Juliette's hand would be given to me at last. But, instead of that,
Monsieur Mirotaine has turned me out of his house and forbidden me ever
to go there again, all because Dodichet conceived the unfortunate idea
of helping along my suit by introducing to the Mirotaines a pretended
millionaire Italian count, who was to propose for Juliette; they got
themselves invited to dinner, and Monsieur Mirotaine went to some
expense to entertain them. Then Dubotté arrived and laid bare the fraud.
Monsieur Mirotaine saw that they had made a fool of him, and he is
convinced that I was in the plot with Dodichet; hence his anger against
me, and the prohibition to go to his house again!"
"What a devil of a fellow that Dodichet is! I remember perfectly that
you definitely forbade him to play one of his wretched jokes on this
Mirotaine."
"He meant to do me a service, so I can't be angry with him. And yet, he
is the cause of my being turned out of the house."
"That old miser's anger will cool down, if you succeed in your
undertakings. His daughter will make him listen to reason."
"But meanwhile I can't see her, or have any understanding with her. When
I was admitted to her father's house, we found ways of exchanging a word
or two in secret. But now that I can never see her, how am I to let her
know anything about me? Why, to be unable to see, even for a single
minute, the woman one loves, is the cruelest kind of torture, Adhémar, I
tell you!"
"To whom are you saying that?"
"Do you mean to say that you can't see the woman you love?"
"In other words, the woman I loved did not love me! or she deceived me,
which amounts to the same thing. So I ceased to see her; and yet, I know
perfectly well that I love her still."
"Are you quite sure that she deceived you?"
"Quite sure; as sure as a man can be when he sees that a woman has
secrets from him. Tell me, Lucien, suppose you should learn that your
Juliette received visits, of which she never breathed a word to you;
wouldn't you think that she had some intrigue on hand? I assume, of
course, that she is living in her own apartment and is mistress of her
actions."
"If Juliette was her own mistress and lived in the most modest little
room imaginable, it would be of no use for anyone to say to me: 'She
receives other men than you;' I would not suspect her for an instant!"
"Sapristi! what confidence! And suppose you had proof that she received
men secretly?"
"Why, I should consider that she must have some reason for concealing
those visits from me; for she certainly has none for telling me, for
swearing to me that she loves me, if she doesn't love me. When I enter
the room where she is, doesn't she always receive me with the sweetest
smile? can I not read in her eyes all the pleasure that my presence
affords her? Ah! not until she ceased to be the same to me, should I
have the slightest fear that she no longer loved me!"
"You have a happy disposition, and no mistake! You are not jealous, are
you?"
"Oh, no! not at all!"
"Tell me, do you know Madame Dermont? She is a friend of Mademoiselle
Juliette, I believe?"
"Madame Dermont? Yes; I met her several times at Juliette's before
Monsieur Mirotaine had forbidden me to talk with his daughter. She's a
most attractive woman. Juliette has no better friend. They tell each
other their joys and their sorrows, and neither of them has any secrets
from the other. She knows that Juliette loves me; and if she could do
anything to help us, she would ask nothing better. But she hasn't the
power, poor woman! She has had a heap of trouble of her own."
"Who? Nathalie?--I mean Madame Dermont. What trouble? She never
mentioned it to me."
"Do you know her, then?"
"Yes, a little. I go to her house sometimes. But this trouble of hers?
Tell me about it, I beg you, dear old Lucien!"
"I heard about it from Juliette, to whom, as I just told you, Madame
Dermont confides all her sorrows."
"But these troubles of hers? these troubles? for God's sake, come to the
point!"
Lucien looked at Adhémar with a smile, as he replied:
"How deeply interested you seem to be in anything that concerns that
young woman! Can it be, by any chance----"
"Yes, yes, I love her, I adore her, I am mad over her! And these
troubles?--in pity's name, my friend, tell me all you know!"
"Madame Dermont, as you know, is a widow; but her husband had a
brother,--a sad scamp, by the way,--who would never do anything but
drink, gamble, smoke, and haunt low resorts. When Monsieur Dermont died,
Alexandre--that was the brother's name--Alexandre was frantic with rage
when he found that he was not his heir, but that the whole
fortune--rather a modest one, by the way--which his brother had left
went to the widow. He called on his sister-in-law, made an unpleasant
scene, and went so far as to threaten her; but she has a clear head and
a strong character, and she turned him out of the house. Thereupon,
Alexandre saw that he had gone to work in the wrong way, and that he
would not obtain anything from Madame Dermont by threats; so he called
on her again, and that time he did not play the swashbuckler, but wept
and whined over his sad plight. The young widow did not turn him out
again, but gave him five hundred francs and advised him to enlist; that
was the only profession in which he could hope to make anything of
himself. Alexandre promised to follow that advice; but, after a few
months, he came back to his sister-in-law and told her he was dying of
hunger, that he had eaten nothing since the day before; and he smelt
horribly of brandy and tobacco!"
"And tobacco? He smoked, did he? Ah! now I understand. Poor woman! But
why didn't she tell me all this?"
"Why? Because it is a painful thing to say that a man who is closely
allied to you, who bears your name,--for Alexandre's name is
Dermont,--in fact, you don't like to confess that such a ne'er-do-well,
such a blackguard, is your brother, or that he has, at all events, the
right to call you his sister."
"And the wretch has come again to torment Nathalie, I suppose?"
"Mon Dieu! yes; she doesn't know how to get rid of him! And yet, it is
very hard to continue giving money away when it serves only to encourage
vice and debauchery."
"Oh! I'll rid her of her miserable brother-in-law! Dear Nathalie! But
why didn't she confide in me? No matter! I am a wretch; I am unworthy to
be loved by such a sweet, dear woman!--Lucien, give me your hand. Ah! my
friend, if you knew how much good you have done me! You have brought me
back to life, to happiness, to love--that is to say, to her! Adieu,
Lucien, adieu! I hasten--I fly to beg for forgiveness. She will grant
it, won't she? she will grant it?"
Without waiting for a reply, Adhémar walked hurriedly away in the
direction of Madame Dermont's; but when he drew near, and could see the
house in which she lived, he slackened his pace; he began to wonder how
she, whom he had left so cavalierly in consequence of his unjust
suspicions, would receive him. And when he reached the door, he stopped;
he dared not go in, but cudgelled his brain to find some pretext, some
excuse, for calling.
He had been standing for some minutes, irresolute, before the porte
cochère, when he was abruptly pushed aside by a person who said to him
in a hoarse voice as he entered the house:
"Stand aside there! Don't you see that you're blocking up the door?"
The speaker was a man of about thirty, very carelessly dressed, whose
hat was dented in several places; his face was prematurely old and
bloated, his manner was vulgar and impertinent, he was saturated with
tobacco, and seemed to be slightly tipsy.
"Where are you going, monsieur?" the concierge called to him as he
passed through the porte cochère and started for the staircase, while
Adhémar, who was on the point of calling him to account for the
discourteous way in which he had pushed him aside, waited to hear his
reply.
"Where am I going? Sacrebleu! you know well enough; this ain't the first
time I've been here! I'm going up to my sister's--Madame Dermont."
"Madame Dermont is out, monsieur."
"You always say the same thing; and you know that I go up, all the
same."
"I have been expressly forbidden to let you go up, monsieur, and this
time you shan't go!"
"I shan't go up! is that all, old dormouse? Just think of that! Madame
Dermont won't receive me! But I am Alexandre Dermont, her husband's
brother, and she has no right to close her door to me; and I'm going up,
all the same, and you can go hang, concierge! And my sister-in-law will
have to receive me, because--because----"
Monsieur Alexandre did not finish his sentence, because someone stood
before him, barring his passage, and forced him back, looking him
steadily in the eye.
"Well, well!" he muttered; "what does this fellow want?--Let me pass, I
say!"
"I want you--yes, you, Monsieur Alexandre Dermont."
"I don't know you--let me go upstairs!"
"You shall not go upstairs, you shall not go to your sister-in-law's,
who is perfectly justified in refusing to admit a miserable wretch, a
scoundrel of your stamp!"
"What! what do you say? What business is it of yours?"
"I say that you're a low-lived hound, that you call on Madame Dermont
for no other purpose than to worm money out of her, which you spend in
orgies and debauchery! And you are not ashamed to be guilty of such
conduct! Do you think that Madame Dermont's modest fortune will serve to
gratify your passions forever? No, monsieur; don't count upon it. I
forbid you--do you hear?--I forbid you to show your face at your
sister-in-law's again!"
"By what right, I should like to know?"
"By the right that every decent man has to protect a woman who is abused
and threatened and robbed!"
"Oh! you make me tired! I propose to go up."
And Monsieur Alexandre, turning half around, tried to reach the
stairway. But Adhémar overtook him, seized him by the throat, and held
him against the wall, saying:
"If you make another attempt to go up those stairs, I'll smash your head
against this wall!"
"You're choking me, monsieur!"
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes; but let me go!"
"Will you swear never to come to Madame Dermont's again?"
"Yes, I swear; but you are murdering me! I left a pipe case at my
sister's; I came to get it."
"You didn't come on any such paltry errand as that; you came to ask that
lady for more money, dastard that you are!"
"You insult me, monsieur!"
"Ah! you feel that you are insulted, do you? Very well! if you have the
least bit of pluck, come with me, and I'll give you satisfaction.
There's a gunsmith's close by; we can go there and get pistols, and take
a cab. Come!"
"I, fight! I think I see myself! no, thanks! Let me go; I've had enough!
I swear I won't come here again."
"Go, then; but if you fail to keep that oath, I swear that I won't fail
to shoot you!"
Monsieur Alexandre did not stay to listen to any more; he ran away as if
he feared pursuit. Thereupon the concierge, who had armed himself with
his broom to support Adhémar if necessary, exclaimed:
"Ah! monsieur, how lucky it is that you happened to be here to drive
that miserable scamp away! He wouldn't listen to me--but you! Why, you
gave him such a shaking that I warrant he'll never come again. You have
done Madame Dermont a very great service, I promise you!"
"Has she really gone out?"
"No, monsieur, no; she hardly ever goes out lately; but those were my
orders for that rascal. You can go up, of course; she'll be glad to see
you."
Adhémar went upstairs, but paused at Nathalie's door; he was intensely
excited.
"She hardly ever goes out, so the concierge said," he thought. "Has she
been sick? Am I the cause of it? Oh! this infernal jealousy! How will
she receive me? No matter! I will see her, and die at her feet if she
doesn't forgive me."
He rang with a trembling hand; the maid opened the door, and uttered a
cry of joy when she saw who it was. Servants almost always divine their
mistress's secret thoughts, and this one was very sure that Adhémar's
return would bring back joy and happiness to the house, which had been
very gloomy since he had ceased to come.
"Ask Madame Dermont if she will see me," said Adhémar.
The servant, with a beaming face, hurried away to her mistress, and
returned almost immediately to say that he might go in. Adhémar did not
wait for the words to be repeated. He found Nathalie holding her
embroidery frame in her hand, but not working. A glance sufficed to show
him that she was pale and changed, and that her features wore an
expression of profound melancholy. Adhémar could contain himself no
longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at Nathalie's feet; he
seized her hands and pressed them in his own, crying:
"Mercy! forgive me! if you could only know how I have reproached myself!
but I will not offend again, I swear! I am cured. Oh! I have been so
unhappy ever since I saw you last!"
"And what about me, monsieur? Do you think that I have not been unhappy?
Why didn't you come back sooner? What prevented you?"
"Because--I didn't know---- Look you, Nathalie--I will not lie to
you--to-day I met Lucien, and I learned from him that you had a
brother-in-law who smoked----"
"And then you understood that I had no other intrigue. Bad boy! if you
hadn't left me so abruptly, I would have told you the whole story; but
when jealousy takes possession of you, it is impossible to make you
listen to reason."
"Hereafter, my confidence in you will be absolute. You love me--you
forgive me once more, do you not?"
"Yes, but this is the last time; for such scenes are too painful to me."
At that moment they heard the servant laughing uproariously. Nathalie
rang for her and asked her the reason of that outburst of merriment.
"Oh! madame, hasn't monsieur told you what he did to your scamp of a
brother-in-law? The concierge just told me. Monsieur took him by the
throat and turned him out of the house, and promised to cut him in
pieces if he ever dared to come to see you again!"
"Is this true, Adhémar?"
"Yes; did I do wrong?"
"Oh! far from it; you have done me a very great service. It seems that I
am destined to be saved by you from all sorts of dangers! You see,
monsieur, that you did wrong to desert me!"
Adhémar's only reply was to cover with kisses the hand she abandoned to
him; and the maid returned exultantly to the kitchen, crying:
"What joy! The man with the quid of tobacco won't come here again!"
XVI
A BAIGNOIRE
After the evening when young Callé played bézique until midnight with
Madame Dubotté, the clinging Éléonore said to her husband:
"Do you know, monsieur, that it was very wrong of you to leave me to
pass the evening alone with a young man? and that it shows the greatest
indifference on your part toward your wife? for, if I didn't love you as
I do, I might revenge myself for your neglect. You expose me to the risk
of receiving declarations of love!"
"My dear love, you don't look at things from the right standpoint,"
Philémon replied, caressing his mutton-chop whiskers, which threatened
to encroach upon his cheeks. "Tell me, did Callé make a declaration?"
"Oh, no!"
"You see! Deuce take it! I know with whom I leave you: that young man is
as virtuous as Voltaire's _Candide_. Do you know _Candide_?"
"No, my dear."
"I'll get it for you; for you're a little behindhand in literary
matters, and I propose to train you in every way. I don't choose to have
people say of my wife that she's a ninny. I won't have that, do you
hear? and you must govern yourself accordingly."
"I will try, my dear."
"To return to Callé: he is more or less of a simpleton. He doesn't dare
to look a woman in the face; indeed, he hardly dares to speak to one. So
you see that I can safely leave you with him. If he should ever become
any woman's lover, she would have to make the first overtures!"
"Do you think so, my dear?"
"I am sure of it; he would never dare to declare himself, unless he got
a little help. And so, my dear love, as I know your virtue and your
affection for me, I am entirely easy in my mind. I would intrust you to
Callé, my dear, as I would to a keeper of the seraglio. Do you know what
a keeper of the seraglio is, in Turkey?"
"No, my dear."
"Well, he's a eunuch."
"What in the world is a eunuch?"
"Why, don't you know that? I'll tell you some night--when it rains.
Evidently, I have a great many things to teach you."
A few days later, Philémon said to his wife one morning:
"My dear love, I am going to make you very happy!--I know how much you
like the theatre, especially the Gymnase; well, I have taken a box for
you there, for to-night."
"Oh! what fun! at the Gymnase! and a box! How lovely of you, dear! Tell
me what time we must start, so that I can be ready and not make you
impatient."
"Oh! the play doesn't begin till half-past seven--be ready at
quarter-past, that will be early enough; he won't call for you before
then."
"What did you say? call for me? Am I not to go with you?"
"No; I will join you later; I have to go to an evening party given by my
chief. I can't miss that, you understand. When a man wants promotion, he
must always stand well with those above him."
"But, in that case, as you knew you were going somewhere else, you
shouldn't have got a box for this evening."
"Why not, pray? If I am enjoying myself in one place, is it any more
than fair that you should enjoy yourself, too?"
"But you used always to take me with you to your chief's parties."
"Yes, to the dancing parties and the musicales. But this is to be
a--serious party; we shall talk politics and discuss the best method of
dealing with the maturing obligations of a new Oriental railway; and you
can see for yourself that women would be bored to death to sit and
listen to all that. That's why there are to be no women."
"With whom do you propose to send me to the play, then?"
"Oh! don't worry about that; I have sent word to Callé! I saw him
yesterday, and asked him if he would like to take you to the theatre
to-night. He jumped for joy; he adores the theatre."
"But you impose on that young man's good nature."
"On the contrary, I make him very happy! The poor fellow, who has never
been able to have a mistress of a decent sort, is delighted to be your
escort.--'People will think I've made a conquest of her,' he'll say to
himself."
"And you are willing people should think that I am that young man's
mistress?"
"Why, no, indeed! no one will believe it! What I say is, that he will
imagine that people believe it. I have to dot all my _i_'s to make you
understand!"
"There's one thing that I understand very well, monsieur; and that is,
that nowadays you do your utmost to avoid taking me anywhere with you.
Although you think me a great fool, I beg you to believe that I can see
that perfectly well."
"Oh! that's just like a woman! taking everything hind side before! A
fellow does all he can to be agreeable--buys a box at the theatre, for a
charming play, and says to himself: 'I can't take her to a--political
gathering, but I don't want her to sit mooning all alone in her chimney
corner.'--And instead of being thanked for what he has done, he is
overwhelmed with reproaches, and has to listen to the most absurd
reflections! Don't you be alarmed: it will be very hot when I buy
another box for you!"
Monsieur Dubotté left the house in a very ill humor. Madame said nothing
more, but she probably thought a good deal. When evening came, she made
her toilet and took infinite pains with it. Young Callé arrived with
great promptness at the appointed time. He was in full dress, and
becurled and perfumed as if he were going to a wedding.
"Here's your box," said Philémon, as he handed him the ticket; "I will
join you later, if it's possible for me to get away from my chief's
party early enough. Try to make my wife enjoy herself; that isn't very
easy, for she's not always in good humor. If you succeed in making her
amiable, you'll perform a miracle."
Young Callé bowed and set off with Éléonore, who was becoming accustomed
to accept his arm. Her escort suggested taking a cab, but she refused,
as the Gymnase was not far away. On the way, Callé began a number of
sentences concerning the pleasure it afforded him to be with such a
charming person; when he could go no further, Éléonore came to his
assistance by saying: "You are very good!"--and the sentence remained
unfinished.
When they reached the theatre, Callé looked at the ticket and said:
"It's a baignoire."
"A baignoire? I don't know what that is; is it very high?"
"No, on the contrary, it's low; on a level with the pit."
When the box door was opened, Éléonore hesitated about going in.
"Mon Dieu! how dark it is in there!" she exclaimed. "Is this our box?"
"To be sure, madame," replied the box opener; "and it's almost opposite
the stage, as you see."
"Dear me! what a strange place! Yes, we do have a good view of the
stage, that is true; but we can't be seen--it is hardly worth while to
take pains with one's dress. However, perhaps I shall get used to it. Do
you like these boxes, Monsieur Callé?"
"So far as I am concerned, madame, I am always satisfied when--I have
the--the privilege----"
"You are very good!"
Éléonore took her seat at the front of the box, and Callé modestly
seated himself behind her. When she had looked for a moment into the
auditorium, of which she could see only a very small part, she turned
toward her escort, who returned her glance, sighed, and said nothing.
"You can't see anything from where you are, Monsieur Callé, can you? Sit
here in front, beside me."
"You are very kind, madame, but I am all right here; if I sat in front,
I--I should crowd you."
"Not at all."
"I can see the stage very well."
"But you can't see the audience at all."
"I don't care for that; what I do see is much more agreeable to me--to
look at--and when--when one is near--near madame--then one has no wish
to--one does not look elsewhere for--one----"
"You are very good!"
The play began, and they listened intently; there was much talk of love
in it. Éléonore seemed deeply interested in it; the young man continued
to sigh. After the first act he went out, and returned in a moment with
bonbons and _fruits glacés_, which he offered to Madame Dubotté. She
accepted them with a sweet smile. It was an excellent chance to tell her
escort that he was very good; but she contented herself with handing him
a quarter of an orange, then proceeded to stuff herself with the
sweetmeats. As a general rule, women are very fond of bonbons; a man
ought always to have his pockets full when he wishes to make himself
agreeable to them. You may vary the menu, however, by adding truffles
stewed in champagne; then your success will be even more complete.
The second play began. Now and then, in order to obtain a better view,
the young man leaned forward from behind Éléonore. At such times his
head brushed against the pretty blonde's shoulders; those shoulders were
very white and her chest well developed. Her dress was cut low, and
while looking at the shoulders one could see the base of those charming
globes which, to my mind, excel in value all balloons, past, present,
and to come, even Nadar's _Giant_. With them, to be sure, you cannot
float through the air; but I opine that what we find on earth is worth
much more than anything we can find aloft. Young Callé, therefore, was
not so much of a fool as he seemed, when he sat behind Éléonore. She,
upon turning suddenly, collided with the head of her escort, who was not
looking at the stage at that moment; and their two faces were so near to
each other that the ends of their noses touched. A man accustomed to
intrigues would have seized the opportunity to kiss the young woman, but
Callé hastily drew back, stammering apologies which no one demanded of
him; for Éléonore, when she found those eyes absorbed by contemplation
of her charms, had been on the point of saying:
"You are very good!"
The second play had quite as much to say of love as the first. After the
first act, finding that her companion continued to sigh without daring
to speak, Éléonore remembered that her husband had told her that he
needed to be encouraged, and that without encouragement he would never
venture to talk with a lady; so she began the conversation.
"I have noticed one thing, Monsieur Callé."
"What is that, madame?"
"That there's a lot about love in all plays."
"Yes, that is true; you are right; they bring it in everywhere."
"Why is it, monsieur?"
"Why, madame, it is, apparently, because the authors don't know how to
talk about anything else."
"Do you think so? I have heard people say that the stage was simply a
copy of what happens in real life. But in real life people don't talk
about love all the time, do they, monsieur?"
"Oh, no! madame, they don't always talk about it--although often--one
would like to talk about it--but one doesn't dare."