this apartment; I will not seek to detain you, but I
shall not cease, on that account, to love you as dearly as ever."
While his father was speaking, Albert's expression changed; it was easy
to read in his eyes that his father's reproaches had reached his heart.
Monsieur Vermoncey had hardly finished, when his son threw himself into
his arms.
"I am wrong, father, I am wrong!" he cried; "I am a heedless fool! I
don't know what I am saying! I say things that grieve you, who have
always been so kind and generous and indulgent to me! Please forgive me!
Forget all that I have said, and let there be no more question between
us of living apart. I know that I should never be so happy anywhere else
as with you. All these friends of mine--my companions in pleasure--I go
with them because I have a good time with them; but I promise you that
I appreciate them at their real value. Come, embrace me. You are not
angry with me any longer, are you?"
Monsieur Vermoncey replied by pressing his son to his heart. A loving
word from one we love suffices to make us forget a thousand causes of
complaint that have long been gathering. Moreover, indulgence is always
to be preferred to severity, so long as the faults committed are not of
those which should cause us to blush.
"No, my dear boy, I am not angry now," said Albert's father at last. "I
am well aware that at your age it is natural to seek amusement, and I do
not blame you for it. My affection takes alarm too easily, I agree; but
what can you expect? I have had so much unhappiness! my heart has been
so cruelly torn! Such wounds never heal entirely; they leave us in a
constant state of anxiety concerning the little happiness heaven has
left us. Let us say no more about it. If you are happy, that is all I
want; especially if you deal frankly with your father, if you look upon
him as the best of your friends--I do not mean of those friends whom you
mentioned just now. By the way, among others, there is a Monsieur
Célestin Valnoir, or _de_ Valnoir, who is almost always with you. I
don't like that young man; if he were simply a little wild--a high
liver--that would be nothing; but I do not think that he's sincere."
"Faith! father, you may very well be right about it; however, I am
inclined to call Célestin selfish rather than insincere. He's a
delightful fellow in company, provided that you don't ask him to do
anything for you! Moreover, he has the art of making himself useful,
indispensable, in fact. He can order a dinner perfectly, he plays all
kinds of games, and he talks on all subjects with a cool
self-possession which dazzles and fascinates one. He finds a way to make
one do whatever he wants."
"Take care, my boy; you are naturally trustful and obliging. I know that
you are constantly in this Célestin's company. I have told you many
times that you should be more particular in the choice of your friends
than of your mistresses. You seem to have been spending your money
freely of late; but it is what came to you from your mother, and you are
entitled to spend it as you choose. Come, confess that the funds are
rather low just now."
Albert smiled and lowered his eyes.
"In truth, father--as you are so good at guessing, I will not try to
hide it from you any longer. I have been foolish--very foolish. I have
let myself go without reflection. I have been very unlucky at cards. Oh!
I know that I am very foolish to play; it would be much better never to
touch a card. I will reform. I won't play any more."
"So that now you haven't any money?"
"I haven't a sou! but I have no lack of resources, of acquaintances."
"That's it; you will apply to usurers, who will consummate your ruin,
instead of coming frankly to your father."
"Because you have done so much for me already; I shrank from abusing
your indulgence."
"Nonsense! so long as you love me, I never shall regret what I do for
you. Besides, will not my fortune be yours some day? for you know that I
shall never marry again. My only reason for not turning it all over to
you now is that, as I am more prudent than you, I prefer to keep it for
you until a time when you yourself will be less thoughtless. Now, I look
upon myself as your steward, I am managing your property."
"Oh! father, what do you mean? Are you not at liberty to dispose of your
fortune?"
"For whose benefit would you have me dispose of it, if not for my son's?
But the steward may presume, now and then, to preach a little; then he
will have to turn to and make up the deficit. Here, my boy, take this
wallet; you will find ten thousand francs in it; that will save you the
trouble of applying to your companions in pleasure, who would refuse
you, or to usurers, who, having to wait until my death for their money,
would charge you a hundred per cent interest."
Albert was keenly touched by his father's kindness; he pushed away the
hand that held the wallet, saying:
"You are too good, father; really, you are too good to me! But I will
not take this money, I ought not to take it. You make so many sacrifices
for me, and I am unworthy of them! I spend money so foolishly! No, it's
too much; I will not accept it."
"I insist upon your taking it. I insist, do you hear? Am I not your
father? do you refuse to obey me? If you do, then I shall be seriously
angry."
Albert took the wallet, saying, as he embraced his father:
"Upon my word, you spoil me, as you did when I was a child."
"What would you have? it is my method. I have always thought that
parents had better success by taking that course. I have an idea that,
if I give you money to satisfy your whims, that very fact will lead you
to spend it less heedlessly."
"Yes, you are right; I will make myself worthy of your indulgence."
"Enjoy yourself, be happy, and love me; that is all that I ask of you;
and don't place too much dependence on your friend Célestin, who does
not inspire me with confidence."
"I will follow your advice, father, I promise you."
"And I, for my part, promise to be more reasonable. I will not sit up
for you any more; I will go to bed--do you understand? I will go to bed.
But, I beg you, think of your health, and avoid dangerous intrigues,
which sometimes lead to deplorable results. I will leave you now and get
some sleep. It is understood that you are to come home when you please;
hereafter, I will go to bed."
Monsieur Vermoncey left the room, and Albert threw himself on his couch.
"My father is the best of men," he thought; "but, after all, to do what
he has done was perhaps the only way to make me behave myself. Yes, this
kindness, which nothing wearies, and which leads him, instead of heaping
reproaches on me, to pay the price of my follies again--this touching
kindness makes me realize all the wickedness of my conduct much more
keenly than sermons and harsh treatment would do. I have squandered all
my mother's property in such a short time! I absolutely must reform, for
I do not propose that my father shall straiten himself for me; and that
is what will happen if I continue to lead the life I have been leading.
For I know him; he could never bear to see me in embarrassed
circumstances; he would subject himself to them, to extricate me. So it
is definitely decided, I am to turn virtuous. First of all, I will not
play cards any more; then, I will not associate with Célestin quite so
much; the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that my
father is not very far out of the way in his opinion of him. I have
noticed several things--at all events, I will be on my guard. Now, I
will think of nothing but my good fortune for to-day. Madame Baldimer
has consented to receive me. Strange woman! I am dead in love with her.
But is it really love that I feel for her? Let us see: if, instead of
resisting me as she has done ever since I began to be attentive to her,
she had yielded to me after a feeble resistance, would not my love have
died out long ago? I don't know what to answer. It seems to me that it
would not--and yet--on reflection---- But what's the use? Let us try at
first to triumph. In this affair, at all events, my fortune is in no
danger. Madame Baldimer is rich--that is to say, she seems to be. She is
a widow, consequently her own mistress--no husband to deceive, or to
stand in fear of. I am sure that my father himself would approve of this
liaison."
Having passed some time in such reflections as these, Albert fell asleep
on his couch. When he woke, it was nearly noon, and his appointment was
for one o'clock. He dressed in haste, but with great care, because he
desired to maintain his reputation as one of the leading dandies of the
capital; then, when his costume was complete, he sallied forth, took a
cab, and was driven to Madame Baldimer's house on Rue Neuve-Vivienne.
XIII
MADAME BALDIMER.--A FAN
Let us now make the acquaintance of this lady, with whom Albert was so
madly in love, and with whom his friend Célestin maintained a
correspondence of which he knew nothing.
Madame Baldimer was twenty-eight years of age. Although she was very
beautiful, she appeared fully as old as that, because her features,
faultless and regular as they were, were somewhat pronounced and stern;
because there was in her expression a touch of masculinity, of
intelligence superior to vulgar weaknesses, and the signs of a firm and
resolute will.
Tall, with a superb figure, of lithe and graceful carriage--which is
rare in very tall women;--great black eyes full of fire, hair as black
as jet, a shapely mouth with perfect teeth, sometimes ironical in
expression, sometimes scornful, and sometimes fascinating beyond words;
a white skin slightly lacking in lustre, a beautiful arm, a lovely hand,
but a very long, very broad, and very flat foot,--such was Madame
Baldimer. She always wore extremely long dresses, in order to hide that
portion of her person which did not harmonize with the beauty of her
face and her body.
Madame Baldimer lived on Rue Neuve-Vivienne, in a suite of rooms worthy
of a _petite-maîtresse_ upon whom fortune has lavished its favors. There
she had assembled everything that could gratify the taste of the most
exacting of women: furniture of priceless woods, bronzes, pictures,
porcelain, statuettes, knickknacks, curiosities--nothing had been
overlooked; Madame Baldimer's rooms contained all that the world could
provide in the way of dainty, graceful, and sumptuous objects. It was a
delicious haven of repose, where the feet rested on naught but soft
carpets, where one breathed an atmosphere heavy with perfumes and
flowers, where, in a word, it seemed that the aim had been to assemble
whatever was best adapted to seduce the mind, the eye, and the senses.
It was not the first time that young Vermoncey had called upon Madame
Baldimer; after meeting her in society, fascinated by her beauty, he had
insistently craved the favor of being permitted to pay his court to her;
and that favor had been granted with a readiness that led him to hope
for the speedy triumph of his passion. But he had been disappointed; the
lovely widow, who had appeared to be flattered at first by the effect
her charms produced upon Albert, had received coldly enough the burning
declaration which the young man was not slow in addressing to her;
without absolutely spurning him, she had given him but little hope.
Sometimes stern, sometimes merry, scornful or melancholy, Madame
Baldimer's conduct toward Albert was that of a coquette who seeks to
amuse herself at the expense of the man she has subjugated, or who does
not feel sufficiently assured of her conquest, and, before surrendering,
desires, by all possible means, to inflame and strengthen the sentiment
she has inspired.
Discouraged, and at times disgusted by the non-success of his sighs,
Albert swore to think no more of the fair American, which was the name
by which Madame Baldimer was commonly designated in society. In his
endeavor to forget her, he ceased to go where he was likely to meet
her, in society or at her favorite places of amusement. But just as his
resolution was beginning to bear fruit, and his common sense to triumph
over his passion, he was sure to meet Madame Baldimer somewhere, at the
theatre perhaps, at a concert, or wherever he happened to walk. It
seemed that some evil genius kept her informed of his most trivial acts,
and sent her upon his traces, in order to make him forget his
resolution. The lovely creature exerted every means of seduction in her
power to bring back to her feet the man who was struggling to free
himself from her empire; and when he saw Madame Baldimer again, Albert
speedily forgot her coquetry, and returned to her side more in love than
ever, and always flattering himself that he was to be more fortunate in
his suit.
But for some time past, Albert's vexation at his failure to triumph over
the fair American had been intensified by the torments of jealousy; for
he was not the only man whom Madame Baldimer's charms had fascinated;
and as she was a flirt, she welcomed the homage of several other young
men with as much favor as his. Latterly, a wealthy foreigner, a Swede,
had joined the ranks of her adorers; this gentleman, one Count
Dahlborne, was exceedingly ugly; he was very tall and stiff, with large,
glassy eyes, and a red beard and moustache which made his aspect almost
repulsive, and were ill adapted to attract a _petite-maîtresse_; and
yet, whether from eccentricity or caprice, Madame Baldimer had seemed
for some little time to take more pleasure in the Swedish count's
society than in that of any other aspirant to her favor.
Albert, angry beyond measure, had sworn once more to cease to think of
that woman who made a plaything of his love; and affairs were at that
stage when, on the preceding evening, he and his friends had spied the
fair American in a little _citadine_, driving along the boulevard. We
have seen what followed. Unable to control the passion which dominated
him, Albert wrote to Madame Baldimer, imploring her to accord him a
tête-à-tête, and swearing that she would never see him again if she
refused. The reply was laconic, but favorable. "Come at one o'clock
to-morrow," said the note which he had received from the lovely widow,
and which had made him so happy.
Let us accompany him now to the lady's abode, where he arrived at the
hour mentioned in the note.
A maid ushered the young man into a small salon furnished with all the
dainty coquetry of a boudoir. Enveloped in an ample blouse of white
muslin, gathered about her waist by a gold cord, Madame Baldimer sat, or
rather half reclined, on a divan. Her beautiful black hair was her only
head-dress, but the novel and original fashion in which it was arranged,
and the elegant simplicity of her dress, which heightened her
charms--everything combined to impart to her person something which
would have vanquished the most insensible of men, and Albert was very
far from that.
At sight of the person she expected, and of whose passionate admiration
of her beauty she was well aware, Madame Baldimer's eyes gleamed, and
her face lighted up with a peculiar expression. Was it pleasure, love,
or simple coquetry? One must needs have been a talented physiognomist to
divine what was taking place in that woman's heart.
Albert bowed gracefully, and, at a sign from her, took his seat by her
side.
"I trust that I shall hear no further complaints from you," said Madame
Baldimer, with a smile; "I have given you this rendezvous--the
tête-à-tête for which you asked me. Do you know that that is a very
great favor?"
"Do you imagine, madame, that I am not profoundly conscious of its
value; do you already repent of having afforded me so very great a
pleasure?"
"I never repent of what I have done, for I always reflect before acting;
and I realize all the consequences of what I accord, of what I promise."
"Then you give me leave to love you and to tell you so, to hope that you
will share my sentiments? for all that is the natural consequence of
this priceless interview which you have deigned to grant me."
"Oh! gently, gently, Monsieur Albert; you go too fast. Love me, if you
will; I do not forbid you--far from it; but I must be absolutely certain
of your love, I must be convinced that it is too great to recoil before
any obstacle--any sacrifice--before I make up my mind to yield to it."
"Oh! madame, are you not certain of the power of your charms, of the
boundless influence you exert over me? What proof must you have, in
order to believe in my love? Speak, command!--I am prepared to obey."
Madame Baldimer gazed earnestly at Albert, but in that searching gaze
there was no trace of tenderness, nothing to indicate that it came from
the heart. The young man was almost frightened by the persistent stare
of those two great black eyes; he would have preferred a little
confusion and embarrassment, some slight emotion, a sigh--in a word,
some one of those things which indicate that the moment of avowal, of
surrender, is at hand; and Madame Baldimer's expression conveyed no
such indication.
"You have loved very often, have you not?" murmured the lovely widow at
last.
"So I thought until I knew you, but I feel now that I never really loved
before I saw you."
"Oh, yes! a man always says that to the last woman to whom he pays
court. But I have been told that you have been guilty of a great many
follies for your mistresses."
"Follies do not necessarily denote love."
"Sometimes they do. And suppose I wanted you to do something of the sort
for me----"
"Why, I should be only too happy, if it were a means of making myself
agreeable to you."
"Ah! you do not know me, you see. I am very peculiar. I want the man who
loves me to gratify all my tastes, all my whims; to divine them himself;
I do not understand the love that hesitates before a desire of the loved
one. If I had been a man, I would have thrown myself into the water,
into the flames, to prove my love for a woman! I would have defied all
dangers, challenged all my rivals--in short, I would have turned the
world upside down, aye, and committed crimes, if she had asked me to."
Albert, who was at a loss to understand the purport of her remarks,
looked at her with a smile, saying:
"Have you some little crime you would like me to commit? or would you
like me to jump into the water?"
Madame Baldimer pressed her lips together impatiently, as she replied:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, what will you say next? I should be very sorry,
indeed, if the slightest accident should happen to you on my account.
Really, I don't know why I said that. I don't always consider what I
say."
"But you consider what is said to you, surely?" rejoined Albert, taking
her hand.
She smiled, and seemed to reflect for a moment.
"Where do you live now?" she asked. "Is it true that you have moved?"
"No, madame; I am still in the same house."
"And you live with your father, I believe?"
"On the same landing."
"For a young man who likes to do foolish things, it must be a little
burdensome sometimes to have such a neighbor."
"Oh! no, madame; I am my own master; I do what I choose; my father does
not interfere with me in any way; he is so kind to me!"
"Ah! he loves you very dearly, does he?"
"Yes, I cannot doubt it. And it is quite natural, as I am the only one
left of a numerous family."
"What! has he no other child?"
"I had two brothers and a sister--and I alone am left."
Madame Baldimer let her head fall upon her breast, and seemed lost in
thought.
"But we are talking of very serious subjects," said Albert, after a
pause; "whereas I had no purpose to speak of anything but my love. Tell
me, do you not love me a little?"
Madame Baldimer made no reply, but she allowed her hand to be pressed,
heaved a sigh, and turned her eyes away. The young man was overjoyed; he
thought that his love was beginning to touch the heart that he burned to
subjugate, and he was about to put to his lips the hand that he held in
his, when Madame Baldimer rose abruptly and began to pace the floor.
"Did you see Madame Plays at Count Dahlborne's last reception?" she
asked, in a very vivacious tone. "She wore the sweetest cashmere; it
fairly turned my head; so much so, that I dreamed of it, and I think of
it all the time. There's one just like it at Delille's. They are the
handsomest shawls there are in Paris to-day. I was tempted for a moment
to buy it; but it costs too much; and one would be very foolish to yield
to all one's fancies."
Albert was utterly disconcerted. At the very moment when he thought that
she was about to respond to his loving protestations, she began to talk
about cashmeres! That abrupt sally so bewildered him that he gazed at
Madame Baldimer in blank amazement, and did not know what to reply.
She returned to her seat on the divan, and continued in a most amiable
tone: