my wedding, I slept away from home three nights in succession. A man
should always put his wife on the proper footing at the outset. You
ought to have done the same with yours.'
"'Oh! my wife pays very little attention to what I do. I can stay away
all night if I choose; she won't say anything.'
"'That's all right! But let's go in; the women must be here, waiting for
us.'
"'How many are there?'
"'Two each, or rather four each, as there are four of them.--Ha! ha!'
"'Pardieu! that's true. By the way, remember not to call me anything but
Bouqueton.'
"'And I am Saint-Germain.'
"'It's a good idea to change our names.'
"'All the better, when you have a grudge against someone: you take his
name in some risky affair, and if there's any trouble about it, why, it
all comes back on the man whose name you took.'
"'What a devil of a fellow! He thinks of everything; he's far-sighted.
Let's go in.'
"My husband and his worthy friend entered the vile resort. A few moments
later, three or four urchins of fourteen or fifteen years went in, and I
slipped in with them. I was anxious to get a glimpse of the interior of
the place. It was very bold, was it not, my dear Charles? But there are
days when I would brave the greatest dangers; apparently that was one of
the days.
"I found myself in a very large room, but no higher than the ordinary
entresol. The atmosphere was so dense with smoke that when I went in I
could not see a billiard table at one end of the room. Not for some
little time did my eyes become so far accustomed to the mist that I
could distinguish anything. There were tables on all sides. A large
number of men, of all ages, stood about the billiard table, which was
dimly lighted by two lamps hanging from the ceiling. A common kitchen
lamp stood on a desk near the outer door. There were no other lights in
the room, so that in places it was quite dark. There were, as I say,
many people about the billiard table; very few women, but many youths,
or rather children, barely fourteen years old, whose worn faces, hollow
eyes, and leaden complexions denoted premature debauchery. As for the
women! I need not tell you to what class they belonged. There was no
noise such as had deafened me at the ball at La Courtille; on the
contrary, everybody spoke in undertones, and, except for a few energetic
oaths from the billiard players, a forbidding silence reigned. My heart
sank when I found myself in that den of iniquity. The dance hall at La
Courtille was a veritable Chateau of Flowers compared with that ghastly
cafe. I stood inside the door, and was about to go out again, when four
women entered together. They were all young and shapely, and dressed
like the wretched creatures who roam the streets in that quarter;
breasts uncovered, eyes inflamed, heads thrown back, and faces upon
which all the vices were engraved. Several men in blouses ran to meet
them, crying:
"'Ah! here's the _siroteuses_! We're going to have some sport to-night.'
"'Bonsoir, _la fourmi_!'
"'Bonsoir, _la mouche_!'
"But the four women forced their way through the men who surrounded
them, saying almost disdainfully:
"'We ain't for you to-night. There ain't no show! We're engaged! Have
Messieurs Bouqueton and Saint-Germain got here?'
"'To be sure!' said a woman at the desk, who had been darting fiery
glances at me for some minutes. 'They're waiting for you, and the
table's set.'
"'The devil! there's going to be a treat, it seems!' cried one of the
men.
"'Yes, yes,' said the girls. 'We're going to earn some shiners. And if
you behave yourselves, there'll be something for you. Get out of the
way! Let us go to work.'
"And the four women hurried to the other end of the room and disappeared
through a little door, which closed behind them. I made haste to escape
from that horrible place. I believe that it was high time, for the woman
at the desk had pointed me out to some men, who were scrutinizing me
closely.
"As soon as I was in the street, I ran at the top of my speed. I thought
then, and I still believe that I was not mistaken, that I was chased by
some men who came out of the cafe behind me. But some soldiers came
along, and I walked beside them until I reached a more frequented
quarter. Then I took a cab and went home.
"I cannot tell you what took place in my heart when I was able to
reflect calmly on my plight--that I was the wife of a man of honorable
birth and breeding, the bearer of an honorable name, who was at liberty
to frequent respectable society in Paris, and who had a wife who was
young and pretty, and not a fool,--I flattered myself, perhaps!--and
that that man was at that moment in one of those sink-holes of vice
which are tolerated in great cities because fugitives from justice can
be found there; that he was in the company of public prostitutes of the
lowest type, and that he would probably pass the night there.
"I trembled convulsively from head to foot, I had paroxysms of passion,
and cried in a sort of frenzy: 'And I am tied to such a creature!'
"To calm myself I thought of that hypocrite Faisande; he too had a wife;
I had happened to meet her twice, and I knew that she was young and
pretty and had all the qualities of a good wife and mother; she was
virtuous, orderly, economical, not coquettish, and she adored her
husband! It seems that there is a fatality about it: the worst
scoundrels always obtain such phoenixes. Moreover, Monsieur Faisande
had a daughter; but even that did not deter the wretch! He abandoned
himself to his abominable tastes, wholly oblivious of the fact that he
was a father.
"I, at all events, had no child; and I thanked God for it at that
moment. Recovering my strength of will and my courage, I said to myself
that in all probability many wives had passed through such ordeals as
mine. Ah! if we knew all the family secrets of our friends! This is not
romancing, my friend; I invent nothing; it is history.
"I was conscious of a thrill of joy at the thought that I was free; that
Monsieur Dauberny had released me from all the oaths that bound me to
him. For I did not feel disposed, for my part, to imitate Madame
Faisande, who, although she was aware of her husband's conduct, hardly
dared to say a word of reproach, and remained faithful to her vows. That
is very fine, but I am not so self-sacrificing! and, frankly, I have
never understood that precept of the Gospel about returning good for
evil. No, no! let us not forgive an insult, let us not kiss the hand
that strikes us; for then the insult and the blow will be repeated. The
_lex talionis_! that is the natural law, and it is my idea of justice!
"Three days passed before I saw my husband; he probably passed them in
that den where his friend Faisande sometimes passed a week. At last,
Monsieur Dauberny came to my room one morning and approached me as if to
kiss me. I felt as if I were about to come in contact with a toad. I
rose hastily, and I doubt not that my face expressed what was passing
through my mind, for Monsieur Dauberny stopped in utter amazement.
"'Monsieur,' I said to him, pointing to the door, 'you will never cross
that threshold again! More than that, you will never seek to see me or
to speak to me. Henceforth we are utter strangers to each other. I will
never go out with you; when I dine at home, it will not be at your
table; we will have our meals separately. Absolute liberty, monsieur! I
shall do whatever I please--absolutely! do you understand, monsieur? And
you will not venture to find fault with any act of mine.'
"Monsieur Dauberny, bewildered at first by what I said, tried to demand
an explanation. I closed his mouth with these words:
"'I know all about La Courtille, Mariotte, the vile hole on Rue
Saint-Eloy, and the four _siroteuses_!'
"He turned deathly pale and trembled like a leaf; he stammered some
words which I could not understand, then bowed, and rushed from the
room. Since that day--and that was years ago!--I have not exchanged a
word with my husband. We live as I had resolved. Sometimes I don't see
him for three weeks; and if we chance to meet, we bow, and that is all.
The world has become accustomed to seeing me go about without my
husband. What the world thinks about it matters little to me! It is so
often mistaken in its judgments that we are fools to worry about it. I
have always thought that our own esteem was worth more than the
consideration which is often most freely bestowed on people who hardly
deserve it."
XXIII
A MOMENT OF FORGETFULNESS
"Now, my dear Charles, you know the secret of my entire liberty, and of
my conduct, which gives rise to so much gossip; of my inviting you to
supper to-night with our dear baron, who is sleeping so soundly now; of
my having a table of my own, in short, at which I can entertain whom I
please, without the slightest concern as to whether anyone will
criticise me for it. Are you glad that I have told you?"
"Oh, yes!" I said, pressing her hand with force. "Yes! In the first
place, I am proud of having inspired you with confidence in me. And
then, too, I--I----"
"You are very glad to find that I am not such a good-for-naught as you
thought at first, eh?"
She was right. Her conduct seemed to me now to be perfectly natural, or,
at all events, excusable. Frederique's head no longer rested on my
shoulder: she sat up and passed her hand across her forehead, saying:
"I believe it is time for us to think of separating. I feel a little
tired, my friend. You will go home with Herr von Brunzbrack, will you
not? He is a little--tipsy, and I should be sorry if anything happened
to him. And, although he has his carriage here, he is quite capable of
refusing to go home."
"Yes, yes; I will put him in the hands of his servants. But just a
moment; why need we separate so soon?"
"The clock has just struck half-past three."
"Suppose it has? what does the time matter, when we are so comfortable
and our own masters?"
"Oh! as far as that goes, nobody is more uncontrolled than I am now.
Stay on, if you choose. But, if you do, you must tell me something,
confide in me. Do you fence?"
"Yes; why?"
"Because, if you do, you must come here and fence with me; it's a form
of exercise that I am very fond of."
"What! do you really know how to handle a foil?"
"And very prettily too, I flatter myself. I told you that I was a man;
so, of course, I have learned the things that go to perfect a man's
education."
"Then you must ride too?"
"Oh! that is another exercise that I adore. We will ride together--and
you will see that I am not afraid, and that I have a good seat. But you
don't seem to be listening to me! What in the deuce shall I talk to him
about?--Poor boy, talk to me about Armantine. It is such a joy to speak
of the person one loves! And you are very much in love with her, aren't
you?"
I confess that at that moment I was thinking much less of Madame
Sordeville. So that I replied, rather coldly:
"I was very much in love with her; but her treatment of me to-night
cooled me off."
"Oh! when a man is really in love with a woman, monsieur, he doesn't
cease to love her just because she flirts a little with other men; on
the contrary, he often loves her all the more for it."
"Coquetry has never had that effect on me."
"Go and see Armantine in a few days, in the daytime. I'll wager that she
will be very amiable to you."
"So the lady is capricious, is she?"
"Exceedingly capricious."
"That is a failing which I have never been able to endure."
"Ah! but when one loves a woman, one loves her with all her failings."
"My theory is that when one really loves, one is not capricious in
dealing with the object of one's love. Consequently, I am persuaded that
all these women who have caprices don't know what it is to love."
"Perhaps you are right. But I think that Armantine is in reality very
susceptible."
"You think so? You are not sure?"
"How is one to be sure of other people? one is not always sure of one's
self."
We sat for some time without speaking; but to me that silence was not
without charm. It is often pleasant to think, in the company of a person
who is thinking at the same time.
Suddenly Frederique looked me in the face and said:
"Well, Charles! you don't seem to talk about Armantine?"
"I have so little hope!"
"Oho! monsieur plays the modest adorer! After all, I don't pretend to
say that she will yield to you. That is a mystery--the secret of the
gods."
"True; but you might tell me whether--whether any previous weakness on
her part gives me reason to hope."
"My dear man, it isn't right to ask me that. If Armantine had given me
her confidence, I would not betray it. But, frankly, I know nothing
about it. All that I can say is that Monsieur Sordeville is not in the
least jealous; that he gives his wife her liberty in a way that strongly
resembles indifference; that Armantine is pretty, coquettish, likes to
be courted; and that all those things may very well lead to certain
results. But whose fault is it, if not her husband's? Oh! these
husbands! I've learned to my cost not to love them!--Well! what are you
thinking about? you are not listening."
"Yes, I am. I was thinking that you--that---- Oh, no! it isn't worth
while; I prefer not to say anything."
"My dear fellow, you don't like capricious women, you say, and, for my
part, I detest a person who begins a sentence, then stops, and doesn't
finish it. There's nothing so impertinent as that, in my opinion! It is
almost equivalent to a confession that you had something disagreeable to
say, and discovered it in time. Sometimes our conjectures go beyond the
truth. Finish what you were going to say, I insist! I demand it! or I am
done with you! Come, quickly! don't try to fabricate something, for you
would simply lie."
Frederique pressed me so hard that I had no time to invent a lie, as
often happens in such cases, and I replied, almost shamefacedly:
"I was thinking of Monsieur--Saint-Bergame; and I was wondering about a
lot of things. You told me that you and he had quarrelled. But are you
not afraid of offending him still more, if he knows that you had guests
to-night at supper?"
Frederique compressed her lips and frowned. I realized that I had been
indiscreet, that I had no right to ask such questions; but the thought
had been at the end of my tongue for some time, and it must escape me
sooner or later; it had been tormenting me since the very beginning of
the supper.
"What on earth made you think of Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" cried
Frederique at last, with something very like anger. "Would you have
liked to have him here? Would you have enjoyed being with him? In that
case, you are not like him, for he can't endure you. I don't know why it
is, but he is not attracted to you."
"I do not regret the gentleman's absence in the least, far from it! But
it surprised me, because----"
"Because you had guessed that he was my lover, eh? Mon Dieu! it did not
require much perspicacity to discover that!"
"Well! as you make no concealment of it, you ought not to be angry
because I ask the question."
"There are some things that one doesn't conceal, or conceals
imperfectly, that one doesn't like to have thrown in one's face, none
the less. But you have said a lot of----"
"Stupid things! Finish the sentence, pray! I am like you, I hate
unfinished sentences."
"Well, yes! _Stupid_ isn't just the word, but things that people keep to
themselves when they think them."
"I beg your pardon. I have the bad habit of saying whatever comes into
my mind. It's a serious fault, I admit, and I have often had occasion to
regret it in society. I regret it all the more, because I see that it
has annoyed you, for you have ceased to _tutoyer_ me; and yet you were
the one who said to me just now: 'Let us have no secrets from each
other.'"
Frederique turned her face to mine, with a charming smile, and held out
her hand, saying:
"You are right I was foolish to be angry, as we agreed to be like two
brothers. Come, give me your hand! That's right! The fact is, you see,
that you touched a sensitive chord. I have quarrelled with
Saint-Bergame; the wound is still fresh; and wounds in the vicinity of
the heart do not heal quickly. I will tell you about it."
"No, it's not necessary. I don't want to know it."
"Oh! but I want to tell you, now. Upon my word, he is trying to prevent
my speaking!"
"Because I sincerely regret----"
"Hush! Be quiet, and listen.--You know that Saint-Bergame writes for a
newspaper?"
"Yes."
"The newspaper in question has much to say about literature and the
stage; and Saint-Bergame writes almost all the dramatic criticisms. I
have often thought that his judgments were partial and unjust, and I
have not hesitated to tell him so. When I have read in his article,
after a play has been successfully produced, that it has failed
miserably and been hissed, I have exclaimed:
"'What you have written is false! It's a shame! Why do you cry down that
play?'
"'Because the author is not my friend. Because he didn't come to bespeak
my good will.'
"'So, because an author is conscious of his dignity, because he doesn't
go about begging praise; because, in short, he relies upon your sense of
justice, your impartiality, you abuse him and belittle his work! And you
call that exercising your profession of critic! In that case, it's a
vile profession; you had better be a mason, monsieur, if your talents
lie in that direction.'
"But Saint-Bergame always laughed at my anger, and that was the end of
it. A few days ago, however, I saw at one of the boulevard theatres a
very pretty young debutante, who showed great promise in her part.
Saint-Bergame was with me, and echoed my opinion of the young actress's
talent.
"'Then, of course, you will speak well of her in your newspaper?' I
said. He smiled in a curious way, and answered:
"'We shall see; that depends.'
"'Depends on what? What is there to prevent your writing what you think
at this moment?'
"'One of my friends is making love to this debutante.'
"'Well! what has that to do with the article you are going to write?'
"'The girl is playing the prude. She refuses to listen to my friend's
proposals, and won't accept his bouquets. That's a familiar manoeuvre
to increase her value.'
"'But suppose your friend doesn't please her? Isn't she her own
mistress, pray?'
"'Bah! that's all mere comedy! She means to lead my friend on. But he
has invited her to a nice little dinner to-morrow. I am to be there. If
she comes, I exalt her to the skies; if she doesn't, I tear her to
tatters.'
"I said nothing, but I cannot describe my sensations. I turned my eyes
away so that Saint-Bergame should not see their expression, in which he
might read what I thought of him. I waited impatiently for the second
day following--that was the day before yesterday. I lost no time in
opening the newspaper edited by Saint-Bergame, in which I found an
article on the young debutante we had seen. Not only did he criticise
her acting, her methods, and her stage manner in the most contemptuous
terms, but he also attacked her personal appearance; she is pretty, and
he called her ugly; she has a fine figure, and he said she was deformed;
she is exceedingly graceful, and he could not find words to describe her
awkwardness and her embarrassment; in short, according to that article,
she was a sort of monster who had been allowed to go on the stage to
amuse the public for a moment.
"I crumpled the paper in my hands and threw it on the floor; I was
furiously angry with Saint-Bergame. When he appeared, I threw his
abominable article in his face, and told him that he was a dastard; that
a man who would empty his gall so on a woman deserved no woman's love,
and that I forbade him to darken my doors again. He tried to insist, to
turn it into a joke, and called me hot-headed. But when he saw that I
was in earnest, I believe that he lost his temper, too, and asked me by
what right I presumed to pass judgment on his writings. I made no
answer, but locked myself into my room. He went away in a rage, and I
have not seen him since."
"And if he comes back?"
"I shall not receive him. It's all over! all over!"
"And you don't regret him?"
"I regret having had any relations with him--that is what I regret. He's
a good-looking fellow, and I liked him. But I realize now that I never
loved him."
"But if he loves you, he will return; he will beg you, beseech you."
"He will do nothing of the sort. He never loved me, either. It flattered
his self-esteem to make a conquest of me, and that was all. He is one of
the men who think that a woman is too highly favored when they deign to
look at her. Oh! I know him now, I know him too well! I see him now as
he is! Besides, he was not faithful to me, I am sure. How do I know that
it was not he himself who was making love to that actress? Ah! my dear
Charles, how does it happen that a connection so intimate, which is
sometimes based on sincere love, often leaves nothing but regrets and
bitter memories in the heart? After love should come friendship. Should
not that be the natural consequence of the relation lovers have borne to
each other? But, instead of that, they part in anger, and sometimes come
to hate where they have loved so dearly."
"No, Frederique, no! that does not happen when two hearts have burned
for each other with a sincere passion. The connection may be broken, but
a pleasant remembrance of the happiness they have enjoyed always
remains."
"Do you think so? In that case, I never loved Saint-Bergame. Yes, I am
sure now that I didn't love him; and, more than that--would you like me
to tell you my inmost thoughts? Well! I believe that I have never loved
any man! and I propose to continue on that line; it's much more amusing.
Then one treats men just as they treat us--one drops them as soon as
they cease to be attractive! You won't say that I am right; but in the
bottom of your heart you think so."
"I--I--I am thinking that you are free at this moment----"
"Yes, and I believe I am almost as delighted as I was when I ceased all
relations with Monsieur Dauberny."
"Oh! for all that--before long--another sentiment----"
"We shall see; one can be sure of nothing; but not very soon. No, I am
in no hurry to assume new chains, however light they may be. I believe
that I was born to be independent. It is such fun to do just what you
please! For example: if I had been Saint-Bergame's mistress still, I
couldn't have had you to supper to-night. It would have displeased him;
or else I should have had to conceal it from him; and I don't like
mysteries.--Ha! ha! ha! how poor Brunzbrack is snoring! If that's his
way of making love to a woman----"
"He won't be the man to replace Saint-Bergame, will he?"
"No, indeed! Besides, I don't mean to love any more; I have decided. I
don't feel sure--whether--I am--right; tell me--if I'm--right. It's very
late--isn't it? I must--go to bed. You don't tell me anything; I have to
do all the talking myself."
For several minutes Frederique had had difficulty in fighting against
the drowsiness that made her eyelids heavy. While she was talking, she
let her head fall on the back of her chair; her eyes closed and still
she talked on. But suddenly she ceased--she had fallen asleep.
I turned and leaned over her to gaze upon her at my leisure. I could not
tire of contemplating that strange woman, whom I had known so short a
time, and with whom I was already on the most friendly terms. I liked
that face, which reflected so clearly the impressions of the heart;
surely that mouth could not speak falsely! Her forehead was noble and
distinguished; at that moment, her lovely hair, through which she had
passed her fingers a moment before, fell in long curls about her temples
and partly covered her face. I have seldom seen black hair of such
brilliancy and of such a beautiful shade. I could understand why she
enjoyed changing its arrangement; with that natural adornment she was
sure of always looking well.
She was speaking at the moment that sleep overcame her. Her lips were
partly open; but her expression was rather serious than smiling. When
she fell asleep she threw her body back, so that there was nothing to
prevent my examining her bust, her waist, and the graceful figure which
the fine, soft fabric of her gown outlined while it concealed them, and
which disappeared at one point beneath the clinging folds, only to
reappear farther on more alluring than ever.