me that that's something to say!--To cut it short, my dear Mirotaine, I
tell you again, this whole business is probably a joke invented by my
friend Dodichet, who passes his time looking about for somebody to make
a fool of. And so, although he's an old schoolmate of mine, I have never
asked him to my house; not that I am afraid of his nonsense; I have a
wife, thank God! with whom I can sleep with both eyes shut!"
"And that is just what you do, my dear; you always sleep when you're
with me."
"Hush, Nonore! These domestic details are never talked about in
company."
"Why not, my dear?"
"Why, because----"
Monsieur Mirotaine was as savage as a bulldog because he had given a
dinner party to no purpose. Aldegonde was annoyed at being deceived by
her dealer in wardrobes, who had gone away in dire confusion at having
made a mess of it. The rest of the company soon followed Madame
Putiphar's example; the three balloons withdrew, constantly colliding
with one another; Monsieur Brid'oison, in the hat which had been left in
place of his; Artaban, climbing on his father's shoulders; Madame
Trichon, rubbing the eye which had received the pickled onion; and young
Callé, looking longingly at Aldegonde, who did not look at him because
she was angry. Juliette alone was happy, but she dared not show it.
Lastly, Dubotté and his wife took leave of the host and hostess.
"This party has been a failure," said Philémon to young Callé, who put
on his gloves as he went downstairs. "It's only ten o'clock--what in the
deuce can we do now?"
"Seven minutes past ten!" said the young spark, looking at his watch; "I
agree with the Treasury."
"Never mind; a fellow can't go home to bed at seven minutes after ten;
for my part, I hate to go to bed early."
"True--it's bad form."
"But you always want me to go to bed early, my dear."
"Yes--because it's very healthy for women; they need more sleep than we
do.--Which way are you going, Monsieur Callé?"
"Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, No. 8, monsieur."
"Indeed! and we live on Rue Bleue, within a few steps. By the way,
Monsieur Callé, are you related to a Callé of Lyon, wholesale dealer in
silks?"
"He's my cousin, monsieur."
"Pardieu! he's one of my best friends. When we were bachelors, he used
to come to Paris often; we've had many a spree together!"
"What, my dear! did you ever go on sprees?"
"I was speaking to Monsieur Callé, Nonore; it doesn't concern you.--So
you are Édouard Callé's cousin?"
"I have that honor."
"Sapristi! what a bore it is to go home at ten o'clock!"
"If you want to take me anywhere, my dear, I am all ready."
"Why, no, madame, no; I don't care to take you anywhere to-night. It's
too late to go to the theatre--so there's nowhere to go but a café, and
men don't take their wives to a café; it's very bad form. Besides, women
don't enjoy it, and they're terribly in the way."
"But you go there a great deal!"
"I go to my club--a most excellent club, where one can always have a
game of cards; and I confess that I am strongly inclined to go there and
play a game of whist."
"Well! take me to your club."
"Upon my word! as if women were ever admitted! Women at a club! Why, we
couldn't hear ourselves talk! I feel just like going there to-night, but
it's in an entirely different direction from my house. It just occurs to
me that as Monsieur Callé lives in our quarter, it would not
inconvenience him very much to leave you at our door; in that way, I
could go to my club."
"I am entirely at your service, monsieur, and it will give me great
pleasure to escort madame."
"What! you are going to leave me, Philémon? you are going to send me
home with monsieur, whom I hardly know?"
"Why, bless my soul, Nonore! I don't see that monsieur has a very
terrifying aspect. Besides, he is a friend of Mirotaine, and the cousin
of a man with whom I am very intimate; so he isn't a stranger to me."
"I don't care for that; you know very well that I am not in the habit of
taking any man's arm but yours."
"Exactly; and it's a most absurd idea, of which you must cure
yourself."
With that, the fair-haired beau took his wife's arm from within his own
and turned it over to the young man, who was modestly waiting.
"My dear Monsieur Callé," he said, "I intrust my wife to you, and my
mind is entirely at ease; I am convinced that you won't lose her."
"Oh! no, monsieur; I will not leave madame until she is safely inside
her door."
"Thanks.--Au revoir, Nonore! go right to bed; I shan't be late."
"Philémon! Philémon! you are going away without kissing me!"
But Philémon was already at some distance; delighted to be rid of his
wife, he had fairly taken to his heels. The loving Éléonore heaved a
profound sigh, and decided at last to take the arm which young Callé
offered her. They walked away, the little woman still sighing, her
escort cudgelling his brain to think of something to say to console her.
"If madame thinks that we are walking too fast," he faltered at last,
"we can walk more slowly."
"Oh! this is all right, monsieur."
And they walked on in silence. In a moment, the little woman, who was
rather fond of talking, opened the conversation.
"You are not married, are you, monsieur?"
"No, madame; I am a bachelor."
"When you are married, shall you send your wife home under the escort of
some acquaintance?"
"Mon Dieu! madame, I must confess that I don't know what I shall do."
"Shall you be displeased if your wife always wants to go out with you?"
"Oh! I think not, madame."
"Will it annoy you, if she comes to you often for a kiss?"
"Oh! certainly not; far from it! especially if--especially if she--no,
it wouldn't annoy me."
Monsieur Callé had tried to pay a compliment to the lady on his arm, but
it would not come out.
"Well," continued Éléonore, "my husband often pushes me away when I take
a fancy to kiss him."
"He does it in joke, of course?"
"No, monsieur; sometimes he even scolds me; he declares that my manners
are vulgar; that only workingmen's wives kiss their husbands like that.
Is that true?"
"Oh! I can't tell you, madame."
"If it is, I am sorry my husband isn't a workingman; because then I
could kiss him when I wanted to, and he wouldn't think I was
ridiculous."
Callé made no reply, but he thought:
"It seems that this lady is very fond of kissing. If I were her husband,
I wouldn't object. She isn't such a beautiful woman as Madame Mirotaine,
but her manner is gentler--and then, she seems to be very caressing."
In due time they arrived at Dubotté's abode. Éléonore thanked her
escort, who bowed respectfully and tried again to make some
complimentary remark, but with no better success, although his efforts
were rewarded by a courtesy.
"That gentleman is very polite," said Madame Dubotté to herself, as she
entered the house; "but he doesn't talk enough."
Monsieur Dubotté, who returned home very late that night, because he had
been elsewhere than to his club, did his utmost to get into bed without
waking his wife; a manoeuvre which he often executed, and in which he
was very skilful. The next morning, while he was dressing, he said to
madame:
"Well, my dear love, were you content with your escort? You got home
without accident, I fancy?"
"Oh! yes, he's a very nice young man; he brought me to the door."
"Pardieu! did you suppose he would drop you half-way? You asked him to
come to see us, I hope?"
"No, I didn't; why should I ask him?"
"You should have done so; it would have been no more than polite. Do you
know, I like that little Callé; I should be very glad to have him visit
us. He's a young man to whom one can safely intrust his wife."
"Why, my dear, do you expect to send me about with another man often?"
"I don't say that; but there are unforeseen circumstances. For instance:
we have tickets to the theatre; I often have them, you know, through my
connection with the actors. Well, I can't go; or, at least, I can't go
till very late; then what do I do? I ask Callé to escort you to the
theatre, and I join you there when I have finished my business; do you
see?"
"What! you would let me go to the theatre with another man? O Philémon!"
"But if I come and join you there, it's precisely the same thing as if I
went with you! That sort of thing is done every day."
"Well, I simply shouldn't enjoy it without you."
"Don't you understand that I would come, too--later?"
"That isn't the same thing."
"Oh! how far behind the times you are, my dear love! Luckily, I know
that young man's address; he told us what it was: No. 8, Rue de la Tour
d'Auvergne."
"And you mean to go to see him?"
"His cousin was my intimate friend, and he can tell me something about
him. Stay! I have an idea: I'll invite him to dinner; the fellow's all
right socially, so that we can afford to receive him; he isn't like that
scamp Dodichet--there's a man I will never invite! That was a neat trick
he played on Mirotaine. But why is this Seringat, this Pontoise
druggist, in Paris under an assumed name? What can he have done with his
wife? If I had time, I'd go to Pontoise and find out."
"You'd take me with you, wouldn't you?"
"Oh! there you are again! how amusing that would be! To stuff my wife in
my pocket for a little trip of twenty-four hours, and double, yes,
treble the expense! That would be downright idiocy. But, don't worry; I
haven't the time to go to Pontoise."
XI
DUBOTTÉ ATTEMPTS TO TRAIN HIS WIFE
A few days later, Dubotté said to his wife:
"My dear love, we shall have two people to dinner to-morrow; tell the
cook to be careful with the dinner, and, above all things, don't forget
the sweets; I don't enjoy my dinner, you know, unless I have sweets."
"Yes, you have a very sweet tooth."
"Every man who loves women must love sweet things."
"Ah! you love them too well, you bad boy!"
"Sweet things?"
"No, women! If you loved only your own wife, it would be all right."
"My dear love, I might retort: I love _crême au chocolat_! But if you
should always give me that for dinner, I might get tired of it."
"What does that mean? that you care no more for me than you do for a
_crême au chocolat_?"
"That was a little joke. Think about your dinner for to-morrow."
"Whom have you asked? My two dear friends, Madame Lambert and her
sister, I am sure."
"No, I haven't asked your friends. Madame Lambert takes snuff, and I
consider it a detestable habit in a woman. Let her smoke, if she wants
to; I can stand that; there are some very pretty women who smoke,
nowadays. But to carry a snuff-box! horror! When she takes out her
handkerchief, you would think you were in a porter's lodge. With her
sister it's something else: whenever you look at her, she throws her
head to one side and shakes it and blinks her eyes."
"That isn't her fault; it's a nervous trouble."
"I don't say it is her fault, but I don't dare to look at people who
have that sort of trouble; I am always afraid that I shall do just what
they do. I have asked two gentlemen to dinner; that will be livelier,
not so strait-laced; we can laugh and enjoy ourselves. There'll be
Bruneau, one of my fellow clerks in the department----"
"Oh! I don't like your friend Bruneau; he's good for nothing but to
smoke and drink beer, and doesn't enjoy himself anywhere except in
cafés. As soon as dinner's over, he'll want to go to the café, of
course. So polite to me! If he would only go alone, I wouldn't care a
rap; but he always takes you with him!"
"Oh! no, not always; only once in a while, to play a four-handed game of
dominoes; he's very strong at it."
"And who's the other?"
"The other--can't you guess? It's the young man who was obliging enough
to escort you home the other evening--Monsieur Callé."
"Have you been to his house?"
"I was on my way there when I met him. He told me all about his cousin,
and we had quite a long talk; he seems a very pleasant fellow."
"That's funny, for he hardly spoke a word to me."
"He looks as if he was very bashful. However, I asked him to come to
dinner to-morrow, and he seemed much flattered by the invitation."
"What's the sense of having him to dinner?"
"My dear love, we must have a little company, deuce take it! we can't
live like bears!"
"You never ask _my_ friends!"
"If there were any pretty women among them, I'd invite them fast enough,
never fear! but they vie with one another in ugliness."
"That does not prevent their being agreeable!"
"For my part, I find them mortally tiresome."
Young Callé, who was deeply touched by Dubotté's invitation, did not
fail to appear promptly, after taking the most minute pains with his
costume; for his bashfulness did not prevent his being a good deal of a
dandy. Éléonore greeted her quondam cavalier graciously enough, although
he could not succeed in uttering the compliment he tried to address to
her; the little woman felt more at ease with a bashful young man, and
she liked him much better than Monsieur Bruneau, the frequenter of
cafés.
The latter was a man of forty years, neither handsome nor ugly, but
always carelessly dressed. There was always a certain disorder in his
costume, although his clothes themselves were as fine as other men's.
But, generally speaking, it is the way clothes are worn that makes all
the difference, and we see men very well dressed who never look so,
while others, even in the simplest costume, seem to be dressed with the
greatest elegance. Monsieur Bruneau never wore gloves, he had a sort of
dirty aspect, and smelt of tobacco a mile away. He passed all the time
he was not employed at the department in playing dominoes and drinking
beer or absinthe. To his mind, women were of less importance than the
double-blank. But Dubotté was much attached to Bruneau, because when he
desired to keep an appointment with one of the fair sex he had only to
make a sign to his friend, who never failed to say:
"Just come to the café for a few moments; those domino fiends are
waiting for us; we'll play the best two games in three, then you can
come back to your wife."
Dubotté would assent, promise Éléonore to return very soon, and pass the
whole evening away from her. It was small wonder, therefore, that such
friends were not at all welcome to madame, and that she preferred to
them a young man who was so bashful that he stumbled over a compliment.
Dubotté received Callé as if he had known him for years; he shook hands
with him effusively; a little more, and he would have embraced him.
Dinner was served, and, in the midst of the conversation, Dubotté
exclaimed:
"Pardieu! I know now why Dodichet played that joke on poor Mirotaine; it
has just come back to me. One of our mutual friends, a poor fellow named
Lucien, is in love with Mademoiselle Mirotaine.--Did you know that,
Monsieur Callé?"
"Yes, monsieur; I have heard Madame Mirotaine say so; but as the young
man has nothing, they refuse to give him Mademoiselle Juliette."
"Exactly; Lucien told us about it not long ago; he was afraid that some
rich man would marry the girl, who has no dowry, but who is very
pretty.--Don't you think she's pretty, Nonore?"
"Oh, yes! to those who like brunettes."
"And I remember that Dodichet said to Lucien: 'Don't you want me to help
along your love affair by playing some good practical joke on your old
skinflint of a Mirotaine?'--He called him an old skinflint, because he's
very close-fisted, very miserly; you must have noticed that?"
"I have never paid any attention to that, monsieur."
"Well, he didn't miss fire."
"Oh! but that was a very scurvy trick for him to play--to get himself
and his friend invited to dinner!"
"And by Mirotaine! For my part, I think it was very clever! Dodichet is
really much cleverer than I supposed."
"What does he do?"
"Mon Dieu! nothing at all. He has run through all his property, making
sport of everybody all the while! But what will it bring him to?
Starvation!--for, in this world, we all have to do something in order to
succeed--to make a good position for ourselves;--eh, Bruneau?"
"How's that? what?"
"Pshaw! he never attends to the conversation!"
"Give me something to drink; I like that better."
"I was saying that everyone has his goal here on earth; I know what mine
is, and I shall get there!--You must have a goal, too, Monsieur
Callé--you, too, want to arrive, eh?"
"Arrive where, monsieur?"
"I have no idea. What is your business?"
"I haven't any, monsieur; I don't do anything. I have ten thousand
francs a year."
"That makes a difference--you have arrived!"
"I," said Monsieur Bruneau, "am one of the strongest domino players in
Paris; and that was the point I wanted to arrive at.--Do you play
dominoes, monsieur?"
"No, monsieur; I don't know how to play anything but bézique."
"Ah! do you play bézique?" cried Dubotté. "That's my wife's favorite
game; she adores bézique.--Isn't that so, Nonore? aren't you very fond
of the game?"
"Yes, my dear, I like to play with you."
"True; but you'd enjoy it much more to play with somebody else; for when
you and I play, whether the stakes are two sous or ten, we never pay;
how exciting that is! With anybody else, you stake your money in
earnest, and defend it, which is always much more interesting."
After dinner, Dubotté immediately prepared a card table and said to
Callé:
"You and my wife must play a game of bézique; she plays very well."
"With pleasure, monsieur; I will do whatever you wish."
"It would be much better for you to play with monsieur, my dear; you
play much better than I."
"Not by any means! I tell you that you know the game perfectly."
"But what will you do while we play?"
"I will look over you, or talk with Bruneau; don't worry about me."
The little woman concluded to take the cards, solely to obey her
husband, for she had a shrewd suspicion that he would not stay long to
watch the game. Young Callé, who was ready to do whatever was wanted,
seated himself opposite Éléonore, and said:
"How much does madame wish to play for?"
"I don't care at all."
"With how many packs?"
"I don't know."
"How much shall we play for?"
"Whatever you choose."
"Come, come, my dear love, don't be such a fool! Sapristi! you play with
four packs, ten sous the game of two thousand; we make the five hundred
and the fifteen hundred with treble bézique--that's how we always
play.--Is that satisfactory to you, Callé?"
"Oh! anything suits me, monsieur."
The game began. Dubotté stood by the table at first, watching the game,
and exclaiming from time to time:
"Bravo, Nonore, bravo! you play superbly; you will certainly win.--I
think my wife will beat you, Callé!"
"I trust so, monsieur."
When the game was well under way, Dubotté made a sign to Bruneau, who
said:
"I promised Durand to meet him at the café this evening; I must go."
"Ah! will Durand be at the café? I have a matter of business to talk
over with him."
"Very well; come down there for a moment with me."
"I think I will, as it's only a step. I'll just go and say two words to
him."
Seeing Dubotté take his hat, his wife cried:
"What, Philémon! are you going out?"
"For ten minutes only; I will come right back."
"And monsieur here?"
"Pardieu! I don't stand on ceremony with Monsieur Callé. He will
certainly excuse me if I go out for a moment."
"Oh! as long as you choose, monsieur; don't mind me."
"Besides, you're playing cards with him. Play on! play on! make double
bézique! I am coming right back."
"But, Philémon----"
"I shall be here in ten minutes."
And the fair-haired beau vanished with his confederate, Bruneau. Nonore
sighed, but continued to play. She vanquished her opponent, who lost
every game. Did he do it as a matter of courtesy, or was luck constantly
on the young woman's side? She kept saying to him:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, it must vex you to lose all the time!"
"No, madame; far from it."
"When you have had enough, we will stop."
"Oh! I never have enough, when I have the pleasure--when I am playing
with--a person----Four aces, madame."
"Mark them, monsieur."
Midnight found Callé still at bézique with Madame Dubotté, who had won
four francs, but was beginning to yawn. When the clock struck twelve,
she said:
"You see, monsieur; this is what my husband means by ten minutes!"
"He must have been detained, madame, or his watch has stopped."
"No, monsieur; but it's always this way when he goes out alone, and it
makes me very unhappy! It is midnight, monsieur, and I must not impose
upon your good nature any longer. We have played enough. My husband is
far from polite, I must say! He asks you to dinner, and then goes
out----"
"Oh! madame--I assure you that--I much prefer--I did not
care--especially as----"
"Good-night, Monsieur Callé!"
"Madame, I have the honor to salute you!"
And the young man took his leave without finishing his compliment.
XII
EXPEL THE NATURAL INSTINCTS, AND THEY RETURN AT THE GALLOP
A month had passed since Adhémar paid his first visit to Madame Dermont.
In the week following their conversation, he had called every other day,
and since then had not let a single day pass without seeing her. What
had happened between them that their intimacy had become so close? It
seems to me that you should be able to guess.
Nathalie had made an instant conquest of Adhémar's heart; she was the
woman whom he was seeking, whom he desired to meet, whom he ardently
longed to have for his mistress, and, above all, by whom he aspired to
be loved; she possessed all that he wished to find in a sweetheart; and
still he had tried for some time--not for long--to struggle against the
inclination of his heart; for the more strongly he felt that he really
loved Nathalie, the stronger was his foreboding that he should be
unhappy if he could not succeed in inspiring something more than a mere
passing sentiment in return for a sincere passion.
Nathalie, on the other hand, had not tried to combat the sentiments
which Adhémar aroused in her heart. Being a widow, and absolute mistress
of her acts, why should she have spurned the love which she read in his
eyes, and which he expressed so well? A coquettish woman would, perhaps,
have postponed the moment of surrender; a woman who is really in love
offers only a weak resistance, for she shares the happiness she gives.
Adhémar often asked Nathalie now:
"Is it really true that you love me?"
"Ah! my dear, how can you ask me that? What fresh proof do you want me
to give you of my love?"
"Forgive me! that isn't what I meant. I only feared--for I am not
agreeable every day--I dreaded that--that you might cease to love me."
"How ill you judge me! Do you take me for one of those women to whom
love is a mere whim and never a real sentiment?"
"No, no, I don't think so; I was wrong; I am often unjust."
"You are afraid that I shall not always find you agreeable?--what
nonsense! When you are with me, I am happy, and that is enough for me.
Be thoughtful, abstracted--serious even! I see you and am with you; I
ask nothing more. I say to myself: 'He is thinking about his work,
about some new plot, perhaps. I mustn't disturb him. In a moment, he
will come back to me; he will see that I am by his side.'"
"Ah! Nathalie! I love you so dearly! Do you know, it seems to me
sometimes that I love you too much!"
"One never loves too much, my dear, when he inspires as much love as he
gives. Believe me, you do not go ahead of me!"
And, on leaving her, Adhémar said to himself:
"Yes, she really loves me; for, if she doesn't, why should she pretend
to? What motive has she to deceive me? She certainly is not guided by
any selfish interest, for she refuses to receive the slightest present
from me; she told me in the most positive terms that she would be
seriously angry with me if I gave her anything but flowers!--'I have the
wherewithal to satisfy all my tastes and fancies,' she said; 'I want
nothing from you but love; the best gift from you would offend me, for I
should say to myself that you thought it was necessary to make me love
you!'--I had no choice but to obey her.--Upon my word, I believe I have
found a woman who will not deceive me! it's a miracle!"
In return for her affection, Madame Dermont demanded from her lover
nothing but entire confidence; she would not admit the possibility of
his being jealous, and often said to him:
"To suspect the woman you love is an insult to her; as you are perfectly
sure that I love you, you should never dream for an instant that I am
deceiving you."
Adhémar thought that Nathalie was perfectly right; but jealousy is a
sentiment that does not come and go at the word of command; some people
are born jealous, just as some are born quarrelsome, petulant, or
cowardly. Education may teach us to disguise our failings, but it does
not eradicate them.
One morning, calling at Madame Dermont's a little earlier than usual,
Adhémar found her with a clouded brow; and although she received him
with her accustomed cordiality, it seemed to him that she was distraught
and that her smile was not so frank and open as usual. He fixed his eyes
on hers and asked:
"Has anything gone wrong with you this morning?"
"With me, my dear? Why, no! nothing, I assure you."