much the better; but as I know these women, as I know that when they
have once found a dupe to cover up their past misconduct, they acquire
such authority over him that he becomes a mere nobody--an utterly
ridiculous person--well, I didn’t know that that rôle would suit you.
But it does suit you, so it’s all right, it’s your business. March gayly
on, my poor Chamoureau, and may----”
“Oh! I beg your pardon--allow me to stop you right there. I must tell
you that my name is no longer Chamoureau, or, at least, I no longer
answer to that name.”
“The deuce! have you taken your wife’s name, pray? are you Monsieur
Thélénie?”
“No, my name is De Belleville now.”
“What does this new farce mean?”
“It means that my wife, my superb wife, cannot endure the name of
Chamoureau; it’s a weakness of hers, but to be agreeable to her, I have
taken the name of the place where I was born--Belleville--and we are
known by no other name now--Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”
“Gad! that’s another good one! But after all, you may call yourself
Romulus if you choose; it’s all one to me, absolutely.”
“By the way, Freluchon, that isn’t all; my wife, who is very affable
with me, although----”
“Although it doesn’t appear?”
“No, I mean, although--although she doesn’t mean to be--has authorized
me to invite you and your friend Edmond Didier to come to see us.”
“Ha! ha! ha! worse and worse!”
“What’s the matter?”
“And it is you whom she selects for such errands?”
“Why not?”
“Poor Chamoureau!”
“De Belleville, I beg you, Freluchon; De Belleville! Don’t call me
anything else.”
“Very well, my dear Seigneur de Belleville--for if you are not yet a
seigneur, I am sure that you soon will be----”
“Do you think so?”
“You are well fitted to reach any height--with the help of your wife’s
_cotillon_.”
“What do you mean by her _cotillon_?”
“In other words, her influence. You will thank Madame de Belleville, in
my behalf; I do not expect to avail myself of her invitation.”
“Why not?”
“As I am very absent-minded, I fear that I might make a mistake, and
call her Madame Chamoureau; and I am sure that she would turn me out of
doors on the instant.”
“What a paltry reason!”
“As for Edmond Didier--oh! that’s a different matter. I hardly ever see
him now.”
“Indeed? have you had a falling out?”
“Not at all; but he is in love, yes, very seriously in love this time;
and as his passion lies in Chelles, he has hired a place in that region
and he never stirs from there.”
“Chelles? I wonder if this passion of his can be a lady for whom I
bought a little place at Chelles in the spring--Madame Dalmont?”
“Precisely; that is to say, it is not Madame Dalmont whom he’s in love
with, but her young friend, a very pretty girl who lives with
her--Mademoiselle Agathe.”
“Oh, yes! I remember--a very pretty blonde, that is true. I understand
now why he took so much trouble to have that purchase concluded so
quickly: Mademoiselle Agathe had already caught his eye.”
“Parbleu! when a young man becomes so obliging, so zealous, so eager to
make himself useful, you may be sure that love has something to do with
it.”
“So you don’t see Edmond now?”
“I see him when I go to Chelles, to his lodgings; but as I am not in
love, I don’t go very often. Still, there’s a very pretty peasant girl
there, Mademoiselle Poucette. But when you attempt to joke with her,
why! she cuffs you as if she’d pound you to a jelly.--So, my dear
fellow, you need not expect a call from Edmond. As I tell you, he is
hooked this time; he’s head over ears in love; but this young woman
cannot be his mistress--and then----”
“Then he will marry her.”
“That would do very well if he still had the sixty thousand francs that
he did have; one can live upon that amount. But he has very little of it
left; and as for the young lady, I fancy that she has nothing but her
lovely eyes, and they won’t do to make soup.”
“Oh, no! money before everything! That is my wife’s principle, too.”
“I don’t doubt it; she has famous principles, has your wife!--Adieu,
Chamoureau de Belleville, lord of the outskirts and of other places
which I will not mention. When you have a coat of arms, I advise you to
put in some stag’s horns; they look well against the background of the
shield.”
Freluchon walked away, still laughing.
“That devilish Freluchon!” said Chamoureau to himself as he looked after
him; “he’s always in high spirits; but I don’t believe he has thirty-two
thousand two hundred francs a year! After all, I am quite as well
pleased that he is not coming to our house; I am quite certain he would
call me Chamoureau; he would do it on purpose!”
When he reached home, the happy bridegroom lost no time in seeking
Thélénie, and telling her that he had met Freluchon. The name of
Edmond’s friend instantly fixed Thélénie’s attention.
“Well, did you invite him to come to see us, and to bring his friend
Monsieur Edmond?” she asked.
“Yes, to be sure, I did what you told me; but they won’t either of them
come.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Freluchon has contracted the habit of laughing in everybody’s face; he
joked me about my change of name, and declared that if he came to see us
he couldn’t help calling me Chamoureau. As you may imagine, I didn’t
insist.”
“But his friend, Monsieur Edmond Didier?”
“Oh! that’s a different matter! He has a love-affair on the brain; a
passion--oh! a grand passion--Look out, my dear, you’ll drop that book
you have in your hand.”
“Never mind, monsieur; what does the book matter? Go on; you say that
Monsieur Edmond is very much in love--as usual--some caprice for a
grisette, for that gentleman takes to that type of woman.”
“No, madame, this time it’s a respectable young woman with whom he is in
love.”
“How do you know that she is respectable?”
“Because I know her; she’s a fascinating blonde.”
“You know her, you say, monsieur; and you have never mentioned it to
me!”
“Never mentioned what to you?”
“Why, Monsieur Edmond’s love for this girl, whom you know, and whom you
consider so pretty.”
“Why, madame, I couldn’t mention it to you, because I knew nothing about
it myself; it was Freluchon who told me.”
“But you said that you knew this woman! You don’t seem to know what you
are saying, monsieur! Oh! how you irritate me!”
“My dear love, do be careful; you’re tearing the lace in your
sleeves--you will have it in rags.”
“Oh! don’t bother about my lace, monsieur; it suits me to tear it,
apparently. But for God’s sake, tell me exactly what Monsieur Freluchon
said to you about his friend Edmond. Speak, monsieur! why don’t you
speak? you see that I am waiting!”
At that moment Thélénie’s eyes emitted flames, and their expression was
so far from loving that Chamoureau found them less beautiful than usual.
He had never seen his superb wife’s face wear such a savage, threatening
expression; he felt ill at ease, he was frightened, and he stammered:
“Madame, you--you--dis--dis--distress me; what--what--what’s the
m--m--matter?”
Thélénie strove to calm herself as she replied:
“Why, nothing’s the matter, monsieur; only my nerves are on edge this
morning, and the slightest thing upsets me, irritates me. Go on, I am
listening.”
Chamoureau repeated to his wife all that Freluchon had told him
concerning Edmond’s new love-affair. Thélénie listened attentively; she
tried to remain calm; to avoid tearing her lace; and she rejoined with
apparent tranquillity:
“So these women who live at Chelles are known to you?”
“Yes, my dear love; it was through me that they bought Monsieur
Courtivaux’s house--for twenty thousand francs, as I remember.”
“What sort of women are they?”
“Madame Dalmont, the one who bought the house, is a widow, some
twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with an interesting, but sad face;
of moderate means, she told me herself. Her young friend, the one
Monsieur Edmond is so much in love with, must be about sixteen or
seventeen--she’s an orphan, I believe--but such a pretty face! lovely
fair hair, blue eyes----”
“Enough, monsieur! you have extolled this surprising beauty too much
already! I shall end by thinking that you are in love with her too!”
“Ah! madame, you know very well that you alone, whose unapproachable
charms----”
“And Monsieur Edmond has hired a house at Chelles? he lives there now?”
“Yes, in order to be near those ladies.”
“At whose house he visits?”
“Naturally.”
After a few minutes of silence, Thélénie said:
“Monsieur, all _comme il faut_ people have a house in the country, a
villa to which they go for the summer. Of course you do not expect me
to stay cooped up in Paris all summer, like a shopkeeper on Rue
Saint-Denis.”
“Madame--I think--faith! I don’t know; I will do whatever you want.”
“I want a country house, monsieur; we will hire one.”
“Very well, my dear love; I will look about for one, I will read the
_Petites-Affiches_.”
“Don’t take all that trouble; just tell them to put the horses in the
carriage, and we will look for a house in the neighborhood that I like
best.”
Chamoureau executed his wife’s orders with alacrity, while she, left to
her reflections, said to herself:
“Ah! I will know this woman whom you love, ungrateful Edmond! and I will
find a way to put a spoke in your love-affairs!”
Mademoiselle Héloïse, who had retained her former footing of intimacy
with her old friend, because she was careful to call her nothing but
Madame de Belleville, suddenly appeared, in evident uneasiness, and
whispered to Thélénie:
“I say, my dear, I just saw--down in the street, standing in front of
the house, that horrid man who came to your old rooms one day, so
wretchedly dressed, all in rags, and who had such a strange
name--Croque, I think.”
“Ah! you recognized him?”
“Yes, although he is dressed a little better than he was the other time.
He has one of those faces that one doesn’t forget! he looks like a
night-owl!”
“So Croque has found my trail,” thought Thélénie, “and some day he will
present himself again. Oh, well! it matters little, after all; I have an
idea now that I may have occasion to make use of him.”
V
THE CHERRIES.--THE RAVINE
Edmond very soon put in execution the plan he had formed. On the day
after that on which he had dined at Madame Dalmont’s, he returned to
Chelles alone. He did not call upon the ladies, because a second visit
after so brief an interval would have been indiscreet; but he went all
about the neighborhood and succeeded in finding an attractive house to
let all furnished, a very short distance from Madame Dalmont’s. The
house was large enough for a good-sized family; it was much too large
for a single man; but the tenant could have possession at once, and it
was only five minutes’ walk from Madame Dalmont’s; so Edmond did not
hesitate; he hired it for the balance of the year for one thousand
francs, one-half of which he paid in cash to Monsieur Durand, the owner
of the property.
Two days later, the young man called at Madame Dalmont’s.
“It is a neighbor of yours,” he said, “who ventures to pay you a visit,
and who, if it is not too presumptuous, will ask your permission to
come now and then in the evening, to play and sing with you.”
“What! have you hired a house here?” cried Agathe, unable to restrain a
joyous movement.
“Yes, mademoiselle, a summer house, belonging to a Monsieur Durand, very
near that lady’s house where Freluchon was so coldly received when he
went there to ask for me a few days ago.”
“Oh! I know the place,” said Honorine, “but it seems to me to be very
large for a single man.”
“Oh! what difference does it make? Besides, Freluchon will come to see
me often, and pass the night.”
“I thought that he didn’t like this part of the country.”
“He will get used to it; for my part, the longer I am here, the better I
like it.”
As he said this, Edmond’s eyes were fixed on Agathe, and she understood
perfectly why the young man liked Chelles so much.
But it was not without considerable disquietude that Honorine saw Edmond
Didier take up his abode so near to them; and Agathe, who could read her
protectress’s face very easily, said to her after Edmond’s departure:
“How serious you look! Are you sorry that Monsieur Edmond has hired a
country house in this vicinity? You frown at me; is it my fault?”
“Your fault? yes, of course it’s your fault; and yet I can’t scold you!
Why, you know perfectly well that this young man is in love with you;
and that that was the only motive that led him to hire that house,
which is large enough for ten persons.”
“My dear friend, I swear to you that Monsieur Edmond has never said a
word to me which would lead me to suppose that--that he was thinking of
me.”
“I believe you; indeed, he has not been coming here long.”
“Do you mean that you think that that young man is capable of saying
unseemly things to me? Do you suppose that I would listen to them?”
“No. Monsieur Edmond seems an honorable man; he has no evil intentions,
I believe; but love is a sentiment that one cannot control. If you
should love this young man----”
“Well, where would be the harm, since you think that he loves me? He
would be my husband.”
“Your husband! My poor girl, before marrying, you must have at least
enough to live on. You have nothing, and I fancy that Monsieur Edmond
hasn’t very much, either!”
“But he is always very well and fashionably dressed; he hired Monsieur
Durand’s house for a thousand francs.”
“That proves that he knows how to spend money, but not that he knows how
to earn it.--Come, come, don’t you take your turn at making wry faces at
me. I am your second mother; I am thinking of your future, of your
welfare; you ought not to be angry with me for that.”
Agathe replied by throwing herself into Honorine’s arms, saying:
“Never fear! I shall not have any secrets from you.”
The two friends had hardly finished their conversation when Poucette’s
voice attracted their attention. The girl was talking to someone, in
what seemed to be a threatening tone. Her voice came from the garden;
the two ladies were there in a moment, and found Poucette clinging to
the leg of a small boy who had climbed into a cherry tree, and continued
to eat the cherries although she jerked at his leg, trying to pull him
down. But when Honorine and Agathe appeared, little Emile concluded to
come down from the tree.
“D’ye see, madame,” cried Poucette, “here’s the one that steals our
cherries; for some time past I’ve been noticing that the cherries kept
disappearing although you ladies don’t pick any; so I began to suspect
something; I hid and watched, and I saw this good-for-nothing scamp, the
lost child, climbing over the wall right here by the cherry tree, and in
a minute he was in the tree.”
“Oh! I recognize him,” said Agathe; “it’s the boy who chased the cow
that frightened you so.”
“Pardi! he don’t know to do anything but mischief, the wicked little
scamp.--But I’ll teach you!”
And the peasant made ready to strike the boy, who neither stirred nor
spoke, and seemed to care little whether he was beaten or not.
But Honorine stopped Poucette with a gesture; then she sat down on a
bench and beckoned the boy to her.
He hesitated, but at last decided to go to her, after casting a savage
glance at Poucette.
“Why do you come here to take my cherries?” inquired Honorine in a
gentle voice, and looking at the little thief with no trace of anger.
He seemed astonished to be spoken to otherwise than harshly; he lowered
his eyes and answered at last:
“Well! I like cherries, I do.”
“Even so, that is no reason for taking what doesn’t belong to you,--for
climbing a wall. Do you know what a risk you run? If the constable had
seen you he would have arrested you; he might have taken you to prison,
and they would have kept you a long time perhaps, as a vagrant, a bad
boy.”
“Oh! I’m too small; they don’t put little boys in prison!”
“You are mistaken! little boys are just the ones they do keep in the
houses of correction until they grow up, so that they can’t loiter along
the roads doing nothing.”
“Well, then, in prison I’d play with the other little boys, as you say
there’s little boys there.”
“No, you wouldn’t play, because they don’t keep little ne’er-do-wells in
prison to play and enjoy themselves; they make them work; and those who
refuse are punished, kept on bread and water, and not allowed to speak
to anyone.--Come now, think and tell me whether the few cherries you
have eaten are worth all the punishments that they might bring upon
you.”
Little Emile made no reply; he gazed at Honorine, furtively at first,
but at last made bold to look her in the face, as if to assure himself
that she was not laughing at him, and that she really meant what she had
said. Doubtless the young woman’s face inspired confidence, for he
seemed to reflect; and after a few moments he muttered:
“What am I to do to get cherries then? there ain’t any cherry tree at
our house; and they won’t give me any money to buy any.”
“Why, instead of stealing--which is very, very wrong, even if it’s only
cherries--you should just come and ask for some; and I would never
refuse to give them to you! Especially if I haven’t heard of your doing
any more naughty things, like throwing stones at a cow to make her run
through the fields at the risk of hurting people, especially poor little
children who might not have time to get out of the way. Oh! it is so
wicked to hurt those who are weak and can’t defend themselves; only
cowardly hearts do that.”
“Oh! I fight with big boys, I do!”
“Don’t fight at all; that will be much better.”
Then she made a sign to Agathe, who understood her and brought a little
basket filled with cherries. Honorine took out two handfuls and handed
them to the little boy.
“Here,” she said, “since you are so fond of cherries, take these.”
The child stared at her in surprise, and said in a faltering voice:
“What! are you going to give me some?”
“Yes, I will give you these, on condition that you won’t steal any more;
do you promise?”
“Well! as long as you give ‘em to me, I don’t need to climb over the
wall any more.”
And the boy, putting his hands together, received the cherries which she
gave him and hugged them to his breast. Then he looked all about and
asked:
“Can I go now?”
“To be sure--you are free. Go; but don’t be so naughty any more, and
instead of making everybody hate you, make them love you, and you will
see how much happier that will make you.”
“And will everybody give me cherries?”
“I don’t promise you that; but people will be kind to you when you are
kind to them.”
Little Emile said nothing more; but he made a pirouette and scampered
away, shouting at Poucette as he passed her:
“The lady’s better ‘n you!”
“Thanks!” said the young peasant; “if madame gives fruit to everybody
who comes to steal it, they won’t take the trouble to climb the wall!”
“Well! what would you have had me give the child?”
“It seems to me that he deserved a good licking instead of cherries!”
“He is said to be very naughty; but on the other hand everybody scolds
him and treats him harshly.”
“Sometimes they beat him, and hard too!”
“Well, I propose to try another method of reforming him.”
“You are right,” said Agathe; “_gentleness is better than violence_; I
have read that somewhere in La Fontaine’s fables.”
A few days later, Edmond having gone to Paris, the two friends knew that
he would not come to see them; and so, immediately after dinner, Agathe
proposed to Honorine that they should go for a long walk.
“I don’t want to go in the direction of the Tower,” said Honorine; “it
would seem as if we were trying to meet the owner again; and as that
gentleman has not thought fit to call to inquire whether my fright had
any serious consequences, I should be sorry to have him think that we
cared to see him again.”
There was a faint suggestion of irritation in Honorine’s manner as she
said this; but Agathe did not notice it.
“Mon Dieu! my dear,” she rejoined, “as the man doesn’t care for society,
but avoids it, why should you expect him to come to see us? It doesn’t
seem to me that that is any reason why we should deprive ourselves of
the pleasure of walking in the direction that is most agreeable to us.
For my part, I would like to go toward the Tower, and Noisy-le-Grand;
for that is where that ravine is, with the cross erected on the spot
where they found a young man dead. To tell the truth, I am very curious
to see the place; it will make my flesh creep, but no matter; I am very
desirous to see it; I have never forgotten that story that the doctor
told us.”
Honorine, whose resolution did not seem very firm, replied:
“Oh, well! if you want to see the ravine and the cross--after all, it
isn’t our fault that the gentleman’s estate lies in that direction; and
then it would be very strange if we should happen to meet him again.”
“It isn’t likely.”
“At all events, if we do meet him, we will not speak to him--do you
understand? we will simply bow to him, but we will not stop.”
“But suppose he speaks to us?”
“Oh! in that case--but he won’t speak to us, as he cares so little for
society.”
“Let us start; this time I trust that we shall not meet any cows to
frighten us.”
The two friends left the house. It was seven o’clock in the evening; the
weather was fine, but the atmosphere was somewhat heavy and seemed to
presage a storm. The young women did not allow themselves to be
frightened by some dark clouds which appeared above the horizon. They
strolled idly along the road to Gournay, stopping now and then to pluck
flowers; and after passing through the little village, Honorine said:
“We must not take the road we took the other time, which leads toward
that gentleman’s property. Let us take another road--this one, for
instance.”
“But suppose we lose our way?”
“We can always find it again by inquiring. Besides, Noisy-le-Grand is in
this direction.”
“But Noisy isn’t where we want to go; we want to find the ravine where
the cross is that was set up in memory of the young man who was murdered
there.”
“Well! that ravine, they say, is close by the road leading to Noisy.”
“No, it’s near the park belonging to the Tower, and this road takes us
away from it.”
“You don’t know any more about it than I. However, we will ask.”
The two friends walked along the road, which was unfamiliar to them; it
was shaded in spots by fine walnut trees and venerable acacias.
After having walked for some time, Honorine stopped.
“How dark it is!” she said; “has the night come already?”
“No, it’s the storm coming up! Oh! how black it is! What should we do if
the storm should surprise us here? I don’t see any house where we could
go for shelter.”
“We will stand under one of these magnificent walnuts.”
“Oh, no! when it lightens, we mustn’t stand under a walnut tree, it’s
one of the trees that attract lightning.”
“What! are you afraid, Agathe, you who are always so brave?”
“A storm isn’t very pleasant when you’re in the midst of the fields! Oh!
mon Dieu!”
“What is it?”
“I felt a drop of rain, a big drop.”
“Let’s walk faster.”
But they quickened their pace to no purpose: in a moment the storm
burst; the rain fell in torrents and forced them to seek shelter under a
huge tree whose dense foliage protected them almost entirely from the
downpour.
“We are not lucky in our walks!” said Honorine; “I shall not leave our
garden any more!”
“Nonsense! when it’s over we forget all about it.”
“Yes, but this one keeps on, and we are a long way from home! What an
idea of yours to want to go to a place that is said to be dangerous!”
“Oho! it’s your turn to be afraid now.”
“Not of the thunder, at all events!”
“But the thunder is more dangerous than a cross set up in a ravine.”
“Ah! what a flash! it was superb!”
“It was frightful!”
“I think the rain is subsiding a little.”
“Let us go on.”
“Mon Dieu! here comes the darkness now; suppose it should overtake us
before we have found our way!”
“Let us walk, let us walk; we shall certainly meet someone who will tell
us which way to go.”
“Oh! how slippery the rain has made the road! We shall fall in a moment;
that will be the last straw!”
“Let’s take each other’s arm, and hold on firmly.”
The two friends walked on, laughing when they almost fell, shrieking
with terror when the lightning flashes lighted up the surrounding
country. The rain had almost ceased, but the night was coming on, and
the farther they walked, the less familiar the road seemed to them.
At last they met a peasant woman driving an ass before her; at sight of
her they uttered a cry of delight.
“Madame! madame! which way to Chelles, if you please?”
“Why, bless me! you’re turning your backs to it!”
“Which way must we go, then?”
“See, take this path to the left; then turn to the left again and you’ll
come to Gournay; then----”
“Oh! we know the way after that, thanks!”
“And the cross in the ravine--are we far from that?”