It was all an accident, a pure accident. Tired of standing, Baron
d'Etraille went, as all the Princess's rooms were open on that
particular evening, into an empty bedroom, which appeared almost dark
after coming out of the brilliantly lighted drawing-rooms.
He looked round for a chair in which to have a doze, as he was sure his
wife would not go away before daylight. As soon as he got inside the
door he saw the big bed with its azure-and-gold hangings, in the middle
of the great room, looking like a catafalque in which love was buried,
for the Princess was no longer young. Behind it, a large bright spot
looked like a lake seen at a distance from the window. It was a large
looking-glass, which, discreetly covered with dark drapery, that,
however, was very rarely let down, seemed to look at the bed, which was
its accomplice. One might almost fancy that it felt regrets, and that
one was going to see in it charming shapes of naked women, and the
gentle movement of arms about to embrace them.
The Baron stood still for a moment, smiling, rather moved, on the
threshold of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly something
appeared in the looking-glass, as if the phantoms which he had evoked
had risen up before him. A man and a woman who had been sitting on a low
couch hidden in the shade had got up, and the polished surface,
reflecting their figures, showed that they were kissing each other
before separating.
The Baron recognized his wife and the Marquis de Cervigné. He turned and
went away like a man who is fully master of himself, and waited till it
was day before taking away the Baroness; but he had no longer any
thoughts of sleeping.
As soon as they were alone he said.
"Madame, I saw you just now in Princess de Raynes' room; I need say no
more, and I am not fond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or of
ridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, we shall separate without
any scandal. Our lawyers will settle your position according to my
orders. You will be free to live as you please when you are no longer
under my roof; but, as you will continue to bear my name, I must warn
you that, should any scandal arise, I shall show myself inflexible."
She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed, and left the room.
He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly
during the first period of their married life; but his ardor had cooled,
and now he often had a caprice, either in a theater or in society,
though he always preserved a certain liking for the Baroness.
She was very young, hardly four-and-twenty, small, slight--too
slight--and very fair. She was a true Parisian doll: clever, spoilt,
elegant, coquettish, witty, with more charm than real beauty. He used to
say familiarly to his brother, when speaking of her:
"My wife is charming, attractive, but--there is nothing to lay hold of.
She is like a glass of champagne that is all froth--when you have got to
the wine it is very good, but there is too little of it, unfortunately."
He walked up and down the room in great agitation, and thinking of a
thousand things. At one moment he felt in a great rage, and felt
inclined to give the Marquis a good thrashing or to smack his face
publicly, in the club. But he thought that would not do, it would not be
at all _the thing_; he would be laughed at, and not the Marquis, and as
he felt that his anger proceeded more from wounded vanity than from a
broken heart he went to bed, but could not go to sleep.
A few days afterwards it was known in Paris that the Baron and Baroness
d'Etraille had agreed to an amicable separation on account of
incompatibility of temper. Nobody suspected anything, nobody laughed,
and nobody was astonished.
The Baron, however, to avoid meeting her, traveled for a year, then he
spent the summer at the seaside, and the autumn in shooting, returning
to Paris for the winter. He did not meet his wife once.
He did not even know what people said about her. At any rate, she took
care to save appearances, and that was all he asked for.
He got dreadfully bored, traveled again, restored his old castle of
Villebosc, which took him two years; then for over a year he received
relays of friends there, till at last, tired of all these commonplace,
so-called pleasures, he returned to his mansion in the Rue de Lills,
just six years after their separation.
He was then forty-five, with a good crop of gray hair, rather stout, and
with that melancholy look of people who have been handsome, sought
after, and much liked, and who are deteriorating daily.
A month after his return to Paris he took cold on coming out of his
club, and had a bad cough, so his medical man ordered him to Nice for
the rest of the winter.
He started by the express on Monday evening. He was late, and got to the
station only a very short time before the departure of the train, and
had barely time to get into a carriage, with only one occupant, who was
sitting in a corner so wrapped in furs and cloaks that he could not even
make out whether it were a man or a woman, as nothing of the figure
could be seen. When he perceived that he could not find out, he put on
his traveling-cap, rolled himself up in his rugs, and stretched himself
out comfortably to sleep.
He did not wake up till the day was breaking, and looked immediately at
his fellow-traveler. He had not stirred all night, and seemed still to
be sound asleep.
M. d'Etraille made use of the opportunity to brush his hair and his
beard, and to try and freshen himself up a little generally, for a
night's traveling changes one's looks very much when one has attained to
a certain age.