on that subject; but she did not trouble herself in the least about her
husband's business, and had unbounded faith in what he told her. She led
such a life as she liked; for her husband left her entirely at liberty
to do just what she chose, and seemed happy to be the husband of a
charming woman, only because she attracted numerous guests to his house.
You will agree that it would have been horrible to disturb Armantine's
peace of mind by giving her a hint of my suspicions; she would have
spurned them with horror. Poor woman! More than once, I said to myself
that I was a fool, that my ideas were an insult to Monsieur Sordeville;
and not until I had learned of several facts that confirmed my
suspicions, did I feel absolutely certain of the truth."
"Not yet do I know vat is te trut," muttered the baron, craning his neck
in an attempt to see his neighbor's lovely eyes.
"Ah! Monsieur de Brunzbrack, there are some things that are so hard, so
painful, to say! Listen: about a year ago, a young man attached to the
Dutch legation was suddenly dismissed, without the slightest explanation
of his disgrace. He had been an habitue of Monsieur Sordeville's salon
for two months. A clerk in the War Department lost his place--no reason
assigned. But he, too, had attended Monsieur Sordeville's receptions.
And you yourself, baron--did not your ambassador thank you and request
you never to set foot in his offices again?"
"Ja! Te ambassador, he haf say to me: 'You talk too much! You haf
divulzhe te secrets of te cabinet.'--I haf not untershtand, but id vas
all one to me; I haf not care for my blace."
"How is it with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? do you begin to understand?"
"In truth, madame, I fear that I do; but I dare not say as yet."
"Well, monsieur, the young attache of the Dutch legation had been lured
on by Monsieur Sordeville to talk foolishly about certain plans of his
government.--You did the same, baron, unwittingly perhaps; that man was
so clever at making people talk about what he wanted to find out! As for
the young clerk, he had tattled about certain peculiarities of his
superiors, and Monsieur Sordeville took care that they were informed. In
a word, Monsieur Sordeville was connected with the secret police. That
is what I dared not believe at first, what I was determined to have the
proof of, if it were true. I never hesitate when the honor of a friend,
the safety and the future of people I love, are at stake. I had once
rendered a slight service to a person who is employed in the police
bureau to-day, but in a position which he can afford to avow; that
person had begged me to give him an opportunity to show his gratitude,
and I said to him: 'The opportunity has come; find out for me what
Monsieur Sordeville's position is.' I speedily received a reply
containing these words only: 'Connected with the secret police.'"
"_Sapremann!_" cried the baron; "I am sorry tat I haf talk mit him! Vat!
tat so bolite monsir--he vas ein shpy! Ach! I am shtubefied!"
I shared the baron's stupefaction; Frederique's revelation appalled me;
and yet, I knew that in society the most disgusting vices lie hidden
beneath the most brilliant exteriors.
"And--his wife," I said at last; "does she know now what her husband
does?"
"She knows all, and I was spared the melancholy duty of telling her.
There were some scandalous scenes at Monsieur Sordeville's not long ago.
It seems that a certain man--one of the victims of that wretch's
denunciations--had succeeded, by unwearying perseverance, in learning
the source of the report that ruined him. He also learned the truth with
respect to Monsieur Sordeville. Then what did he do? Accompanied by
several friends, to whom he had told the facts, he went to the house on
a certain evening at home--for they continued to receive,
notwithstanding what was told you to the contrary."
This was said to me, and proved that Frederique knew all.
"He went to Monsieur Sordeville's," she continued, "and there, in the
middle of the salon, before all the guests, he called him a spy and
struck him! Imagine the uproar, the amazement, the confusion, of all
those people, who were thoroughly ashamed to be there; for Monsieur
Sordeville turned pale, and did not say a word or return the blow. Poor
Armantine fainted, and they carried her to her room. Thereupon the
guests all took their hats and fled, assuring the master of the house
that they didn't believe a word of what had been said, but fully
determined never to go there again. On the next day, Armantine took
refuge with me. I dictated the following plainly worded letter, which
she sent to her husband:
* * * * *
"'You have deceived me shamefully, monsieur. I leave you, and I lay
aside your name. You will never hear of me again, and I trust that I may
never hear of you.'
"That is what Armantine wrote to him. You must agree, Rochebrune, that
we are not very fortunate in our husbands, either of us!"
Poor Frederique! She did not know how truly she spoke.
"Now, messieurs, it's all over. The Sordeville family has ceased to
exist. Nobody knows what has become of the man, and nobody cares very
much. Probably he is still carrying on his profession, on his own
account. As to Armantine, luckily she has about eighteen hundred francs
a year which her husband cannot touch. She will live on that, in the
retreat she has chosen; she will cut less of a figure and not change her
gown so often; but perhaps she will be happier."
As she said that, Frederique fixed her eyes on me for a moment, then
continued:
"I hope, messieurs, that you will forgive me now for advising you both
to stay away from Monsieur Sordeville's?"
"That is to say, madame, that we owe you our warmest thanks."
"Ach! ja! and I haf te note in your hand; id is alvays here--on my
heart."
"You do me too much honor, baron," said Madame Dauberny, with a smile;
"and I am quite sure that everybody doesn't do as you have done."
I would have been glad to be rid of the baron, for I had many questions
to ask Frederique. I do not know whether she divined my thought, but she
ordered her coachman to drive back to Paris.
"I will not abuse your good nature any longer, messieurs," she said. "I
carried you both away rather unceremoniously; and perhaps somebody is
impatiently awaiting you."
"No; I am not avaited at all," said the baron; "I am te master of my
time."
"Where were you going, baron?" Frederique asked, as if she had not heard
what he said.
"Montame--I vas going--I know not--I vas going novere."
"But as I am going somewhere, I will set you down at your hotel, then I
will take Monsieur Rochebrune home."
I was well pleased that she proposed to set down the baron first. To no
purpose did he say again and again that no one was expecting him, that
he was not sure that he wanted to go home; Madame Dauberny replied
simply:
"I am very sorry; but I can't drive you about all day."
Before long, she ordered the coachman to stop; the carriage door was
opened and she offered the baron her hand, saying:
"Adieu! until I have the pleasure of seeing you again."
Herr von Brunzbrack decided at last, although with great reluctance, to
alight; but when he was on the ground, he looked at me and beckoned:
"Vell! vhy haf not you come, too?"
"Because Monsieur Rochebrune is going in another direction, and I am
going to drive him part of the way."
As she spoke, Frederique motioned to the coachman to drive on, paying no
heed to the baron, who declared that he wanted to stay with me. The poor
Prussian stood on the same spot, and glared at me in a far from friendly
fashion.
"I am not sorry to be rid of the baron," said Frederique, "for I want to
talk with you; if you are really in no hurry, suppose we take a turn in
the Bois?"
"That will give me great pleasure, madame, for I too long to talk with
you."
"Take us to the Bois de Boulogne, _cocher_.--Ah! if the poor baron knew
this, he would be frantic!"
"Yes, for he's terribly jealous; he sees a rival in every man who has
the privilege of knowing you."
"The man believes that everybody's in love with me! he is too stupid!
But let us say no more of the baron and his love, which disturbs me very
little. Let us come to what interests you. You want to know, of course,
what has become of Armantine? Before a stranger, I would not betray her
incognito; but to you, it seems to me that I may safely tell where she
is, so that you can go there and condole with her. Armantine is living
at Passy, on the Grande Rue, near the forest; she has taken the name of
Madame Montfort. That is what I had to tell you."
"Is that all, madame?"
"Why, I should suppose that it was a great deal to you, to know what has
become of the lady of your thoughts."
"Frederique, are you willing that we should be friends again?"
As I spoke, I held out my hand. She turned her head away, and for some
seconds seemed to hesitate; then she gave me her hand, and replied in a
voice that was not quite steady:
"Well, yes, I am willing; sincere friends; all except the _tutoiement_;
for I realize that that is impossible; anyone who heard us would form
wrong conclusions."
"Very good. But no more mystery between us; absolute and mutual
confidence. If you knew how deeply I have regretted having angered you!
You were so severe with me! You spoke to me so frigidly, and sometimes
with a touch of irony even."
"Let's forget all that. I am a little whimsical! But it's all over now.
We are reconciled. As for--as for what made me angry, I am sure that you
won't be guilty of the same offence again. You were a little bewildered
that night--otherwise, it never would have occurred to you to kiss me."
I was at a loss what to reply; for there are offences for which it is a
blunder to apologize. But Frederique gave me no time, for she continued:
"Once more, let's say no more about it! The poet is right when he sings:
"'The past is but a dream!'
From this day forth, we are and will remain good friends. You will tell
me all your secrets, make me the confidante of all your love affairs.
How entertaining it will be to know everything!"
"And you, Frederique, will you tell me all your thoughts, all the
feelings that agitate your heart?"
"To be sure! But you will receive few confidences from me, for I have no
intrigues now. I don't propose to form any more liaisons of that sort.
In short, I am done with loving; I am happy as I am. I have resolved
never to listen to any man again."
"At your age! Nonsense! That resolution won't last long."
"Very well; if I change--why, I'll let you know. But let us come to you,
the man of the thousand and one passions! You ought to tell the story of
them, as a supplement to the _Thousand and One Nights_."
"That may have been true once; but I've been getting rusty of late. It
isn't virtue, I suppose; but I fancy that I am becoming hard to please."
"You will undoubtedly hasten to console Armantine, who may, perhaps,
regret her former position in society, but surely doesn't regret her
husband!"
"I, go to see Madame--Madame Montfort! Oh, no! no, indeed! Do you
imagine that I still love her?"
"Of course! Weren't you mad over her?"
"Love is a form of madness that can be cured, and I am surprised that
you think it possible for me to love that woman still--after the scene
that you witnessed on the Champs-Elysees."
"What do you say? What scene?"
"Oh! my dear friend, let us not begin already to go back on the promise
we made only a moment ago! You were on the Champs-Elysees, were you not,
when an intoxicated man claimed acquaintance with me?"
"Yes; that is, I arrived just at the end. Armantine was running away; I
saw that."
"It was you who paid the man who threatened to have the unfortunate
fellow I had thrown down arrested."
Frederique said nothing; she dared not deny it.
"How much did you give the man?"
"Twenty-nine francs, I believe."
"Here is the money, my dear friend; accept at the same time my thanks
for your kind impulse, which did not occur to me, because I thought of
nothing but that woman who was running away from me. Furthermore, I know
that you also offered money to that poor devil, whom I left there."
"That is true; but he refused it."
"I know that too. Ah! Frederique, _you_ are kind-hearted; you have a
generous heart, superior to the prejudices of society. You would not
have run away from me, then closed your door to me, simply because a man
in cap and blouse had called me his friend!"
Frederique turned her face away, but her voice trembled as she replied:
"No, of course not! But you must forgive such foibles--the result of a
false way of looking at things."
"Forgive jeers, sarcasm, insults, neglect, if you please; I can
understand that; but contempt! never! Love must necessarily be destroyed
where contempt shows its head."
"But suppose that she has repented of her treatment of you?"
"True; she may have done so, since she has learned that her husband is a
spy!"
"Rochebrune! that was a very spiteful remark of yours!"
"I am entitled to say what I think of that lady."
"You are very angry with her, which proves that you still love her."
"When you mention her to me, I remember how she treated me; but for
that, I should not think of her at all. In short, I no longer love her."
"You say that because she isn't here. But if you should find yourself
looking into her lovely eyes----"
"I should remember the way they looked at me at our last interview on
the Champs-Elysees; and I assure you that those eyes would no longer
endanger my repose."
"Really? do you no longer love Armantine?"
Frederique turned toward me as she asked the question, and I had never
seen such an expression of satisfaction and pleasure in her eyes.
"If I still loved her, why should I conceal it from you? You know, we
are to tell each other everything now."
"True; for we are friends now. We won't lose our tempers with each other
any more, will we?"
"I wasn't the one who lost my temper."
"You will come to see me, I hope?"
"You will allow me to?"
"Of course, as the past is only a dream. And I will come to your
rooms--as a friend. I am a man, you know. I don't see why I should not
come to see you--unless, of course, it would displease you?"
"Never!"
"In any event, when you have company, or when you expect some fair one,
you can tell me so, and I will leave you at liberty. It's agreed, isn't
it? I shall not come to see you on any other condition."
"It's agreed."
I took Frederique's hand again and pressed it warmly, nor did she think
of withdrawing it. At that moment, we passed a riding party. The young
dandies of whom it was composed glanced into our carriage as they
passed. Frederique suddenly turned pale. I looked up, and recognized one
of the cavaliers as Monsieur Saint-Bergame. At the same moment I heard
his voice, and distinguished this sentence, the last words coming very
indistinctly as he receded:
"Ah! so it's that fellow now! Each in his turn!"
Madame Dauberny withdrew her hand from mine, her features contracted,
her brow grew dark; but she said nothing. I too was silent; for, not
knowing whether she had heard what Saint-Bergame said, I was careful not
to tell her. But I had a feeling of embarrassment and of wrath, which
banished all the pleasurable sensations of a moment before.
We drove a considerable distance without speaking; and when she turned
so that I could see her face, which she had kept averted for a long
while, I detected tears in her eyes.
I quickly grasped her hand again, saying:
"What is the matter?"
Thereupon she at once resumed her usual manner, as if she were ashamed
that I had observed her emotion, and answered, with a smile:
"Nothing, nothing at all! Mon Dieu! my friend, can one always tell what
the matter is? It all depends on one's frame of mind. We are sometimes
deeply moved by a remark that isn't worth the labor of listening
to.--Take us home, _cocher_.--I can properly say _home_, for, thank
heaven! I am alone, and mistress of the house for the present."
"Your husband is----?"
"He is not in Paris; he has gone on a little trip, according to the word
he sent to me; and you can imagine that I did not detain him. It is true
that Monsieur Dauberny doesn't interfere with me in any way, that he
doesn't prevent me from doing whatever I please; but, for all that, I
feel happier when I know that he isn't under the same roof. Oh! if only
he could travel forever!"
I was certain that the man had fled after the ill-fated Annette's death;
perhaps he was afraid that she would make damaging disclosures before
she died. I was persuaded that fear alone had driven him from Paris, and
that he proposed to wait until that affair was forgotten before he
returned.
"How long has your husband been absent?" I asked Frederique.
"About three weeks."
"When is he coming back?"
"I have no idea; you may be sure that I didn't ask him. But, my friend,
you seem to take a great deal of interest in my husband's movements: can
it be that his absence distresses you?"
I tried to smile, as I answered:
"Oh! not in the least, I beg you to believe. I asked you the question--I
don't quite know why."
Frederique looked earnestly at me and squeezed my hand hard, murmuring:
"So it is true that even sincere friends can't tell each other
everything."
The caleche stopped on the boulevard, and I left Madame Dauberny.
"We shall meet again soon," I said.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[A] That is, a leader in revelry or merrymaking.
[B]
When you're asked to take a walk,
Look well to the weather, Lisa!
If it blows, say that you're ill,
Or else he'll make the most of it,
To work his wicked will on you.
Nay, I joke not, on my soul!
On windy days, I've oft been caught!
My love, for us poor, helpless girls,
There's naught so trait'rous as the wind.
[C]
And then, what can a poor girl do?
She dons her good clothes, when 'tis fair:
The wind springs up, she's in a mess,
She cannot hold her hat in place
And skirts and flounces all at once;
Her eyes are quickly filled with dust,
When in her face the sly wind blows;
But 'tis more trait'rous far, my love,
When she sees not the wind's approach.
[D]
If the rain is most unpleasant,
And wets our poor skirts thro' and thro',
The wind's as wanton as the deuce!
He draws in outline all our figure.
'Tis just as if we wore tight breeches;
A man at such times is less careful,
For it makes him sentimental!
And, my love, it's not our face
He looks at while the wind is blowing.
[E] I, who once had the glory of singing for Mademoiselle Iris, propose,
with your leave, to tell you the story of the young shepherd Paris, etc.
[F] _Tutoyer_; that is, to use the more familiar form of address, to
"thee and thou" one; which, the reader will please understand,
Frederique proceeds to do, and Rochebrune also, with some slips.
End of Project Gutenberg's Frederique; vol. 1, by Charles Paul de Kock