pastilles at once; I'll eat some every night. I mean to dream of my
first husband this very night; he was a dear, good man, not a sot like
my second. I'll walk round the somno, monsieur; I won't fail."
Dubourg gave her a box of laxative pills, which she received with deep
gratitude; then he turned to the young woman and asked her what he could
do for her.
"_Dame!_ monsieur," she replied, "a week ago, while I was dancing with
Thomas, I fell and sprained my wrist, and since then I haven't been able
to use it as well as usual; have you got anything that will cure that
right away?"
"Have I, my sweet child! As if I hadn't everything! In a quarter of an
hour, I'll drive away your pain, and it will never come back. All I've
got to do is rub you with a certain ointment of mine; but I must say
some magic words over it, and I can't say them before witnesses; that
would break the spell. So take me to your chamber, or some other place
where we shall be alone, and I'll operate."
"Shall I, aunt?" asked the farmer's daughter.
"Shall you!" repeated the good woman; "why, of course. Make the most of
this great man's kindness, and let him rub you."
The girl made no further objection, but requested Dubourg to follow her.
He fastened his donkey, with his whole outfit, at the farmhouse door,
and walked quickly after his pretty patient, who led him to her chamber
and closed the door, abandoning herself with perfect confidence to the
skill of the sorcerer, whose appearance was rather laughable than
terrifying.
Meanwhile, the aunt, being in haste to enjoy the effect of the
pastilles, and too impatient to wait for the night in order to dream of
her first husband, had also withdrawn to her apartment, and, having
swallowed a pill and performed the prescribed ceremonial, had gone to
bed and was anxiously awaiting the operation of the charm, which was not
precisely ushered in by prodigies.
While the ladies were experimenting with Dubourg's specifics, the farmer
came home. He began by inquiring who owned the ass that he found at his
door, and was told that it was the property of the great healer who had
recently arrived. The farmer asked who this great healer was, and his
servants replied that they did not know, but that he was probably a
sorcerer, because he wore his hair in curls, like a woman, and had a
long queue, enormous boots, a syringe that played dance music, and a
wig-block that spoke when it was stormy.
Now, the farmer was one of those men who are so unfortunate as not to
believe in sorcerers, spells, and magic, who insist on seeing with their
eyes and hearing with their ears, and cannot be convinced that a black
hen evokes the devil, or that the future can be read by means of a
sheep's liver, coffee grounds, or molten lead thrown in water. Such men
are the bane of the occult sciences.
Vexed by what he learned from his servants, the farmer inquired where
this great healer had gone. They told him that they had seen him go into
the house with the young woman and her aunt. The farmer hurried to the
old lady's chamber and found her in bed, still awaiting the delicious
dream that did not come.
"Oh! brother! what are you doing?" she cried. "You have disturbed
me--upset me completely. The dream was coming! I was going to see my
first husband, and we were going to pick nuts together. Do go away;
you'll prevent the pill that wonderful man gave me from working."
"Morbleu!" retorted the farmer; "ain't you nearly through with your
fairy tales and nonsense? Where is your sorcerer? stealing my rabbits,
most likely."
"What an idea! he's with your daughter, in her room, saying magic words
to cure her wrist."
"Locked in with my daughter!" cried the farmer; "_morgué!_ we'll see
about this!"
And he ran to his daughter's chamber without listening to what the old
woman said. He opened the door with a vigorous kick, and it is to be
presumed that he was not pleased with the great healer's method of
healing his daughter; for he seized a broom, and opened the conversation
by striking him with it again and again.
Dubourg had no time to parley; with a muttered oath, he fled; the girl
wept, the father swore, and the whole household was up in arms.
Our charlatan, seeing that the farm hands were arming themselves with
clubs in imitation of their master, thought of nothing but his personal
safety; he fled from the farm, abandoning his ass, his syringes, and all
his remedies; all of which was very fortunate for the invalids along the
route he still had to traverse.
XXI
LOVE IS ALWAYS THE STRONGEST
Dubourg reached Paris at last. He had taken only a few days more than a
month to travel nearly a hundred and eighty leagues; which is not an
inordinately long time, when one makes marvellous cures all along the
road. As he fled from the farm, where his last miracle had been so ill
rewarded, he was careful to throw away his blonde wig with the long
pigtail, which tempted all the little ragamuffins to run after him. He
arrived in the capital rather travel-stained and muddy and unkempt; but
nevertheless he arrived, and went at once to his last lodgings, which no
longer belonged to him, but where he had left a pair of trousers in the
custody of his concierge, an excellent woman, who was rather partial to
ne'er-do-wells, because they are, as a general rule, more open-handed
than virtuous and orderly young men.
Together with his trousers, the concierge handed him a bulky sealed
package, which Dubourg took with a trembling hand, supposing it to be a
bundle of summonses or judgments; of executions and levies he had no
fear.
He broke the seal and read a letter which he found inside; an expression
of delirious joy stole over his features, but soon he began to make wry
faces as if he were trying to weep; however, as he could not manage it,
he abandoned the attempt.
"My dear Madame Benoît," he said to the concierge, "you must often have
heard me speak of my venerable aunt in Bretagne, who used to send me
money sometimes?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, she is dead, Madame Benoît--that venerable woman is no more."
"Ah! mon Dieu! what a misfortune!"
"Indeed, yes. But I am her only heir; her fortune was not large, but
there is enough for a man to live on, especially if he is prudent and
philosophical."
"What did she die of, monsieur?"
"As to that, I'll tell you some other time. I am expected in Bretagne,
and I must start at once."
"During your absence, monsieur, your friend Monsieur Frédéric has sent
here several times to inquire about you."
"I will see him when I return; the interests of my inheritance demand my
presence, and they are more important; a man should attend to his own
business before other people's. Adieu, Madame Benoît, adieu! Here, I'll
make you a present of these trousers, for the news you have given me;
you can make a blouse out of them for your daughter. As for myself, I go
away just as I arrived, except that I shall not go on foot this time."
He ran to the diligence office, having money enough still to pay his
fare; to be sure, that left him only five francs to live on during the
journey, but he put himself on a strict diet, promising to make up for
his abstinence before long.
The old aunt had left all her property to her nephew, believing him to
be married and a father. He found himself possessed of sixteen hundred
francs a year. A man cannot play the baron with that, but he can live on
it in a modest way, when he is orderly in his habits and economical.
Those were not among Dubourg's qualities, but, like all men, he made a
vow to reform and not to pledge his income.
"Monsieur," said the attorney who was settling the estate, "your worthy
aunt instructed me to recommend you to be faithful to your wife, and to
give your little triplets a good education."
"Never fear, monsieur; I shall carry out my dear aunt's wishes to the
letter. My wife and I are like turtle-doves, and my triplets already
love each other like Castor and Pollux."
Dubourg sold the furniture and personal effects of the deceased, in
order to obtain a supply of ready money. He was detained two months in
Bretagne, at the end of which time he returned to Paris, dressed in
black from head to foot. To signalize his return to virtue, he began by
paying his creditors, and strove to retain the serene expression and
dignified bearing which he had assumed as soon as he learned of his
inheritance.
He thought of Frédéric, but was still hesitating whether he should write
to him or call on him, when, as he entered a café one evening, he spied
Ménard watching a game of dominoes and absorbed in the play. Dubourg
touched him lightly on the arm; he turned, recognized his former
travelling companion, and could not decide how he ought to receive him.
"Surely I have the pleasure of seeing my dear friend Monsieur Ménard,"
said Dubourg, with a smile.
"Himself, monsieur le--monsieur du--really, I am not at all sure what I
should call you now." And the ex-tutor smiled, delighted by the epigram
he had achieved.
"How now, Monsieur Ménard! are we at odds?"
"Really, monsieur, I ought to bear you a grudge, after all the fables
you told me. Hereafter, if I ever believe you----"
"Come, come, Monsieur Ménard, let us leave gall and bitterness to
atrabilious souls, and let it not be said of us: _Nec ipsa mors odium
illorum internocinum exstinxit._"
"Oh, yes! I know that you are very well read," said the tutor, softening
a little; "but that castle of Krapach! And then, to make me act!"
"Allow me to offer you a cup of coffee, and a glass of Liqueur des
Iles."
"Very well, if you insist."--And the tutor said to himself, as he
followed Dubourg to a table: "This devil of a fellow has a persuasive
way that seduces you and carries you away; it's impossible to remain
angry with him."
"Where are you from?" he asked; "my pupil has been looking for you a
long while; he's very anxious to see you."
"I have just arrived from my province--Bretagne."
"Ah! so you are from Bretagne? I am not surprised, then, that you were
constantly bringing it into your descriptions of Poland; and then, the
milk and butter that you were always boasting about."
"Excellent they are, Monsieur Ménard."
"And what have you been doing in Bretagne?"
"I have just inherited a very pretty little fortune from my aunt."
"I'll wager that that isn't true!"
"O Monsieur Ménard! don't you see that I am in mourning?"
"That proves nothing; you were dressed as a Polish nobleman when we
walked arm in arm through the streets of Lyon. Oh! when I think of
that----"
"Do you think also of the delicious dinners I ordered for you?"
"Of course, of course! Oh! you order a dinner perfectly. But that poor
Monsieur Chambertin! To make him believe that he was entertaining an
illustrious character!"
"Look you, Monsieur Ménard, I don't see why I'm not as good as another
man----"
"And to make him give parties and fireworks and magnificent dinners!"
"Where you did your part wonderfully well."
"I acted in perfect good faith, myself; I was your accomplice, without
suspecting it. Do you know that you compromised me, and that that was
very ill done of you?"
"Have a glass of punch; what do you say?"
"Oh! I am afraid----"
"It shall be very mild."
"All right, if it's mild----"
"Waiter, two glasses of punch."
"For, you see, my friend, I am not as young as you are, and the follies
which are overlooked in the young admit of no excuse in those of mature
years."
"You talk like Cicero; but I reply that Cato learned to dance at sixty."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"I didn't see it; but our follies were very reasonable ones.--Let us
take a drink."
"I admit that we didn't injure anybody, after all. This punch is good,
very good. But when you made me run across fields on account of that
imaginary Turk----"
"Faith! I'll admit that he was a creditor; but aren't they Turks to
their unfortunate debtors?--Another drink."
"It is true that creditors---- Look you, my dear Dubourg, you have all
the qualities of a charming companion: you know all the good authors,
you know history; take my advice, reform, settle down----"
"I have done it; it's all over now: no more gambling, no more escapades,
no more drunkenness.--But we aren't drinking."
"Your health, my dear friend!"
"No more fairy tales, no more lies."
"Ah, yes! no more lies, above all; for lying destroys confidence; and
then, you made me look like an idiot."
"Oh! not altogether."
"That's a very handsome seal ring of yours."
"It's an emerald that was worn by Ali Pacha."
"It's magnificent."
"Another glass."
"Dear Dubourg! My friend, I am extremely glad to have renewed my
acquaintance with you."
The liqueur and the punch had completely melted Ménard, who, when he
parted from Dubourg, called him his loving friend, and assured him that
he might safely go to the Hôtel de Montreville, that monsieur le comte
bore him no ill-will and would receive him cordially.
On the day following this meeting, Dubourg did, in fact, call upon
Frédéric, who had just returned from the general's country house. He
passed all his time with Mademoiselle de Valmont. As it was no longer
necessary that he should be accompanied by his father, for the general
treated him like his own son, he made the most of the liberty accorded
him. Every day, he invented some pretext for going to see Constance; for
he persisted in deluding himself, in excusing himself in his own eyes,
and strove to persuade himself that there was no trace of love in the
feeling that drew him to the general's niece. He still thought of Sister
Anne, but no longer with the same ardor and affection, and that was what
he refused to acknowledge to himself; perhaps, if he should see her
again, it would still be inexpressibly sweet to him to hold her in his
arms. But it was not she whom he saw, it was Constance; Constance, who
was more amiable, more tender, more sentimental with him, day by day;
who felt such unbounded pleasure in seeing him and made no attempt to
conceal it. Already there was the closest intimacy between them. When
she passed two or three days without seeing him, she would reproach him
good-naturedly, and avow that she was vexed at his absence; and she said
it with such perfect candor and sincerity that Frédéric was deeply
touched. However, he had never breathed a word of love to her; but is it
necessary to speak to make one's self understood? and what woman, in
Constance's place, would not have believed that she was loved?
At sight of Dubourg, Frédéric made a gesture of surprise; a keen
observer might even have detected a trace of embarrassment.
"Here I am," said Dubourg; "I have been in Paris only a week."
"Yes, I supposed that you were away. But why this mourning?"
"Ah! my friend, my poor aunt--she is no more!"
At this point, Dubourg drew his handkerchief and blew his nose three or
four times.
"Come, come, Dubourg, stop blowing your nose; you know perfectly well
that you're not crying."
"Never mind; she was a most respectable old lady: she has left me
sixteen hundred francs a year."
"That is something; try not to gamble it away."
"What do you say? Why, écarté is like an emetic to me. But tell me about
your love affairs. Do you know, you don't seem to me to look any too
wretched for an unhappy lover."
"But I---- Since my father suddenly appeared at Grenoble, where I had
gone to find out something about you, I have not been able to see that
poor girl, we started for Paris so hurriedly! Since then, he hardly
leaves my side. I could write--but who would read my letters? we can't
use that method; and I don't know how to communicate with her."
"Well, I can tell you something."
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes; but it was a long while ago--about a fortnight after you left."
"Well! where was she? what was she doing?"
"Where was she? in the woods, returning from the road, where she had
been watching for you, no doubt. What was she doing?--weeping; that is
her only resource now, I fancy."
"She was weeping!"
"Yes; and I confess that she made my heart ache."
"Poor child! but you spoke to her, I suppose--she saw you? Tell me about
it."
"She saw me; indeed, she recognized me, although she had seen me only
once. You didn't tell me that she was dumb, but I very soon understood
her pantomime. She counted off the days you had been away, and asked me
if you would return soon. I told her _yes_."
"Ah! you did well."
"But that was three months ago."
"True: but I haven't been able----"
"I left her at last, after giving her a little hope; I could do nothing
more for her; but in three months that hope must have vanished."
Dubourg said no more, and Frédéric sat for some moments buried in
melancholy reflections.
"If you knew, Dubourg," he said at last, "what a most surprising thing
has happened to me!"
"I should know, if you told me."
"It is really inconceivable; it is a stroke of fate. On returning to
Paris, I found Sister Anne."
"You found her here?"
"Yes; I saw her again--in another woman, the niece of Général de
Valmont, a former comrade in arms of my father. Why, my friend, it is an
astonishing thing--I never saw such a perfect resemblance."
"Ah! I begin to understand."
"If you should see Constance,--that is the name of the general's
niece,--you would be as surprised as I was--not at once, but on a close
examination."
"Ah! you were surprised after some time, eh?"
"It's her eyes--their sweet expression. Constance's are a little darker,
to be sure. The hair is the same color; the forehead as high and noble;
the same complexion--but Constance isn't as pale as Sister Anne. The
same expression in the features."
"I am surprised that a general's niece should have all the features of a
goatherd."
"Of course, there's the difference due to rank and education and social
customs. In the first place, Constance is much taller; she has a
beautiful, well-proportioned figure; but so has Sister Anne. Constance
has the grace, the dignified carriage which no one can attain who lives
in the woods."
"Ah! you have discovered that now."
"And she has a charming voice, an enchanting voice, that goes to the
very bottom of your heart. Well, my friend, when I listen to her, I
persuade myself that the poor orphan is no longer dumb; I imagine that I
am listening to her; her voice, I am sure, would have the same sweet
quality, the same fascination. So that I am deeply moved when I listen
to that other voice."
"I doubt whether that emotion would make Sister Anne very happy."
"But it is impossible for me not to feel it. Tell me, isn't it strange
that there should be such a resemblance?"
"Exceedingly strange, no doubt; but I fancy that it would be less
striking to my eyes. I am no longer surprised at your leaving the little
one in her woods. You have found her here, you see her, and listen to
her--a pleasure that you did not enjoy when you were with her. You are
privileged to gaze upon her every day, at your leisure; here, she has
graces and talents which she did not have down yonder. It is extremely
convenient. I congratulate you. I can understand that you don't need to
bother your head about the one who is far away, in her cabin or on the
hilltop, watching for you to come, since you can still be with her,
without putting yourself out, and since she is more lovely and
fascinating here than there."
There was an undercurrent of satire, of reproach, in Dubourg's tone that
made Frédéric lower his eyes.
"No," he said, with evident embarrassment, "no, I will not desert Sister
Anne. I shall certainly go to see her--I haven't forgotten her, for I
think of her every day. Is it my fault that I find all her features in
another woman's? On the contrary, isn't it a proof that I am always
thinking of her? But really it is surprising; Mademoiselle de Valmont
resembles her so closely--in spite of some slight differences--she is so
sweet and kind! her voice moves me so deeply! Ah! I would like you to
see Constance!"
Dubourg did not reply at once, and for some minutes there was silence
between them. Dubourg broke it at last.
"Look you, Frédéric, I confess that I am sorry that I saw that
girl--that I saw her waiting for you and weeping."
"Why so?"
"Why? Because I imagine that I still see her, and, despite my
heedlessness, I feel--it makes me unhappy. I am nothing more than a
reckless chap, a libertine, a ne'er-do-well, if you please; but, after
all, I prefer my way of loving to yours. With your great passions, which
are destined never to end, but which do end just like others, you
wheedle inexperienced young hearts, sentimental women, who allow
themselves to be touched by your sighs, your noble sentiments; they give
themselves to you, and then--why, they weep and tear their hair over
your inconstancy. Faith! I know none but women of easy virtue, grisettes
or coquettes, who, if they're no better, are at least more lively. They
deceive me, I deceive them, we deceive each other; it's all understood
and accepted beforehand. But we don't rave about it; we weep only for
sport; and when we fall out altogether, it doesn't make us melancholy. I
agree that the ladies I speak of are not absolutely virtuous; but for an
amourette, a caprice, should we seek that flower of pure sentiment, an
inexperienced heart that knows love only from romantic novels in which
it is always painted in colors that, while they may be very seductive,
are altogether false? No; on the contrary, I think that it's barbarous
to try to win a girl's whole heart, to inspire a great passion, and then
to leave your victim to waste her best days in tears and despair."
"Why do you say this to me? I still love Sister Anne; I am not
unfaithful to her. Is it my fault that my father dragged me back to
Paris all of a sudden? and that it has been impossible for me to absent
myself since then? Most certainly I shall see her again, I shall not
abandon her; she is still dear to me."
"Pshaw! Frédéric, don't talk that humbug to me! Do you want to make me
believe that my nose is crooked? I tell you, I'm an old hand, and I am
not to be hoodwinked; indeed, I may have read your heart better than you
have yourself. You no longer love Sister Anne, or at least you are no
longer enamored of her; for you are burning now for this fascinating
Constance, who is a perfect image of the poor dumb girl, except that she
is taller and stouter, has darker eyes and a different complexion,
and----"
"No, no, Dubourg! I swear that I am not in love with Constance; I love
her--like a brother--but no word of love has ever passed my lips."