After a few days I recovered my tranquillity; even my spirits, which I
had lost, seemed to return with me to my old lodgings; sometimes I
fancied that I was still a bachelor; in truth, the best thing for me to
do, now that I had no wife, was to forget that I was married.
As I had foreseen, I was the one at whom the stones were thrown; I
received a letter from my sister, who informed me that it was a
frightful thing to have deserted my wife; that we simply must be
reconciled; that Madame de Pontchartrain was furious, and that Pélagie
was constantly asking her for money. In reply, I wrote my sister an
exact account of what had happened, begging her to keep it secret. I
knew that she would not, but I did not care if the good people of Melun
knew that I was a cuckold; I had no desire to go back there.
In my old lodgings I resumed my former mode of life, save for its
follies, in which I no longer indulged; indeed, it was necessary for me
to lead an orderly, economical life; for my dear wife was running
through her fortune very rapidly, and I foresaw that she would soon have
recourse to me, and that I should be obliged to make her an allowance.
I congratulated myself on the perfect tranquillity that I enjoyed in my
house; I realized that Raymond was no longer my neighbor. I should have
been glad to find him, however; but I searched Paris for him in vain; he
must have left the city.
Apropos of neighbors, I began to wonder who lived on my landing. I had
never seen anybody go in or out; it was clearly some person of very
sedentary habits. I was not curious; still, one likes to know who lives
so near one. Madame Dupont would tell me.
My concierge continued to do my housework; when she came one morning as
usual, she was delighted to find me inclined to converse a little.
"I believe you told me, Madame Dupont, that the rooms Monsieur Raymond
used to occupy are let?"
"Certainly they are, monsieur; they weren't vacant a week; somebody
hired 'em right away."
"I never happen to see a living soul go in or out; I never hear a
sound."
"Oh! the tenant's a very quiet party, never goes out, never has any
callers; it's all right, but I don't believe she has a very exciting
time."
"It's a woman, is it?"
"Yes, monsieur--and as to respectability and morals--oh! there's nothing
to be said."
"Is she an old woman?"
"Not by any means, monsieur; she's a young woman--very young."
"Oho! and pretty?"
"Yes, very pretty--as well as I can see under the big bonnet she always
wears."
"What! a young and pretty woman living all alone? no lovers, no
husband?"
"No one, I tell you! Oh! if anyone came, I should know it."
"But she must go out sometimes?"
"In the morning, very early, to buy what she needs; you're still asleep,
that's why you don't meet her. After that, she never stirs from her
room."
"It's very strange!"
"I've tried to talk with her now and then; but she won't talk; it's
impossible to get two words out of her. However, as she behaves decently
and pays on the dot, there's nothing to be said. But it seems to me that
people ought to be obliged to let you know who they are."
I could not help smiling at my concierge's reflection. What she had told
me of my neighbor aroused my curiosity a little, and at first I felt a
desire to know her; but why should I annoy the young woman? she did not
like society; perhaps she had her reasons for avoiding it. I determined
to respect her retirement.
I had ceased to go into society; I should have run the risk of meeting
my wife or of being beset with disagreeable questions concerning the
cause of our separation; in society, people are so indiscreet that they
always ask, from preference, the most unpleasant questions, and I did
not choose to afford them that pleasure.
I went to the play, to all the places where one is free from restraint.
Sometimes I caught a glimpse of my wife in a carriage, or in a box at
the theatre with two or three young men; it seemed that she had not
regretted Raymond very deeply, and I was not surprised; she was not so
constituted as to regret anyone. When I saw her in the distance, I
hastened away in the opposite direction; and she did the same; that was
the only thing in which we agreed.
I prayed that she might not have children now! I should have to be their
father, willy-nilly. How delightful it would be to be presented with a
little family that I must support!
"You should have gone back to your wife," someone will say; "then you
could have believed that you were the father of your children."
Thanks; I preferred to live in peace and receive such gifts as my wife
chose to send me.
I had been a bachelor three months; that time had passed very rapidly,
for ennui never found its way into my little apartment. I had resumed my
books and my music;--music! so soothing to the heart, and so sympathetic
with our joys and our sorrows! Every evening I sat down at my piano and
passed two or three hours there; it seemed to me that Nicette was with
me, that she was listening to me; I dreamed that she still loved me,
that she had never loved anyone else, and I was happy while cajoling
myself thus with chimeras; men are great children who cajole themselves
all their lives.
Sometimes I forgot the hour; the quiet of the night inclines the heart
to feed on illusions, and I abandoned myself to those illusions that
fascinated me. No one in the house had complained because I played so
late; there was no one above me but maid-servants, whom it did not keep
from sleeping; below was an old annuitant, slightly deaf; so that there
was nobody except my neighbor on the same landing who might be annoyed
by it; but I had asked the concierge if she had said anything about it,
and she said _no_. That woman was absolutely invisible; several times I
had fancied that I heard her door open, and had gone out quickly; for I
confess that I was curious to see her--but her door was already closed.
She might have passed me again and again, and I should not have noticed
her; but nothing arouses curiosity so keenly as an air of mystery. I
determined to rise very early some morning and try to see her. I made
that resolve at night, but I fell asleep and forgot it. I was not the
man to do sentry duty on the landing, or to stare through the keyhole
ten or fifteen minutes; I left such methods to Raymond.
I heard nothing more from Melun, and for some time past I had not seen
my wife; she left me in peace. I heard sometimes, from one of those
officious friends whom one meets in spite of one's self, try as one may
to avoid them, that Madame Dorsan was no more prudent in her conduct,
that she had the same mania for balls and dissipation, that her coquetry
increased every day, and a thousand other bits of news no less
agreeable. There were some who advised me to exert my rights and to
apply for an order to have her confined. I thanked them and turned on my
heel; I would swear that the very same people told Pélagie that I was a
tyrant, a bear, a wretch unworthy to be the husband of so pretty and
interesting a woman, and that I ought to be put under guardianship.
In order to avoid meeting my wife, I frequently went into the country,
not in the direction which fashion has made its own, but to those places
where the worthy bourgeois and little grisettes go to amuse themselves;
the little grisettes whom I used to follow! But I had grown wiser;
marriage had _matured_ my head considerably; I might say, had
_embellished_ it.
On a certain day I felt more content than usual with the world; I went
out on horseback and rode farther than I was accustomed to do. Darkness
overtook me at Vincennes; I urged my horse to a gallop, and returned to
Paris in time to avoid a storm that reminded me of the evening at
Montmorency.
After taking my horse to the stable, I returned home; I felt tired and
needed rest. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs. I was about to
open the door--but what was it that my hand touched? Could it be? I
dared not believe it, and yet I held the bouquet in my hand. I put it to
my nose, I inhaled its perfume with intoxicating joy. Yes, it was really
a bouquet--in the same place where she used to put them. Ah! it surely
was she who brought that one! who else could have made me that present?
I hurried into the room; I could hardly wait to examine it. When I was
inside and had struck a light, I gazed at that lovely bouquet and kissed
it; it was of orange blossoms, the exact counterpart of those she used
to bring me. Ah! it was she, of course, who sent it to me! But, in that
case, she was in Paris! she still thought of me! she still loved me!
All these ideas chased one another through my brain; I looked to see if
there was a note in the bouquet--nothing! I went to the door, I looked
in the keyhole and on the floor--nothing! I had only the bouquet; but
that was much! She must have been there; I flew downstairs to question
Madame Dupont. I forgot my fatigue.
"Has anyone been here to see me?" I asked the concierge.
"No, monsieur."
"What! no one has been to ask for me?--a young lady?"
"I give you my word, monsieur, that I haven't seen anybody who asked for
you, and I haven't been away from my door."
"Oh! you never see anything! you never used to see her before!"
"Who, monsieur?"
"Someone came, all the same, for I found this bouquet on my doorknob."
"Well, well! that's very funny; somebody must have made a mistake in the
door."
"Mistake! no, there's no mistake; it was she who came."
"She! who's she?"
"Raise the latch, Madame Dupont."
"What, monsieur! are you going out again now? Wait till the storm has
passed; it's raining bucketsful."
"Open the door, I tell you!"
The concierge dared not make any further suggestions. I went out; I had
no idea where I was going, but I was absolutely determined to find out
something about Nicette, to learn where she was. I hurried along the
street, looking all about me--no one! It was a terrible storm. I went
to Rue Saint-Honoré, to her former shop; it seemed to me that I might
learn something by going to the place where she used to live; but the
shop was closed, tightly closed. I knocked--there was no reply. I
entered the café opposite and asked the waiters if the former flower
girl had returned to her shop. They stared at me, having no very clear
idea what I was saying; I was so excited, and my rain-soaked clothes and
muddy boots gave me such a wild aspect, that they took me for a lunatic,
I doubt not. I left the café without obtaining any information. Where
should I go next? I was still determined to find her.--Ah! perhaps where
her mother used to live. It was a terribly long way, but I ran there
without stopping. It was quite late; I could find nothing open but a
grocery in the neighborhood of Mère Jérôme's house. I went in and
inquired; there I was at least more courteously treated than at the
café, because the grocer was more accustomed to see drenched and muddy
people. But I learned nothing; since Madame Jérôme's death her daughters
had not been seen in the quarter. So I must needs renounce all hope of
learning what had become of her! But, no; I would hope on; she had sent
me a bouquet, and perhaps she would return.
I went home sadly enough. I felt completely exhausted; my clothes were
stuck to my body; I could hardly walk, but I looked in vain for a cab;
it rained in torrents, and I did not meet a single one. I reached home
at last. Madame Dupont was waiting for me; the poor woman was terrified
when she saw the state I was in; she insisted on going upstairs to warm
my bed, on my taking something hot; but I refused her attentions; I
hoped that rest would restore me. When I entered my room, my teeth
chattered violently and my legs trembled under me. I felt far from well;
I crept into bed with Nicette's bouquet on my heart; it seemed to me
that that must cure me.
The next morning my concierge found me wildly delirious; I recognized
nobody; my head was on fire, my mouth was parched; I was consumed by a
burning fever. Fatigue, the storm, the mental agitation of the preceding
night, had all combined to make me seriously ill. In a few days I was at
the door of the tomb.
Who was there to take care of me? who would nurse me? My relations were
not in Paris. I had a wife, but she, instead of coming to my bedside,
would have fled from me for fear of contagion; strangers had to take the
place of kindred and friends.
For nine days I had no idea who was nursing me; I neither heard nor saw
anything. Not until the end of that time was the crisis safely passed; I
was saved, my delirium disappeared; all that I needed was good care,
quiet, and rest.
I half opened my eyes and looked about me with difficulty, trying to
collect my thoughts. I saw Madame Dupont by my side.
"Have I been delirious long?" I asked.
"Nine days, monsieur; oh! you've been very sick; you almost died! But,
thank heaven! you're saved; all you need now is patience and plenty of
rest. I was sure you'd be sick. The idea of going out in such a storm!
and all in a sweat, too! And when you came back, why, your eyes were
starting out of your head! But young men will never listen to advice!
And then, think of going to sleep with a nosegay under your nose! that's
very bad--very unhealthy!"
"What has been done with that bouquet?"
"It's in the other room there; never fear, you'll find it all right."
"Who has nursed me since I have been sick?"
"I have, and--your neighbor."
"My neighbor!"
"Yes, the lady on your landing. Oh! she has taken the best possible care
of you. As soon as she heard you was sick, she insisted on being your
nurse, and, my word! if she'd been nursing sick folks all her life, she
couldn't have done better."
"Where is she? I would like to thank her."
"Oh! you can thank her later. She's just gone to her room. But here you
are talking, and the doctor told us we mustn't let you talk! Go to
sleep, monsieur, go to sleep; it'll do you good."
Madame Dupont closed my curtains and refused to answer any more
questions. I was at a loss to understand the unknown lady's conduct; but
I was not strong enough to reflect long; I fell asleep wishing that I
might see her. Toward evening I woke. Someone was beside me. When I
moved, the person attempted to hurry away; but it was too late; my eyes
had met hers, I had recognized her: it was Nicette.