man, who--you know--who took so much trouble to help you to buy this
house.”
“Yes, yes; I remember very well; but that’s no reason why you should
blush so. Why, you are all confused. Come, come, Agathe, control
yourself.--Show the gentleman in, Poucette.”
“Oh! my dear love, does my hair look nice? I didn’t have time to braid
it this morning.”
“You look very sweet. But do sit still, don’t jump about on your chair
like that; this young man will think that you have nervous spasms.”
“O Honorine! how unkind you are!”
Edmond’s appearance put an end to this conversation. He entered the room
very modestly, apologizing for his presumption. One is generally well
received when one displays some fear of coming inopportunely. The young
man’s courteous, gentlemanly demeanor and his reserved manners
prepossessed Honorine in his favor. As for Agathe, the flush that
overspread her cheeks, her confusion, her eyes, which she was afraid to
turn upon the new arrival, demonstrated clearly enough that his presence
caused her the most intense emotion; and her voice was almost inaudible
when she replied to Edmond’s greeting and inquiry for her health.
But when the first awkward moment had passed, the young man, reassured
by the cordial welcome he had received, became amiable and sprightly,
recovered his spirits, and his conversation soon afforded much
amusement to the ladies, to whom he gave all the news of Paris. Then he
spoke enthusiastically of the house, the situation, the outlook.
“We also have a very pretty garden,” murmured Agathe.
“If I were not afraid of being presumptuous, I would ask to see it.”
“With pleasure, monsieur; landed proprietors, you know, are always
flattered to exhibit their property; and it should be more excusable in
us than in others, we have been landed proprietors such a short time!”
They walked in the garden, which the young man found charming, as he did
the whole house. Agathe began to be less embarrassed, she recovered her
gayety, laughed at the slightest provocation, and, when she did so,
disclosed such fresh red lips and such pretty teeth that it would have
been a pity for her not to laugh, in very truth.
“It is very good of you, monsieur,” said Honorine, “to remember your
promise and to think of coming to see us. But perhaps you know someone
at Chelles?”
“No, madame, absolutely no one. The desire to present my respects to you
was quite sufficient to bring me here; furthermore, I was anxious to
know if you were satisfied with your purchase.”
“Yes, monsieur, very well satisfied. Agathe and I like this neighborhood
very much.”
“Have you plenty of society?”
“We might have, if we wanted it; but we do not seek it; society is often
a nuisance in the country. We have a call now and then from the local
doctor, an old man and rather pleasant. I think that we shall go no
farther; what we have seen has given us no desire to join in the
festivities of our neighbors, has it, Agathe?”
“Oh! no, indeed! tiresome eccentricities--perfectly intolerable with
their chatter, in which there is never an interesting word. It’s so
amusing to listen to that! What a difference when one is with people
who--whom we like! then the time passes so quickly!”
“Yes, indeed; too quickly, in fact; for I fear that I presume too far,
that I incommode you by prolonging my call.”
“Oh! no, monsieur, our time is entirely at our disposal; and if there is
no necessity for your hurrying back to Paris----”
“Not in the least, madame; I too am master of my time--too much so,
indeed.”
“Have you no business?”
“Pardon me, I trade on the Bourse. I am thinking seriously about earning
money.”
During this dialogue between Edmond and Honorine, Agathe frequently
glanced at her friend, and her eyes seemed to say:
“Well! do you propose to let this young man go away like this? Aren’t
you going to invite him to dine with us? He was so courteous to us in
Paris; he certainly deserves to have us pay him that compliment.”
Honorine understood Agathe’s pantomime perfectly, but she was amused by
her impatience. However, when Edmond again spoke of going, she said:
“If you are in no hurry to return to Paris, monsieur, stay and dine with
us; you will have a very simple dinner, but we shall enjoy your company
longer.”
“Really, madame,” stammered Edmond, bowing in acknowledgment of the
invitation, “your invitation causes me so much pleasure--it is very bold
of me to accept--and yet I haven’t courage enough to refuse.”
“Oh! then you will stay!” cried Agathe, jumping for joy; then, ashamed
of having allowed the pleasure she felt to appear, she ran away, saying:
“I am going to see if the hens have laid any eggs.”
Edmond was on the point of calling after her: “Oh! mademoiselle, don’t
make them lay for me!” for no one is so likely as a bright man to say
foolish things, when he is in love. However, he caught himself in time,
and Honorine said to him:
“You will permit us to forego ceremony, won’t you?”
“It is a sign of friendship, madame.”
“Very well; I will leave you and finish my toilet. Meanwhile, will you
walk, or will you go back to the salon? You are musical, I believe; you
can play on the piano; in short, make yourself quite at home.”
“Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times.”
Honorine retired to the house; Edmond, left alone in the garden,
strolled about there for some time, then entered the summer-house and
sat down.
“She comes here to work,” he thought; “it is here she sits--she said so
just now. Sweet girl! she blushes when I glance at her; and then she
lowers her eyes; she seems moved, perturbed. Oh! if she might love me!”
And the young lover, absorbed by his thoughts, leaned against the window
and looked out into the country. But he looked without seeing, his mind
was busy with Agathe alone.
Suddenly he remembered Freluchon, whom he had almost forced to take the
trip with him; who must be waiting for him now, to eat _matelote_, and
who would be furious if he did not join him.
“Faith! I can’t help it,” thought Edmond; “he can be angry, if he
chooses, but I can’t decline the invitation of these ladies, and deprive
myself of the happiness of passing the day with the girl I adore. No,
indeed! and Freluchon, in my place, would do the same. Besides, between
friends there ought to be no formality.”
Agathe did not appear. Hoping to find her in the salon, Edmond went
there; but the ladies had not finished dressing. The young man took his
seat at the piano, turned over the leaves of several songs, then yielded
to the temptation to sing. Edmond sang very well; his voice was sweet
and well modulated, and he had in addition taste and expression, which
constitute the greatest charm of every person who sings; moreover, he
accentuated the words perfectly; when he sang you did not lose a
syllable; and it is so uninteresting to listen and not understand!
The lovely song called the _Val d’Andore_ was on the piano. Whether it
was that the thought that he was at Agathe’s piano, or his pleasure in
knowing that he was near her, had augmented his powers, certain it is
that the young man had never sung so well, that his voice had never been
so sweet and pure. And the two friends, who, after completing their
toilet, had returned to the salon, stood at the door to listen, and did
not move a muscle for fear of losing a word.
But Agathe flushed and turned pale alternately as she listened to that
melodious voice, which went to her very heart.
“Oh! how beautifully he sings!” she whispered; “oh! my dear! what a
voice!”
“Hush!”
Agathe was silent; but a moment later two great tears rolled down her
cheeks. Honorine saw them and touched the girl’s arm.
“Upon my word!” she whispered, “you are crying now. What does this
mean?”
“I don’t know, my dear friend! I don’t know what the matter is; but I am
very happy!”
“Will you be kind enough to wipe your eyes and not show how susceptible
you are to music. Really, I am almost sorry that we invited this young
man to dinner.”
“Oh! it’s all over, my dear; it’s all over; it won’t happen again.”
Edmond having ceased to sing, the two young women entered the salon.
“You sing very well, monsieur,” said Honorine; while Agathe, still all
a-quiver from the effect that Edmond’s voice had produced upon her,
stood apart and dared not trust herself to speak.
“What, mesdames, were you listening to me? If I had known that, I should
not have dared to sing.”
“You would have been very foolish, and we hope, on the contrary, that
you will continue, although you know that we are here.”
“If it will give you any pleasure, madame, I will do whatever you
command. But may I not hear you and mademoiselle, also?”
“Oh, yes! monsieur, we will both sing; and as I have not enough talent
to require urging, I will begin.”
Honorine seated herself at the piano. She had not much voice, but she
put so much expression into the words she sang that one never tired of
hearing her.
Next it was Agathe’s turn; she faltered, forgot words and air, confused
one song with another, and sang very badly because she longed to sing
better than usual.
“Do not judge her by this hearing,” said Honorine; “really, she is not
in voice to-day.”
“I am hoarse!” murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.
Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends
so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in
the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young
peasant’s loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They
left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid
under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life
in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have
everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf
falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:
You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on
breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appetite.
The dinner passed off very merrily.
Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was
content.
From time to time Edmond exclaimed:
“How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little
room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of
good.”
“Is your health poor, monsieur?” asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic
tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.
“I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak.”
“Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing.”
“I assure you that a doctor, a friend of mine, tells me that the country
air would do me no end of good.”
“Indeed, I believe that it can never injure anyone.”
“If I could find a small furnished apartment in this vicinity--a
bachelor requires so little!”
“Oh! you can find that!” exclaimed Agathe; “it seems to me I have seen
signs on the main street. It would be very nice to have you for a
neighbor!”
“It is I, mademoiselle, whom it would make very happy.”
Honorine nudged her young friend with her knee, to urge her to be less
expansive; whereupon Agathe made a funny little face and held her peace
until some new outburst escaped her.
The girl was not as yet accustomed to society, and she said frankly just
what she thought; which people are very careful not to do in
society--and with good reason.
The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the
table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran
toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:
“Monsieur, your name’s Edmond Didier, isn’t it?”
“Yes--why?”
“Because there’s a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood,
shouting at the top of his lungs:
“‘Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer
me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!’ ”
“What does this mean?” demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and
stammered in dire confusion:
“Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that
I came here with a friend of mine.”
“And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!”
“Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat a
_matelote_; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you----”
“That you left your friend to his own devices.”
“He will have eaten his _matelote_ without me--that’s all.”
“But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the
country calling you.--Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and
bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is
here.”
“Very well, madame. I’ll find him; he’s yelling loud enough, so that you
can hear him a long way.”
“Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my
friend----”
“Is he not presentable?”
“I beg pardon; he’s a very good fellow,--a little free-and-easy,--I
mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circumstanced, he has a
handsome fortune----”
“That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be
very fond of you, to look for you so energetically.”
“Oh! that’s because he doesn’t want to go back alone.”
At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he
caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:
“Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me
pass a day like Robinson Crusoe, in a horrible place where one doesn’t
see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!”
“Freluchon!--don’t you see these ladies?”
“Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave
it to these ladies--let them say whether I did wrong to cry
aloud.--Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his
friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: ‘We will
have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies
who live at Chelles, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait
for me; order a _matelote_ and I’ll be with you at four o’clock.--Very
good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a
country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don’t
meet a living soul--not a peasant--not an ass--and ordinarily there are
asses everywhere!--Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no
shepherd--I saw only the dog--probably he acts as shepherd too. After
walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious
concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: ‘Can it be
that a second Deluge has swept this region?’ I returned to the modest
cabaret where I had ordered a _matelote_, some fried fish, and even a
rabbit _sauté_, for I should not believe that I was dining in the
country unless I ate rabbit.
“The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two,
three-quarters of an hour, until the _cabaretier_ informed me that the
dinner was suffering from the delay. At that, I took my place at the
table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several
pieces of eel--the _matelote_ was good, I must admit that--but he didn’t
come. I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of leaving the eel?’--I ate
eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion;
if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel
was superb.
“After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I
was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him,
that he had fallen into a hole--there are holes everywhere. I reached
this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my
friend--in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the
bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great balls
tapering to a point. I don’t know what style of architecture that is,
but I suspect that it’s the _Boulette_ style. I rang rather violently,
no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard--I beg pardon,
mesdames, I mean this--scamp--it seems that I alarmed the occupants of
the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was
one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard.
A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:
“‘What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at
my door?’
“Thereupon I assumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:
“‘Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would
like to return to Paris?’
“At that, the big man who was armed observed that I was a joker, that it
was probably a prearranged scene, and the tall woman said:
“‘I don’t like jokes of this kind; I call it downright impertinent.’
“And they immediately shut the door in my face, just as the little man
who was dancing posed as _Zéphir_.”
“Monsieur must have called at Madame Droguet’s!” said Agathe,
laughingly.
“Ah! that lady’s name is Droguet, is it? it is well suited to
her.--Appalled by my inhospitable reception, I walked on through the
streets, shouting exactly like a crier announcing the loss of some
object or the approach of the day when taxes must be paid; in villages
they never fail to make that announcement, in order to stimulate the
zeal of the taxpayers. But your servant came to my rescue, madame, and
guided me here.”
“And now, Freluchon, I will reply to your reproaches in very few words.
I certainly intended to join you, but these ladies had the extreme
kindness to invite me to dine with them. Tell me now, if you had been in
my place, would you not have done exactly as I did, and accepted?”
“It’s very likely; but I would have sent a messenger to Gournay to set
my friend’s mind at rest.”
“You? you never would have thought of such a thing! And besides, there
are no messengers in a village.”
“You won’t have so much difficulty in finding your friend when he has
lodgings here,” said Agathe.
“Ah! do you propose to hire a house here?”
“No, not a house, but a small apartment.”
“Monsieur’s lungs are delicate,” said Honorine, “and he thinks that the
country air will do him good.”
“Your lungs delicate! Well! that is a good one!”
And Freluchon threw himself back in his chair, laughing uproariously,
oblivious to the glances Edmond bestowed upon him.
Honorine put an end to the scene by saying to the newcomer:
“Will monsieur have something to eat?”
“Infinitely obliged, madame; but when one has eaten eleven slices of
eel, one needs nothing but exercise.--But the trains--what time does the
last train leave for Paris?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“In that case, it will be well for us to start.”
Edmond realized that his friend was right; he took leave of the ladies,
thanking them for their hospitable welcome; while Freluchon eyed
Poucette, whose robust figure aroused his admiration.
Then the two young men went to the station.
IV
CHAMOUREAU MARRIED
Chamoureau, who was in such utter despair when he lost his Eléonore--or
who pretended to be, for genuine sorrow does not act a part and make a
public display of its tears; it seeks solitude and finds solace in its
memories--Chamoureau had contracted a second marriage; he had become the
husband of the woman whose charms had turned his head. At last he
possessed the fair Thélénie, if it is proper to say that one possesses a
woman when she gives herself to one without love. In my opinion one has
only the usufruct in such cases.
The newly-married pair had taken a handsome apartment on Rue
Saint-Lazare. Thélénie had informed her husband that she proposed to
have a carriage, and he had bowed to his wife’s wishes, saying:
“My dear love, we will have whatever you wish; I shall always consider
it a pleasure and a duty to gratify all your desires.”
“In that case, monsieur, you may begin by ceasing to call me _thou_;
there is nothing in worse form than to thee-and-thou one’s wife; and I
am a stickler for good form.”
“What, my dear love, after three days of married life, thou--you
want----”
“You have thee-and-thoued me three days already, and that’s too much; I
tell you again, monsieur, that in good society a man and wife don’t do
it. You seem desirous to appear like a petty government clerk.”
“I don’t agree to that--but I thought----”
“Enough--it’s decided: you are not to call me _thou_ any more.”
“What! not even in the blissful moments when my affection----”
“Hush! that’s enough.”
“The devil! that will embarrass me terribly.”
From that moment Chamoureau no longer ventured to use the familiar form
of address to his wife; in her presence he was like a scholar before his
teacher, or rather, like a soldier before his commanding officer. He
dared not speak unless he was questioned; he had no opinions, tastes,
desires; Madame Chamoureau took all that responsibility on her
shoulders.
As is frequently the case with women who have led very dissipated lives,
Thélénie, after her marriage, assumed a very severe demeanor and
bearing; she became a veritable prude, frowned if anyone made a ribald
remark before her, and scolded her husband if he presumed to laugh at
it. She refused to go to the Théâtre de Palais-Royal, and she could not
understand how women could have the effrontery to waltz.
Such was Madame de Belleville; for the newly-married pair answered to no
other name, and Thélénie had said to her husband more than once:
“Remember, monsieur, that your name is no longer Chamoureau; when anyone
calls you by that name, don’t answer, but turn a deaf ear and go your
way.”
“But, my dear love, there are people who have known me a long while, and
who know perfectly well that my name is Chamoureau.”
“Tell those people once for all that you answer to no name but
Belleville.”
“There are some who think that I live at Belleville, and that that’s
what I mean.”
“Bah! monsieur, what difference does all that make? Suppose you should
cease to be the friend of the pack of fools with whom you used to
associate, where would be the harm?”
“That’s true; in that case, I cease to know my former acquaintances; I
have a handsome fortune, and I ought not to frequent the same kind of
society.”
“Oh! by the way, monsieur, there are two persons to whom I give you
leave to speak, and even, if--if it will be agreeable to you to see
them--you may ask them to call on us; I shall not be sorry to let them
see the comfort and elegance of our home.”
“Very well, dear love; and who are these two persons whom you are kind
enough to be willing to receive?”
“Monsieur Edmond Didier and his friend Freluchon.”
“Oho! why, if I’m not mistaken, you demanded, before marrying me, that I
should break off all relations with those two gentlemen.”
“It is quite possible, monsieur; I may have desired it then; now I feel
differently. Am I not at liberty to change my mind?”
“Oh! yes, indeed! absolutely at liberty.”
“This Freluchon was your intimate friend, I know, and I do not wish to
deprive you of his company.”
“Oh! thanks a thousand times, my adored wife! I am deeply sensible
of----”
“Don’t talk to me like that any more! _Adored wife!_ Anyone would think
we were acting a melodrama! Call me madame, and stick to that.”
“Very well, I understand, madame--madame--and I will stick to that.”
Some days after this conversation, which will give an idea of the kind
of happiness which Chamoureau enjoyed since he had ceased to be a
widower, he came face to face with Freluchon one morning on the
boulevard.
The latter began by laughing in his former friend’s face.
“Good-day, Freluchon; what are you laughing at?”
“Parbleu! at your expression--your new rig--your new face--for you have
manufactured a new face for yourself with all the rest.”
“Freluchon, you see a very happy man.”
“No one would think it to see you walk.”
“Freluchon, I am married again; the lovely Thélénie has become my wife.”
“Aha! so that’s what gives you such an idiotic look, is it? I supposed
at first that it was the result of your new wealth; but you’re married,
so there’s a double explanation.”
“Yes, Freluchon, I am.”
“You have been married once already; but you were bent on doing it
again, and it was your right.”
“Ah! my friend, I am the most fortunate of men!”
“You say that as if you were reciting a fable: ‘A crow perched on a
tree----’”
“Tell me, Freluchon, why won’t you believe that I am happy?”