Agathe had been gone for a long while, and I was still in my study,
thinking of the past evening and night. Somebody opened the door of my
apartment: it was my concierge, Madame Dupont, coming to put my room to
rights, as usual. As she came in, the good soul did not fail to glance
at everything within range; and a woman will see more at a glance than
we men can see in fifteen minutes.
Fool that I was! I had forgotten to put the couch where it belonged!
that wretched Agathe was responsible for that! But when all was said and
done, I was master in my own apartment; I could arrange my furniture as
I pleased. I was not in the habit of talking with my concierge, and
Madame Dupont knew it. Nevertheless, I noticed that she hovered about me
and tried to enter into conversation.
"It looks as though 'twill be a lovely day; that's very lucky, seeing
it's Sunday; there are so many people who don't have any other day for
an outing!"
"Yes," I assented, "it is very fortunate."
"Ah! monsieur has moved his furniture, I see. Does monsieur mean to
leave this couch in his study?"
"No; you may put it back where it belongs; I'll help you."
"I see; monsieur has been trying an experiment?"
"Yes, it was an experiment."
"That's like my daughter, who's forever moving her son's cradle from one
place to another. Last night, she put it beside the bed; but my
son-in-law wouldn't have it there, because the child's nearly four years
old, and it is embarrassing for a husband and wife, when---- Why, your
bed's hardly tumbled at all, monsieur!"
"I suppose that I didn't move much."
"Monsieur has already breakfasted, apparently? Monsieur was hungry
earlier to-day than usual."
I made no reply, but dressed to go out, being impatient to leave the
house. Madame Dupont stooped and picked up something, which she brought
to me with a mischievous air.
"Here's a little cross _à la_ Jeannette, monsieur, that I just found
beside your bed."
"Ah! give it to me, Madame Dupont, give it to me; I know what it is, I
bought it yesterday. I have got to send it to someone; it's to go into
the country, to our farmer's daughter."
"It's a pretty little cross; but I shouldn't think it was new."
"You don't know what you're talking about, Madame Dupont."
And I hastily put the cross in my pocket, to hide it from the glances of
that accursed concierge, who, finding that I no longer replied to her,
talked on all alone, in order to keep the conversation alive.
"They say the girl was very pretty, and that she was crying! That's a
strange thing."
"What girl are you talking about?"
"A little thing--a sort of--faith! I don't know just what she was, for I
didn't see her. To be sure, she passed my lodge, but she went by so
quick! brrr! like a bomb!"
"Who told you anything about her?"
"Madame Martin, Madame Bertin's cook, who saw her when she went
downstairs to get her milk."
"Where did the girl come from?"
"Oh!--I--they--that is--I don't know anything about it, monsieur."
The tone in which Madame Dupont told me that she knew nothing satisfied
me that she did know a great deal. Raymond had probably tattled to
Madame Martin, and she to the concierge. And then the couch, and the
gilt cross: I had certainly become the byword of the whole house! Madame
Bertin would undoubtedly be the first one to hear about it, and Madame
Bertin was the mother of two pretty daughters, whose esteem I was most
anxious to retain. And yet it was a generous action, a sublime action
when performed by a young man, which was likely to injure me in the
opinion of many people. Ah! how untrustworthy are appearances!
I was about to put an end to the chatter of my concierge by leaving my
lodgings, when she detained me.
"By the way, monsieur, I beg your pardon--I quite forgot--I have
something for you."
"What is it, pray?"
"I had entirely forgotten it; that girl is on my brain. It's a letter."
"A letter! who gave it to you?"
"The postman, monsieur; he brought it last night; you'd gone out, and
when you came home it was very late and I was in bed; for I couldn't
even see you, and that's how it was that----"
"Morbleu! Madame Dupont, give me the letter, and spare me your
reflections!"
"Here it is, monsieur."
I recognized the postmark and the handwriting: it was from my sister, my
dear Amélie. But that reminds me that I ought to have told you before
this who I am, where I come from, and what my business is. I confess
that it never occurred to me; indeed, I should have been quite capable
of going on to the end without giving you any further information, and
my adventures would have been none the less simple in your eyes; for as
I have not to tell of mysteries, murders, abductions, substitution of
children,--which always produces an excellent effect,--promenades in the
galleries of the West, visits to subterranean caverns, moonlight
visions, encounters in murky caves, etc., etc., I shall have nothing to
explain or disentangle for my dénouement, and shall be constrained, in
all probability, to end as simply as I began.
"But," you will say, "it is always well to know with whom one is
dealing; in fact, it is customary to begin with that."--That is true;
but I care little about doing as others do, and, moreover, it seems to
me that these never-ending stories of births and family anecdotes are
not adapted to afford you much amusement; for that reason, I shall be
very brief.
My name is Eugène Dorsan; I am of a Parisian family; my father was a
king's attorney [_procureur_]; they say _avoué_ now, a title which lends
itself less readily to pleasantry. However, my father was a very
honorable man, so I have always been told, and I have never doubted it.
He earned a great deal of money, to his credit be it said; but he died
young, wherein he made a mistake; especially as his death was the result
of overwork. My mother was left a widow with two children: my sister
Amélie, my senior by a year, and your humble servant. Madame Dorsan was
rich; she was in a position to marry again, but she preferred to retain
her freedom; she was wise both on her own account and on ours; for, in
my opinion, marriage, while a most excellent thing, should be used in
moderation.
My sister and I received a good education. We made the most of it,
especially my sister, who is naturally amiable, kindly, and gentle, and
whose only aim was to satisfy her teachers, and to demonstrate to her
mother her affection and her obedience. For my part, I am no phoenix,
but I have no glaring faults. My predominant passion is the love which
women arouse in me; but as that passion could not develop in my
childhood, it did not impede my progress.
My mother had bought a beautiful country estate near Melun, and we spent
the summer there. Our childhood and youth passed away without accident
or trouble, without any important occurrences, and, I may say also,
without sorrow or tribulation. Indeed, what sources of affliction can
one encounter before the age of fifteen, when one is surrounded by
wealthy and generous kindred?
How I pity the poor wretches reared in poverty by parents whom
misfortune often makes stern and unfeeling! Even in the days of
innocence, they know the afflictions of maturity; what a pitiable
apprenticeship to life!
At the age of sixteen my sister married a young man of twenty-four, a
steady, orderly youth and a tremendous worker, who owned a cotton mill
at Melun. Three years after the wedding, our mother died. She had
economized in the interest of her children, and she left us ten thousand
a year each. Amélie, now Madame Déneterre, and her husband took up their
abode in our country house; and I returned to Paris, partly to seek
diversion from my grief at my mother's death, and partly to complete my
acquaintance with the world.
Six years had passed since then, and I had become so attached to the
seductive capital that I spent only six weeks, in the summer, with my
sister. I had not yet been to her that year, and I assumed that that was
why she was writing to me. That dear sister of mine, knowing that I was
not over-virtuous, was exceedingly anxious that I should marry, in the
hope that that would put an end to my follies; and every summer I found
at her house a new young woman, very pretty and sweet and well bred,
possessed of abundant talents and attractions and a very respectable
dowry. She was presented to me without affectation, but I knew what was
in the air. But, despite the attentions of her parents, the eloquent
sermons from my sister on the joys of wedded life, and the sighs and
sidelong glances of the young lady herself, I took my leave at the end
of six weeks without making a declaration.
"Patience!" my sister would say to her husband; "next year, I'll find
one who will turn his head, I'll wager."
"So be it!" Déneterre would reply tranquilly; "we'll put it off till
next year."
Now, let us read my sister's letter:
"MY DEAR EUGÈNE:
"It is the last of July, and you haven't come to see us yet; can it
be that life in Paris has made you entirely forgetful of the
relations who love you and think constantly of you and your
future?----"
My future! Oh, yes! that means another marriage on the carpet. What a
mania it is of Amélie's! always trying to induce me to marry! It is
worse than the conventional guardian of comedy. But let us go on:
"It seems to me that you must be tired of those numerous conquests,
of those gallant adventures, of those women who have no other guide
than pleasure, and who forget you as quickly as they adore
you.----"
Aha! sarcasm! You are mistaken, my dear sister; I am not tired of making
conquests; those that I make are not all so simple as you think, said I
to myself. But in the provinces people are even more spiteful, more
evil-tongued than in Paris; and since my sister has left the capital,
she takes it upon herself to lecture me. But at heart she is kindness
itself! I cannot be angry with her for constantly thinking of me. But
where was I?
"As quickly as they adore you. I often hear of you from people who
come here from Paris; I know that you are more heedless than ever,
that you think of nothing but your pleasures, that you deceive all
your mistresses, that they pay you back in your own coin.----"
How well she divines the truth! it is astonishing!
"We never hear of any sensible action on your part.----"
Ah! my dear sister, if you had known the story of the night I had just
passed! And people slander me, and call me a libertine!--But you were
very, very pretty, Nicette! and I was really entitled to great credit
for my self-restraint.
"I trust, however, that you are not incorrigible. Come to us very
soon. We have pretty women here, too; they are modest and virtuous,
and I should suppose that that would give them an additional
attraction.----"
Oh, of course! very pretty women! stiff, affected, prudish, or
simpering! And such costumes! In a word, genuine provincials--I need
say no more. As for their virtue, it is possible that--but it is not
safe to trust to appearances, as I know better than most; for I would
have sworn that Nicette was a little wanton.
"My husband sends a memorandum of a few errands he would like you
to do for him. He is organizing grand fishing parties for your
visit, and I look forward with delight to the prospect of embracing
you.
"AMÉLIE DÉNETERRE."
I determined to go to Melun--in a few days. There were several business
matters that I must first attend to. Moreover, I should be very glad to
know what Nicette was going to do; I was deeply interested in that young
woman, and I did not propose to lose sight of her.
I left my apartment and was going downstairs; but I could not resist my
desire to speak to my neighbor Raymond. I wished to thank him for his
discretion. I rang at his door; no one answered, but I heard a noise
within. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. He
did not open the door. I felt sure that he had bored a hole in his door
and had seen that it was I. No matter: he could not always avoid me;
meanwhile, that he might know that it was I who had broken his bellrope,
I tied it to my own.
I went downstairs at last; and on the first floor I met Madame Bertin
and her two daughters, going to mass.
I bowed; they returned my bow, but with a frigid air very different from
the amiable greeting they were accustomed to bestow on me. The two young
ladies stood aside without raising their eyes, and the mother's face
wore a glacial expression that made me afraid to speak to her.
"This is the result of the infernal chatter of Raymond and Madame Martin
and the concierge," I thought; "these ladies know that Nicette passed
the night in my rooms; that is to say, the mamma knows it, and that is
why she ordered her daughters to pass me without raising their eyes,
without smiling, and, above all, without speaking to me."
But you will tell me, the milliner also used to pass the night in your
rooms. Ah! that was very different. Agathe was dressed like everybody
else, and nobody noticed her; moreover, there were several people in the
house for whom she made hats; and no one ever knew certainly whom she
was going to see. So that I was able to retain Madame Bertin's good
graces, and was admitted to her society, when Mademoiselle Agathe
honored me with her favors. And now I was tabooed because Nicette, the
pretty flower girl, had passed the night in my rooms. And you know how
it all came about. But the world is made that way; it judges by the
exterior before it knows what is within. Be whatever you choose, but
observe the proprieties; save appearances, and you will be received
everywhere.
These reflections made me angry. I left the house, cursing those people
who see everything in the same light and refuse to depart from the
narrow circle that custom has marked out. I paced the streets angrily, I
dined angrily, I drank my coffee angrily, and my frame of mind had not
changed when, finding myself at the foot of the Champs-Élysées, I sat
down in a chair, the back of which was against a large tree.