Miflorès, thinking that he was about to ask for her stepdaughter's hand;
but he simply bowed and said:
"There's another pickle under that chair."
Monsieur Callé hastened to pick it up and carry it to Mirotaine, who put
it in his pocket, saying to Monsieur Callé:
"You don't let things lie round; you'll make your way."
Dodichet tried hard to enliven the company, and to that end resorted
frequently to the decanter containing brandy, the only liqueur that was
offered the guests; he helped himself to several glasses, and even went
so far as to offer some to the others. Monsieur Mirotaine witnessed this
procedure with impatience.
"That fellow makes too free with my brandy," he muttered; "that's the
third time he's gone back to it; he pours it out as if he were in his
own house! Very bad manners, I call it! I must try to take the decanter
away without my wife's seeing me."
The arrival of several of the guests invited for the evening enabled
Monsieur Mirotaine to carry out his plan.
Goth announced "Mesdames Boulard," and three middle-aged women appeared,
dressed with much coquetry, with little caps that hardly covered the
tops of their heads, from beneath which escaped _chignons_ resembling
muffs. Their hoopskirts were so vast that the upper part of their bodies
seemed to be poised on balloons; the door of the salon was scarcely
wide enough to allow them to pass through.
At sight of this trio, who promised to occupy so much space in the
salon, Dodichet said to Brid'oison:
"Your young Artaban ought to perform some of his gymnastics on those
balloons, to flatten them out a little."
"You are right. The fact is that women are getting to be ridiculous!
before long, one woman alone will fill a whole room! Just look at my
wife--what a difference! I have forbidden her to wear hoops; so that she
can go anywhere; she's a regular knitting needle."
After the Boulards came the brothers Bridoux. They did not assume to
fill much space. They were blowing their noses when they came in, they
continued to hold their noses when they bowed; and when they decided to
release their hold, exhibited faces of that inane, expressionless type
which we see everywhere, and with which we are not tempted to enter into
conversation.
One of the Bridoux concealed himself behind the balloon of one of the
Boulards. The other exclaimed:
"Why, I don't see Mirotaine; where in the world is our dear Mirotaine?"
Dear Mirotaine had gone to put his decanter of brandy in a safe place.
Meanwhile, Madame Putiphar took Dodichet aside and said to him:
"Well, monsieur, how's our business coming on? How does monsieur le
comte like our Juliette? he hasn't said a single pleasant word to her.
What does it mean? don't she take his fancy? We must know what to
expect, you see."
"Don't you be alarmed, Madame de la Toilette; my friend is delighted
with your young lady; he finds her full of intellect and altogether to
his taste."
"How can he judge her intellect? he hasn't opened his mouth to her!"
"No; but he has heard her talk, which amounts to the same thing. Indeed,
she passed him a dish several times and said: 'Will you have some of
this, monsieur?'--And the way she said those simple words enabled him to
detect her merit."
"Well, when will your count make his proposal?"
"To-morrow, probably; you can understand that he isn't likely to do it
to-night, before all these people."
"Then I can tell Monsieur Mirotaine that, and begin to look after the
wedding presents?"
"You must look after them at the earliest possible moment, and see that
they are worthy of a sultan."
The Putiphar woman walked away, delighted, and was on the point of
repeating this conversation to Aldegonde, when Monsieur Dubotté and his
wife were announced.
Madame Éléonore Dubotté was a short, plump woman of twenty-five,
fair-haired and white-skinned, with a round, fresh face, and exceedingly
tender blue eyes, which were fixed upon her husband almost all the time.
You will remember that he complained of being loved too well by his
wife.
Dubotté went to pay his respects to Aldegonde, having with much
difficulty induced his wife to release his arm. Then he shook hands with
Mirotaine, who had reappeared without his decanter, and who seemed much
flattered because Dubotté had at last accepted an invitation to his
house.
But, at sight of Dubotté, Dodichet had made a most amusing grimace.
"The deuce!" he murmured; "here's a contretemps I didn't expect. But,
damn the odds! Phoebus has a very nice little wife; I must pay my
court to her. Let's get over the recognition."
He went straight up to Dubotté, who was already making eyes at
Aldegonde, and cried:
"Halloo! Dubotté, my dear old friend! By Jove! what a pleasant surprise!
How are you, Dubotté? is this your good wife you have brought with you?
Pray present me to her, my dear friend, so that I may congratulate her
on her husband."
Philémon Dubotté uttered an exclamation of surprise when he recognized
Dodichet, who had already seized his hand and was shaking it violently.
"By what chance are you here?" he asked.--"How did you ever come to know
this scamp of a Dodichet, my dear Mirotaine?"
"What's that? Scamp? I advise you to talk, my fair-haired Phoebus! If
your wife wasn't here, I could tell some fine tales about you!"
Monsieur Mirotaine glanced from one to the other of the two friends with
a disturbed expression, and seemed to be waiting for Dubotté to explain
himself more definitely concerning the so-called commission merchant in
sugar, whose free and easy manners were not at all agreeable to him. But
Philémon suddenly spied between two hoopskirts the gentleman who had
been introduced as a wealthy Italian count. He rushed up to him, crying:
"Well, well! I seem to be in a land of old acquaintances! Here's
Monsieur Seringat the druggist, too, whom I had the pleasure of seeing
at Pontoise a year ago.--Good-evening, Monsieur Seringat! how is your
charming wife?"
When he heard himself called by his real name, Seringat turned pale,
then purple; he put his hand to his head with a despairing gesture, and
said in a faltering voice:
"No, that isn't true. I am Miflorès; I don't want to be anything but
Miflorès! Let me alone; I don't know you!"
With that, he pushed aside the two balloons that encompassed him, as
well as all the people who happened to be in his path, hurried from the
salon, seized the first hat he saw in the reception-room, and
disappeared, leaving the whole party speechless with surprise, except
Dodichet, who dropped into a chair and laughed heartily at the effect of
that recognition.
Monsieur Mirotaine was the first who recovered the use of his tongue.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "What! this man who was introduced to
me as a wealthy Italian count, who was looking for a young lady without
a dowry to marry, is a druggist from Pontoise, and married already? Why,
then, I have been made a fool of! There has been an attempt to cheat
me!--Answer, monsieur the commission merchant in sugar, and you, Madame
Putiphar, who undertake to arrange marriages! What have you to say?"
The wardrobe dealer was sorely confused; she pointed to Dodichet,
muttering:
"Why, it was monsieur who told me that he had a friend--who was very
rich--who wanted a wife.--Come, monsieur, didn't you tell me that?"
"Yes, I did," Dodichet replied; "I told you so because I thought so.
That rascal of a Miflorès deceived me too, and I am in despair.--But,
after all, Monsieur Mirotaine, I don't see that there's any occasion for
you to fly into such a rage. This mistake has afforded you an
opportunity to give your friends a dinner party; you certainly can't be
sorry for that. And as for myself, it has given me the pleasure of
making your acquaintance, which I hope to cultivate. I will bring you
some specimens of sugar and molasses, first quality. Meanwhile, I must
run after this Miflorès, who has deceived me shamefully. He will have my
life, or I his; but I prefer to have his.--Mesdames, I lay my homage at
your feet!"
And Dodichet disappeared almost as abruptly as Seringat.
"Do you suppose that he will really fight with that pretended count?"
Monsieur Mirotaine asked Dubotté.
"He, fight with the other one! It's easy to see that you don't know
Dodichet! He's a _blagueur_ of the first order, and all this is only a
practical joke that he undertook to play on you."
Monsieur Mirotaine fell into a chair, utterly overwhelmed.
"A dinner of eleven covers!" he murmured. "Oh! my fine claret!"
"And your pretended count has carried off my hat!" shouted Monsieur
Brid'oison, prowling around the dining-room.
"Cheer up, my dear," said his wife; "the one he has left behind is much
newer than yours!"
IX
HOW IT BEGAN
Madame Dermont occupied a pretty little apartment on Rue de
Paradis-Poissonnière; she had only one servant, but that was enough for
a woman who lived alone, received little company, and was happier in her
own home than at the most fashionable social assemblages. She had about
eight thousand francs a year; that would have been very little for one
who desired to follow all the fashions and to live a life of luxury and
dissipation; it was quite sufficient for one who, like her, did not seek
to cut a figure in the world, and who loved to think.
Nathalie was in her salon, seated at her piano and looking at the music.
But her fingers were motionless on the keys; it is probable, therefore,
that the young woman was thinking of something different from what was
before her. It was two hours after her visit to her young friend
Juliette.
She was roused from her reverie by the bell. The sound made her start;
and yet, she no longer expected anyone--at least, she no longer expected
the person of whom she was thinking.
The servant announced Monsieur Adhémar Monbrun. At that name, Nathalie
trembled and the blood rose to her cheeks; she struggled to conceal her
emotion, cast a glance at her dress, and told the maid to admit the
visitor.
Adhémar entered with the ease of manner which is due to familiarity with
good society, and is the especial attribute of men of letters and
artists.
"I have come rather tardily, madame," he said, "to thank you for your
kindness in sending to inquire about the trifling burn on my hand. You
must have considered me very discourteous for not coming at once to
offer you my acknowledgments, did you not, madame?"
"Why, no, monsieur; not at all. You had burned yourself in my cause;
surely, the least I could do was to inquire concerning the condition of
your burn; it was my duty; whereas there was no sort of obligation on
you, monsieur, to put yourself out and waste your time by calling upon
me."
"Oh! madame, allow me to believe that you do not think so ill of me as
to deem it possible that it could put me out to come to see you. I
should be a very unfortunate mortal if it were not a pleasure to me. But
my reason for not coming was----"
"Well, monsieur, it was----?"
"Mon Dieu! madame, I don't know just how to say it. I am
embarrassed----"
"You, monsieur, embarrassed with a lady! Oh! I can't believe it--unless,
indeed, you have something very disagreeable to say to her; in that
case, I can imagine that it comes hard to you."
"Ah! it seems to me that one could never willingly be disagreeable to
you--and yet----"
"Well! you haven't told me yet why you didn't come before."
"Well, madame, it was because I thought that when a man had the good
fortune to be received by you, he must inevitably feel a desire to come
often--yes, very often--and that that might offend you."
Nathalie lowered her eyes, and murmured:
"Really? was that why you didn't come?"
"Yes. You know, madame, there is a proverb that warns us against playing
with fire; and, to me, you are the fire at this moment."
"You have already proved to my satisfaction that you are not afraid of
it. Do all women cause you such terror? Frankly, monsieur, I do not
believe it!"
"Oh, no, madame! there are some with whom one cannot encounter anything
more dangerous than an _ignis fatuus_--and that is not to be feared."
"A truce to jesting, Monsieur Adhémar; I want to see your wrist, and
satisfy myself that it is really well."
Adhémar pulled up his sleeve and showed her the wrist that had been
burned. The better to examine it, Nathalie must needs take the hand
which was held out, and draw it toward her; and that hand, when she
touched it, presumed to press hers very tenderly, thereby causing keen
emotion to the young woman, who faltered:
"It is cured, but you have a great scar there. Mon Dieu! shall you
always have it?"
"I hope so!"
"What do you say? you hope so? Why?"
"Because it will remind me of the day when I had the good fortune to be
of some little service to you."
"Some little service! Why do you say a little, when it is quite possible
that you saved my life?"
"Ah! if you really do owe me anything, it depends only on you to pay the
debt."
"How, pray?"
"You cannot guess, madame?"
"No, monsieur; I am not good at guessing."
"Oh! I beg your pardon--but you should be better able than any other to
divine the thoughts that come from the heart."
"Why I, more than another?"
"Because there is a something in your eyes which indicates their
perspicacity."
"If my eyes have such a peculiar expression, I shall not dare to raise
them again."
"Oh! do not deprive me of the pleasure of looking at them; that would be
a punishment."
"Come, come, monsieur, don't talk to me in this way; you are in the
habit of making pretty speeches to all women, no matter how little they
may deserve them; but, as a general rule, they are accustomed to your
language, to your flatteries, and they laugh at them because they know
that they must not take too seriously the gallant speeches of a man to
whom love is only a pleasant pastime. But I am not one of those women,
monsieur! I go into society very little, and the life that artists lead
is entirely unfamiliar to me. You will agree, will you not, that if I
should take what you have said to me as being said in earnest, if I
should place any reliance on your words, I should make a great mistake
and should very soon have reason to repent?"
Adhémar was silent for a few moments; but he looked at Nathalie, and his
expression was almost sad. At last he said, with a sigh:
"Ah! madame, if I had the good fortune to be loved, I should be too
happy! But, no; women are all inconstant, they never love truly; they
want to be adored, but they reserve the right to love us only in
accordance with their caprice."
Nathalie could not restrain a smile, as she replied:
"You have a very singular way of paying court to one of them!"
"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame, I beg your pardon; I didn't mean that to
apply to you!"
"But you were speaking of women in general?"
"True; but, of course, there are exceptions."
"Have you never met any of the exceptions?"
"No, I have not had that good fortune."
"And that is what has given you such a bad opinion of all women?"
"Oh! I am wrong, no doubt; for, after all, the fact that no one has ever
loved me doesn't prove that they may not have loved others."
"Do you say that no one has ever loved you, monsieur?"
"Never really, madame."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Only too sure, alas!"
"But, monsieur, have you, who think that no one has ever really loved
you, have you yourself ever loved in that way?"
Adhémar did not reply for some seconds, then murmured:
"Why, I think so----"
"Ah! you are not perfectly sure!"
"When one is inclined to love passionately, madame, if he sees that his
passion is not reciprocated, don't you think that that should suffice to
lessen his ardor?"
"No, monsieur, I do not think so; I think that when one is really in
love, it is not so easy to banish from one's heart the object of one's
love. In short, it is my opinion that love is not to be reasoned with,
and that when you come to the point where you begin to reason you have
ceased to love. But, upon my word, this is a strange conversation; one
would think that we had to write an essay on the proper way to
love.--Have you produced a new play or written a new novel since I saw
you?"
"No, madame, no; I have done nothing."
"You have been lazy, eh? Fie! that's very bad!"
"No, I haven't been lazy; but I have been preoccupied--which is by no
means the same thing, and is a much greater hindrance to work."
"You know Monsieur Lucien Grischard, do you not, monsieur?"
"I do, madame; but how did you know?"
"Oh! in the most natural way; this Monsieur Lucien knows--indeed, I may
say that he is courting a young lady who is my most intimate friend,
Mademoiselle Juliette Mirotaine."
"Yes, he is very much in love with her, and would like to marry her; he
has told me that."
"And Juliette has no secrets from me; she is very fond of this Lucien,
whom her father refuses to allow her to marry. She has told me all her
sorrows."
"Very good; but I don't quite see where I come in."
Nathalie blushed, hesitated, and finally replied:
"If my friend tells me everything that interests her, do you not think,
monsieur, that I should do as much? That accident of mine--which, but
for you, might have been so disastrous to me--I told her about that, and
naturally I told her the name of the person who had--burned himself in
his efforts to put out the fire. When she heard your name, which is so
well known, she cried: 'That gentleman is a friend of Lucien!'--And that
is how I knew that you know him. Is that explanation satisfactory,
monsieur?"
"Ah! madame, it is a thousand times too kind of you to give it to me; my
reason for asking was to find out whether you had remembered me."
"It would have been very ungrateful on my part to forget you so soon."
"Mon Dieu! madame, a very clever man has said: 'Ingratitude is
independence of the heart!'--That is rather sad, but it is more or less
true."
"No, monsieur; ingratitude simply proves that one has no heart."
The conversation was prolonged to a great length between those two, who
understood each other so well even when they were silent. But Adhémar
was afraid of presuming too far, as it was his first visit; so he took
his leave of Madame Dermont at last, saying:
"Will you allow me to come to see you again?"
Nathalie accorded him that permission with such a pleasant smile that it
was impossible to doubt the pleasure it afforded her to give it.
As he left the pretty widow's presence, Adhémar said to himself:
"That is a most charming woman; I feel that I should soon love her
dearly. Perhaps it would be wiser for me not to see her again; for, if I
yield to the temptation to love her in good earnest, she will do like
the rest, she will deceive me and make me unhappy. But I am arguing as
if she were already my mistress! What right have I to think that she
will love me, that she will yield to me? But something tells me that she
will. Well, after all, why should I be afraid to be happy when the
opportunity offers? 'We must love!' said Jean-Jacques; 'we must love!'
said Voltaire.--That is the only subject, I fancy, on which those two
famous men agreed. So we must not repulse love when it tries to steal
into our hearts; and even though it should cause us more pain than
pleasure, that is better than not to love at all."
Madame Dermont did not say all that to herself, but she yielded to the
impulse of her heart, which disposed her to love Adhémar; his
personality attracted her, and even before she knew him she loved him
for what he had written. Now that she knew him, it gave her pleasure to
hear him talk; a secret sympathy drew her toward him, and, despite his
low opinion of women, she did not try to combat the love which was
taking possession of her heart; she hoped to compel him in the end to do
justice to her sex; for, as she was not fickle in her tastes, she could
not understand how all women could be frivolous and inconstant.
It caused her great joy, therefore, to hear Adhémar ask permission to
call upon her again; and if she was unable to conceal the pleasure that
request afforded her, it was because she was not a coquette and did not
attempt to hide her real feelings beneath a feigned indifference.
X
THE DUBOTTÉ HOUSEHOLD
It is time for us to turn our attention to that husband whom his wife
adored--a state of affairs which is sometimes seen, but which is of
uncommon occurrence none the less. And instead of manifesting his
gratitude for that conjugal adoration, and for the loving caresses which
his wife lavished upon him, by graceful little attentions and amiable
behavior, the husband in question seemed, on the contrary, fatigued,
annoyed, bored, by madame's caresses; indeed, he sometimes evaded them
on the most frivolous pretexts. For men are made that way; and if their
wives deceived them, they would fall in love with them again. Poor, weak
mortals! who complain when you possess, and complain even more loudly
when you have ceased to possess! You are never content, and it is so
with everything! As for myself, ever since I was born, I have constantly
heard men complain of their plight in love, in politics, and in
business; I have always found people discontented; and, at all periods
of time, and under all governments, I have heard merchants and tradesmen
say: "Everything is at a standstill; there's nothing doing; business is
wretched!" and other complaints of the same sort, which do not prevent
business from going on as usual--some making their fortunes, others
becoming insolvent, as in all times.
After the hurried exit of the false Italian count and the commission
merchant in sugar, the remainder of Monsieur Mirotaine's guests were, as
may be imagined, in a state of much confusion and excitement; those who
had been present at the dinner, and were aware of its object, looked at
one another without speaking; but those who had come for only the
evening plied the host and his wife with innumerable questions; while
they as persistently questioned Dubotté, who had laid bare the fraud.
"But are you quite sure, my dear Dubotté," said Mirotaine, "that this
pretended Count Miflorès is really one Seringat?"
"Perfectly sure; Seringat, apothecary at Pontoise. I passed nearly two
months in that city, where I went to receive a legacy.--You remember,
Nonore?"
"Oh! I should say so! I was unhappy enough while you were away; I did
nothing but cry!"
"You cry far too much when I am away, my dear love; you must cure
yourself of that habit, or it will make your eyes as red as a
rabbit's.--As I was saying, during my stay at Pontoise I met Monsieur
Seringat in society several times."
"And he is married?"
"Very well married; to a very pretty woman, who, I am sure, does not
amuse herself weeping when her husband is away. I had the pleasure of
dancing with her at a party given by the notary of the town."
"Ah! you bad man! you danced when I wasn't there!"
"My dear love, if when a man is married he is debarred from tripping the
light fantastic except with his wife, it would be enough to disgust men
with marriage forever! You absolutely refuse to realize that although a
man has a wife he is none the less bound to be always polite and
agreeable to other women. I have told you that a hundred times!"
"And what about his wife?"
"Parbleu! his wife has the same rights! And, above all things, she ought
not to do as you do--keep herself in her husband's pocket all the time.
Why, it's beastly form; it's as vulgar as the devil! You really must
cure yourself of that; I don't want you to be vulgar."
"But," continued Monsieur Mirotaine, "I cannot see what motive this
Monsieur Seringat can have had to present himself in a respectable
house, under a name which doesn't belong to him, and as a man who
desires to marry?"
"He told you that he desired to marry?"
"He didn't breathe a word of it," said Aldegonde, "and he didn't make a
single effort to talk with Juliette."
"Then why do you say that he wants to marry; for, unless his wife is
dead--and that seems to me most improbable, as she was young, and as
fresh as a rose----"
"You noticed that, Philémon?"
"Oh! my dear love, don't comment in this way on every word I say, I beg
you! I have noticed many other women since."
"Ah! you villain! And what about me?"