seems to me that it's more interesting, more entertaining, than any
other subject."
Young Callé had a declaration on the tip of his tongue. But the second
act began, and he said nothing more. During the act, Éléonore dropped
her opera glass on the floor. Callé instantly stepped forward to pick it
up; but, in order to do it, he had to go to the front of the box and
stoop until he was almost on his knees, for it was very dark, and he had
to feel about on the floor. Instead of the opera glass, he seized
Éléonore's foot and pressed it tenderly.
"Why, that is not my opera glass that you have, Monsieur Callé; it's my
foot," said the pretty blonde, laughing.
"Are you sure, madame?"
"Oh! yes, I can feel. But where are you looking, Monsieur Callé? my
glass isn't there; I can feel it with my foot."
Callé decided at last, albeit with regret, to take his head from under
the seat; he had the opera glass, and presented it to the young lady
with a trembling hand. She was deeply moved, so much so that, in trying
to take it, she dropped it again. That time it fell in her lap, however;
so Callé resumed his seat; but after that, when Éléonore turned to speak
to him, she sometimes leaned upon him, perhaps unconsciously; ladies
often venture upon trifling familiarities like that, which give great
hopes to him with whom they indulge in them. The young man was as red as
a cherry, and his eyes were always somewhere else than on the stage.
The act came to an end, and Madame Dubotté, turning to her escort, asked
him what he thought of the play.
"I don't know, madame," he faltered; "I didn't hear a word of it."
"What! didn't you listen?"
"I beg pardon--I listened, but I didn't hear. I was so distraught by----
Did your opera glass fall again, madame?"
"Why, no--it's here in my lap."
"Oh! that's a pity!"
"Why so? would you like it to be on the floor again?"
"Oh! yes, because I might have the pleasure of looking for it. And
then--and then----"
According to his custom, the young man failed to finish the sentence;
but he heaved such a prodigious sigh that Madame Dubotté asked him with
concern:
"Are you ill, Monsieur Callé?"
"Oh! no, madame; far from it!"
"Why do you sigh so deeply, then?"
"That is my way of being happy."
"Ah! that's curious. So you are very happy, are you?"
"Oh! yes, madame; I always am--when I am with you!"
He actually finished his sentence that time. Éléonore thanked him with a
sweet smile; and during the last act she leaned much more frequently on
the young man, whose knees served to transform her seat into an
armchair.
The performance came to an end. They walked home slowly, very slowly;
they did not seem in any haste to arrive. Éléonore talked about the
play; the young man answered _yes_ and _no_ at random, but he pressed
very tenderly the arm that was passed through his, and the caress seemed
in no wise to offend her to whom it was addressed.
On reaching home, Madame Dubotté invited her young escort to come soon
to play bézique with her, while her husband went about without her
according to his custom. Callé promised to take advantage of her
invitation.
And so, during the following week, Monsieur Callé went almost every
evening to play bézique with fair-haired Éléonore; and she was no longer
out of temper when her husband went out without her. Indeed, she
sometimes said to him:
"My dear, if you have any business on hand, don't put yourself out for
me; Monsieur Callé will come and stay with me. He is very strong at
bézique, and never has enough of it; he is indefatigable!"
Dubotté was enchanted.
"At last I have trained my wife!" he cried; "she is just what I wanted
her to be! She isn't on my back all the time now; she leaves me entirely
at liberty. That is what I wanted to bring about; I had hard work, but I
have succeeded. She goes to the theatre with Callé now, without showing
any temper, even when I don't go after her."
The young woman did more than that: when her husband promised to secure
a box for her, she always said:
"Try to get a baignoire, my dear!"
XVII
INCORRIGIBLE
Adhémar went to see Nathalie every day; during the day, he gave her all
the time which his literary labors left at his disposal, and passed all
his evenings with her. He often discussed with her his ideas, his plans
for new plays; and sometimes read a scene to her, or a chapter of a new
novel. He consulted her and profited by her advice. If Molière consulted
his maid-servant, is it not much more natural to consult one's mistress?
There is this difference, however: Laforest, Molière's servant, was
proud and happy to be consulted by her master; whereas, out of twenty
mistresses, there will be nineteen who will not listen to you when you
talk literature to them, who will yawn when you read them a page that
you have just written, or who will interrupt you at the most interesting
point to say:
"What color do you prefer for a dress, my dear, green or blue? I myself
think that blue is more becoming to me--what do you say?"
Thereupon you see that your efforts as a reader who desires to move his
audience are thrown away; you put your manuscript in your pocket, and
make up your mind never to talk with your fair one about anything but
dresses and fashions, as she takes no interest in anything else. But
there are exceptions; there are women who are willing to listen when you
do not talk to them about themselves, and who are able to talk about
something besides styles and love. Nathalie was one of these
exceptions; that is why Adhémar was so happy in her company; that is why
they suited each other so well.
So it was that the most perfect harmony reigned between the lovers,
when, on arriving at Madame Dermont's one morning much earlier than
usual, Adhémar was informed by the servant that her mistress was not at
home.
"What! she has gone out before noon? To do some shopping, I suppose?"
"I don't know, monsieur; but madame will certainly return very soon, for
whenever she goes out in the morning like this, she always comes home
before noon."
"Whenever she goes out like this!" muttered Adhémar, his heart beginning
already to sink. "So Madame Dermont often goes out in the morning?"
"_Dame!_ monsieur, I can't say just how often; but she has been out
several times lately."
Adhémar did not pursue his questioning any further. He threw himself
into an armchair, thinking:
"I will wait for her; of course, she will tell me where she has been."
And he tried to banish the evil thoughts which were already besieging
his mind. Less than five minutes had passed, when Nathalie appeared. She
seemed a little surprised to find Adhémar there; but she went to him
with outstretched hand, and said, smiling as usual:
"Good-morning, my dear!"
"Good-morning, madame!"
"Oho! what does that _madame_ mean? Since when have I been _madame_ to
you? Is it because you didn't find me when you came, that you would call
me _madame_?"
"Why, no--it was simply for a change."
"I don't like the change, myself! What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Have you been to walk?"
"Yes--that is to say, I have been to pay a visit."
"Oh! a visit. Would it be presumptuous in me to ask you to whom you pay
visits--so early?"
"Why, yes, a little presumptuous, perhaps. However, as I see that you
are frowning, and that you probably suspect me of treachery already----"
"Oh! upon my word!"
"No, you are incapable of it, aren't you?--Well, monsieur, I have been
to see my poor friend Juliette. Are you satisfied?"
"Mon Dieu! I asked you--just for something to say."
"Yes, I understand--and to find out where I had been."
"Did you see your friend Juliette?"
"To be sure!"
"And you have been to see her often of late?"
"Why not? if I can comfort her or gratify her by listening to her
confidences. If you were unhappy, wouldn't you be very glad to have a
true friend come to see you and try to console you?"
"Oh! when I am unhappy, I keep it to myself, and don't go and tell other
people about it."
"Women are not like men, my dear; when they have troubles--love
troubles, especially--they love to pour out their hearts on a friend's
breast."
"Yes, women are very fond of having secrets between themselves, of being
mysterious with us."
"Oh, dear! there you go again, with your evil thoughts! Is it because I
have been to see Juliette that you are so cross?"
"Cross? I am not cross!"
"As if I didn't know you! as if I couldn't read in your eyes! You
promised me absolute confidence."
"It seems to me that I am proving my confidence in you at this moment."
"By making wry faces because you didn't find me when you came this
morning! Come, my friend, let us reason a little; you should be logical:
if I don't love you, what reason have I for pretending to, for feigning
sentiments which I do not feel--for deceiving you, in a word?
Come--answer me!"
Instead of answering, Adhémar rose and paced the floor, sat down at the
piano, ran his fingers over the keys, began waltzes, polkas, and
mazurkas; then ran to Nathalie and kissed her, saying:
"Forgive me, dear girl; I slept badly last night; I have a little
headache; that is why you found me so sulky."
Nathalie pretended to believe him, and harmony was reëstablished, in
appearance at least; for in the bottom of his heart Adhémar was
tormented by doubt; he thought of those frequent goings-out in the
morning, ostensibly to see Juliette, and said to himself:
"She used not to go out so often--or, if she did, she told me herself
when she intended to go."
Several days passed; Adhémar constantly changed the hour of his visits;
but Madame Dermont was always at home, and he began to feel a little
more at ease. But, impelled by that jealousy which in him was the
inevitable concomitant of genuine love, it happened more than once that,
after he had left Nathalie, he prowled about the street a long while, or
stood under a neighboring porte cochère, to see if she did not go out;
but he had his trouble for his pains, to his great contentment.
One morning, about nine o'clock, it occurred to him to go and walk
through the street where Madame Dermont lived.
"I won't go up to her rooms," he said to himself, "for she's not an
early riser, and I might disturb her in her sleep; but I may see her
servant come out, and I can give her the bouquet I am going to buy for
her mistress. Nathalie will find it by her side when she wakes, and
she'll surmise from whom it comes."
He dressed hurriedly, and bought a lovely bouquet on Passage Verdeau.
Then he walked to Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière, to Madame Dermont's
house, looked up at the windows, where all the curtains were still
drawn, and strolled along the street, after looking at his watch: it was
half-past nine. That was too early for a call on Nathalie, but he hoped
that the servant would come out.
Ten minutes passed, and Madame Dermont's servant did not appear. Adhémar
was tired of pacing the street with his flowers in his hand, and had
almost concluded to go up, thinking that he could ring very softly, to
avoid waking her, when he saw a cab coming rapidly toward him. It
slackened its pace as it approached Madame Dermont's house. Adhémar,
without pausing to weigh his reasons for so doing, stepped aside;
something told him that he was interested in that cab, and he determined
to see who alighted from it.
It stopped in front of Nathalie's door; a young woman alighted, paid the
driver, and hurried into the house. But Adhémar had recognized her; he
could not be mistaken; he had seen her features, he had recognized her
dress, and the hat she wore when she went out in the morning: it was
she, it was Nathalie! For an instant Adhémar thought of running after
her and shouting:
"Where have you been?"
But he reflected that she might lie to him again; and a better plan
occurred to him. The cab was still there, the driver preparing to
return to his box. Adhémar opened the door, jumped in, and, taking ten
francs from his pocket, placed them in the cabman's hand as he asked him
where he wished to go.
The man was amazed at sight of the ten francs which his new passenger
gave him even before hiring him.
"Oh! it's to be a long trip, eh? You want to go into the country, I take
it, bourgeois?"
"The ten francs are to pay you for answering my questions briefly: a
lady has just got out of your cab?"
"Yes, bourgeois; a pretty little lady--good style. I know what I'm
talking about."
"Where did you take her from?"
"Where did I take her from? why, from here, bourgeois, about an hour and
a quarter ago; it wasn't quite a half, but the little woman pays
generous, without haggling."
"She took you by the hour, then, when she started?"
"Just so."
"Where did you go with her? Now, don't lie to me!"
"You pay too well for me to lie to you! Besides, there's no mystery
about it; I took her to the Jardin des Plantes."
"To the Jardin des Plantes?"
"Yes, bourgeois; in front of the gate, on the water side. She got out
there and told me to wait, and then she went into the garden."
"Alone?"
"Yes, yes, alone when she went in; but when she came out, after a
quarter of an hour or more, she wasn't alone then."
"Who was with her?"
"A gentleman--a young man."
"A young man? What was he like--his dress--his features?"
"Oh! excuse me! but you don't suppose I took his photograph, do you? He
was dressed, like everybody else, in a frock-coat. I thought he was
rather a good-looking fellow. That's all I can tell you."
"And this man--this gentleman--this frock-coat--he came out with the
lady, you say? Did she have his arm?"
"Oh! as to that, I can't say; I was on my box, and I didn't see them
till they were close to my cab, and the young man helped the lady in."
"And got in with her?"
"No, no; he didn't get in--he said good-bye."
"How did he say it? Did he embrace her?--did he kiss her hand?"
"Oh! bless your heart! I was straightening out my reins, and I didn't
see them embrace. The lady called out to me: 'Take me back to where you
brought me from!'--The young man shut the door and went off--but, yes, I
remember now that he said to her, as he went away: 'Thank you, thank you
a thousand times for coming!'--Now, where'll you go, bourgeois?"
"To the Jardin des Plantes, to the same spot where that lady got out."
Adhémar's brain was on fire, his heart beat violently; he pressed his
hands against his brow, saying to himself:
"It is absolutely certain now--she too deceives me--and she dared to
tell me that she loved me! Ah! we don't deceive those whom we love! It
is all over--yes, all over, this time! I won't see her again, for she
would tell me another lie; she would invent some fable to make me
believe that she is innocent! And perhaps I should be idiot enough to
believe her. But, no, I do not propose to be her dupe again; I will see
her no more. But that man with whom she makes assignations so early in
the day--ah! if I could find out who he is, I would kill him! And yet,
he is not the guilty one, for he loves her. But not as I loved her--oh,
no!"
As he glanced about, Adhémar saw a handkerchief at his feet; he picked
it up, examined it, and recognized Nathalie's monogram, which he had
seen her embroidering with her own hands.
"She was so engrossed that she forgot it!" he muttered, twisting the
handkerchief in his clenched hands. "A moment ago, she was here, on this
seat, and she was thinking of another man!"
He could no longer control his grief; he sobbed bitterly, and the tears
rushed from his eyes; but he felt a sort of pleasure in wiping them away
with the handkerchief which belonged to her.
The cab stopped and the driver opened the door, saying:
"This is the very place where the little lady got out, bourgeois, and
where I waited for her. There's the Jardin des Plantes."
Adhémar, absorbed by his reflections and memories, had no idea where he
was or whither he was going. The cabman's words recalled him to himself.
He jumped out of the cab and said to the man:
"You must come with me."
"Where to, bourgeois?"
"Into the Jardin des Plantes."
"Carriages ain't admitted; it's against the rules."
"I didn't say anything about your cab; I want only you. We will walk
through the garden, and I want you to look closely at every man you see;
and if you recognize the young man who escorted that lady back to your
cab, you must point him out to me instantly."
The cabman began to laugh.
"My word! that's a good one, that is! You want me to go with you afoot,
eh? And what will become of my cab and my horses in the meantime?"
"Mon Dieu! they won't fly away. Go and stand your cab over yonder where
those others are."
"I can't do that, bourgeois; our orders is not to lose sight of our
horses; I should be punished--discharged, perhaps."
Adhémar took ten more francs from his pocket and put them in the
cabman's hand.
"Just a few times round the garden; while you're away, one of your
comrades will look after your horses."
Money always produces its due effect; the cabman wavered, and at last
replied:
"I'll go and ask Jérôme, who's over there, I believe, if he'll have an
eye on my horses, and I'll share the ten francs with him--eh,
bourgeois?"
"Yes, yes,--here, give him this five-franc piece; off with you!"
"Oh! Jérôme's a good fellow! he'll do it for me."
The driver ran to the cab stand, told his comrade what was wanted, and
showed him the last five-franc piece he had received.
"We two will drink it up directly," he added.
Jérôme agreed; the cabman pocketed the hundred sous, and returned to
Adhémar.
"It's all fixed," he said; "Jérôme will have an eye on my beasts."
"Come with me, then."
They entered the garden, the cab driver walking beside Adhémar, who said
to him:
"Look carefully at all the men--the young men, I mean--and as soon as
you see the one who was with that lady, say: 'There he is!'"
"All right, bourgeois; or, say I cough to warn you?"
"Very well."
There were few people in the garden. Adhémar walked rapidly, and his
companion could hardly keep up with him.
"Sapristi!" he cried; "you travel faster than my horses!"
A young man passed them, and the cabman began to cough.
"Well!" exclaimed Adhémar, stopping abruptly.
"That's not the man, bourgeois."
"What in the devil did you cough for, then?"
"To let you know that he wasn't the one."
"You are not to cough unless you recognize him."
"Oh! all right! I understand!"
They went on again. They met a number of men, but the cabman made no
sign; he simply said from time to time:
"If Jérôme should get a fare, who'd look after my cab?--By the way,
monsieur," he said at last; "there's one thing perhaps I ought to tell
you."
"What's that?"
"If the man you're looking for should pass us, I wouldn't know him. You
see, I hardly looked at him, only just caught a glimpse of him, and I
don't even know whether he was dark or light!"
Adhémar stamped impatiently, and, realizing that his search would
necessarily be fruitless, decided to leave the garden. The cabman was
overjoyed to find Jérôme still on the square.
"Where shall I take monsieur now?" he asked.
"Nowhere--thanks! I don't need you any longer."
In his then frame of mind, Adhémar preferred walking to riding; he
craved air and exercise. He walked very rapidly, often without looking
to see where he was going. However, he reached home in time, and had no
sooner entered his study than he ran to his desk and seized his pen.
"I will write to her," he said to himself; "I cannot wait to tell her
that I know of her treachery--and then everything will be at an end
between us. I will try to forget her."
With a hand that trembled with excitement, although his thoughts caused
it to move swiftly across the paper, he wrote Nathalie the following
letter:
"MADAME:
"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen--seen with my
own eyes--that you devote to another the hours that I am not with
you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your
treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no
longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a
part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have
believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"
Having signed and sealed this missive, Adhémar sent for a messenger and
told him to carry it to the person to whom it was addressed, and to come
away at once, without waiting for an answer.
Then, throwing himself into a chair, and resting his head on his hand,
he abandoned himself to his thoughts, murmuring:
"Oh! if I could only forget her!"
XVIII
MONSIEUR SERINGAT'S SECRET
Dodichet, disinherited by his aunt, and with only a hundred francs that
he could call his own, should have looked about for some occupation
which would afford him a livelihood; but, instead of that, he bought
more tobacco and cigars, went into a café and drank a glass of beer,
then took a cab and was driven to the so-called hotel on Rue
Saint-Jacques, where he had left Monsieur Seringat. He said to himself
on the road:
"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I
owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy
hereafter with which to pay him; but still, nobody knows, perhaps the
public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at
Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks
of eggs--and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me
another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for
a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself,
in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a
year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's
in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him--and all because
his wife---- Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he
hasn't his like in Paris!"
When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed
the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also
concierge, and who supplied her guests with food; she filled a number
of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was
preparing snails _à la provençale_: first she took them out of the
shell, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic,
then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.
"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are
you, madame?"
"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be
delicious."
"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he
becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."
"They are _à la provençale_. If monsieur would like a portion, they're
only six sous each; that ain't dear."
"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to
get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside
for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend Miflorès. For I
suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."
The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing,
looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:
"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur
Miflorès."
"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he
won't be out long, I fancy?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can assure you that he'll never come
back."
"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What
does this mean?"
"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"
"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."
"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened.
But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."
"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"
"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.--It was like this: just a fortnight
ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air,
came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me
for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in
Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name,
Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor,
looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till
very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend Miflorès went out as
usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my
new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says: