sight of the scoundrel who had swindled me, I don’t know what I might
have done! But, as you may imagine, he did not show himself. I asked the
way to my inn, and returned thither sadly enough. But what was I to do?
What would become of me? I had not a sou, and I was dressed like a
beggar. After playing the grand seigneur, after gratifying one’s every
wish, to be reduced to ask alms! What a horrible comedown! How bitterly
I then regretted my little hunchback and our séances in magnetism! If
only I had been able to begin that trade alone, I should have felt
better. But I had not even the means to buy what was required to make
pills, and I realized that a somnambulist who had neither coat nor
stockings could never put anybody to sleep.
However, I was fully decided to die rather than to beg my living, and it
was in that frame of mind that I reached the inn, which I had left the
night before in such a different plight. I entered the room where the
guests were breakfasting. No one recognized me and the waiters were
about to turn me out, when I told them of my melancholy adventures.
The inn-keeper expressed sympathy for me, but did not invite me to
return to my room, where I had left a few effects which were hardly
sufficient to pay my bill. I stood motionless in the midst of the
guests; I said nothing more, but tears rolled down my cheeks and my very
silence must have been eloquent.
“Well, young man, what are you going to do now?” asked a voice, which at
that moment went straight to my heart. I turned my head and saw two
soldiers breakfasting at a table near me.
“Alas! monsieur,” I answered, addressing the one who seemed to look at
me with interest, “I have no idea. I have nothing left.”
“Nothing left! a man always has something left when he is a
stout-hearted fellow and has done nothing disgraceful. Come, sit down
here and breakfast with us and pluck up your courage, morbleu! No one
ought to despair at your age.”
These words restored all my good humor; I did not wait to be asked
again, and I ate my full share of a slice of ham and a piece of cheese,
which composed the breakfast of the two soldiers. When my hunger was
somewhat abated, the one who seemed superior in rank addressed me again:
“My boy, you left your parents to make a fool of yourself; the first
mistake. You formed intimacies with villains; second mistake. And you
allowed yourself to be robbed; third mistake. However, your mistakes are
excusable; but look out--after being a dupe, one sometimes becomes a
knave. That is what happens only too often to the reckless youngsters,
who, like yourself, find themselves without money on the day after a
debauch. Then they give way to their passions, to their inclinations for
dissipation and idleness; then they resort to low tricks to obtain their
living; and at last they become guilty, although they began by simply
being reckless. You are on the way, young man, and you must take a
stand; you won’t get a dinner by walking about with your arms folded,
nor a pair of breeches by looking at the stars, when there are any. Have
you a trade?”
“No, monsieur.”
“In that case, enlist. Take the musket and carry it with honor. You are
young, tall and well-built; be brave, obedient to your superiors, and I
will guarantee that you will make your way.”
This proposition gave me so much pleasure that I leaped for joy on my
chair, and in trying to embrace my protector, I overturned the table,
upon which luckily there was nothing left.
My eagerness pleased the sergeant and his comrade. They led me away
instantly and took me to their captain, who, after eyeing me from head
to foot with a glance, received me into his company, where I always did
my duty with honor, I venture to say.
Now, my dear Sans-Souci, you know all my adventures; I will not mention
those which happened to me in the regiment, and which you shared with
me. Indeed, they are common to all brave soldiers: love-affairs,
battles, disputes, reconciliations, feasting, starving, victories, and
defeats.--Those are what always make up a soldier’s history.
Years passed; but I had not forgotten my family; I confess, however,
that I did not want to return to them except with an honorable rank; I
had the hope of obtaining it, and this decoration already made my heart
beat more peaceably, when suddenly events changed their aspect.
Relegated to the civilian class, I thought that an honorable and gallant
soldier could not make his parents blush, and I went to Paris to find
them. There I learned of their death! That was a cruel blow! But the icy
welcome, the cold and contemptuous tone of my brother, put the finishing
touch to the laceration of my heart! It is all over, Sans-Souci, he will
never see me again, the ingrate; he will never hear my name again!
Thus did Jacques bring to a close the story of his adventures, and a
tear glistened in his eye during the last portion of his narrative; that
tear was for his brother, whom he still loved, despite the way in which
he had received him.
It was dark; Jacques’s story had taken longer than he had at first
supposed it would, and Sans-Souci had listened to it with so much
interest that he had not realized that the dinner hour had long since
passed. But when his comrade had finished, he rose, shook his head, and
tapped his stomach, as he glanced at his companion.
“Have you told me the whole, comrade?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, forward!”
“What for? Where do you mean to go?”
“No matter where, so long as it is some place where there is something
to eat.”
“Ah! you’re hungry, are you?”
“Yes, ten thousand cartridges! And terribly hungry too! My stomach
doesn’t thrive on adventures. Still, yours have amused me very much; but
since you stopped talking, I feel that I need something solid.”
“Do you want me to begin again?”
“No, no! I want you to come with me.”
“But where shall we go?”
“Come on; forward!”
Jacques and his comrade started across the fields. They could not see
very clearly and they did not know which direction to take. Jacques did
not say a word, Sans-Souci sang and swore alternately, frequently
cursing the hedges and bushes which barred their path. At last, after
walking for an hour, they spied a light.
“Forward toward the light!” said Sans-Souci, doubling his pace; “they
must give us some supper.”
“Have you any money, Sans-Souci?”
“Not a sou; and you?”
“No more than you.”
“No matter, let us go on all the same.”
They approached the building from which the light came; it seemed to be
large enough for a farm-house, but it was too dark to distinguish
objects plainly. Sans-Souci felt his way forward and began to knock with
all the strength of his feet and hands at the first door that he found.
In vain did Jacques urge him to make less noise; Sans-Souci was dying of
hunger, and he listened to nothing but his stomach, which shouted as
loud as himself.
At last two dogs that were prowling about the yard answered the uproar
that he made; their barking awoke the cows, which began to low, and the
donkeys, which began to bray; there was an infernal hurly-burly, in the
midst of which the voice of a woman, who had come to a window, had
difficulty in making itself heard.
“Who’s that? What do you want? answer!”
“Ah! ten thousand cannonades! I am not mistaken; it’s her, it’s my
brunette!--Didn’t I tell you, Jacques, that we should get a supper; we
are at her farm. Open, my duck, open quick! Love and hunger bring me
back to you!”
“What? can it be him?”
“Yes, yes! It is him, it’s me, it’s us, in fact! Come, Louise, put on
the necessary skirt, and come and let us in. But try to make your beasts
quiet, for we can’t hear ourselves talk here!”
The farmer’s wife left the window to come down to admit them, and
thereupon Sans-Souci informed Jacques that they were at the abode of the
unfaithful sweetheart of whom he had spoken that morning, and who was
at heart very kind, very sentimental,--she had given him proofs of it
that morning,--very obliging, and that she made her husband a cuckold
solely because of her temperament.
“But this husband,” said Jacques; “he is the master in his own house,
and----”
“No; in the first place, Louise is the mistress; in the second place,
he’s a good fellow. Oh! she told me all about it this morning; she
wanted me then to pass some time at the farm, as a distant relative of
hers, just back from the army. I didn’t accept, because I had promised
to join you, and your friendship goes ahead of everything; but so long
as you are here, and we are our own masters, faith! it’s a good wind
that blows us to my old flame’s house--Hush! here’s the lady herself!”
Louise did in fact open the door at that moment; she seemed surprised at
sight of Jacques.
“This is my friend, let me introduce him to you,” said Sans-Souci; “he
is a fine fellow, a good comrade, whom I don’t ever mean to leave.”
“Oh, well, then it’s all right, he’s our friend too. By the way, my
husband’s asleep, but it don’t make any difference,--don’t forget that
you’re my cousin, Sans-Souci.”
“All right, that’s agreed; now let’s be off to the kitchen.”
“I will make you an omelet with pork.”
“That will be fine! But are you alone?”
“Our farm boy’s to be married the day after to-morrow, and bless my
soul! he is sleeping all he can beforehand.”
“That’s a good idea.--Give me the frying-pan.”
In a short time the supper was prepared, and Sans-Souci and Jacques did
full honor to it; Louise watched them, and laughed at the thought of
her husband’s surprise when he should find that two strangers had slept
in his house.
“I am going to put you into the little cheese room. It is close by, and
you can go into it without going through our room and waking up my man.
We will tell him all about it to-morrow.”
Louise was very particular that they should not wake her husband; she
guided the two newcomers to a small room where the cheeses which they
made were placed on boards along the wall. They did not diffuse a very
pleasant odor through the room, but two soldiers are not particular.
Jacques threw himself on the bed and slept soundly; Sans-Souci
complained that the cheeses disturbed him, and he went out to take the
air or for some other purpose; but the night passed very comfortably,
and the farmer did not wake inopportunely.
The next day everybody was up early. Farmer Guillot opened his eyes at
his wife’s story, when she told him about a cousin of hers having
arrived during the night with one of his comrades. Guillot made haste to
embrace his cousin and his friend; he welcomed them cordially, drank
with them, found them exceedingly pleasant companions, and took them to
see his farm, his hens, his oxen, his wheat and his hay. Our soldiers
declared everything first-class and splendidly kept up; they
complimented the farmer, and they were soon the best friends in the
world.
Jacques loved the country, the meadows, the woods, and work in the
fields. Sans-Souci loved the farmer’s wife and her cooking. In the
evening, Jacques told Guillot about his battles, his sieges and his
adventures. The farmer opened his eyes and held his breath; even
Sans-Souci kept quiet and shared the pleasure of the peasants, which he
prolonged by adding the story of his own experiences. Their adventures
entertained the peasants to such a degree that they went more cheerfully
to the fields in the morning, when the two soldiers had promised them a
story for the evening.
The people of the village requested as a favor to be allowed to come and
listen to Louise’s cousin and his comrade; and as formality and ceremony
are unknown in the country, the great living-room of the farm-house was
crowded with villagers as soon as the work of the day was finished. The
old woman brought her flax and her spinning-wheel, the housekeeper plied
her needle, the maiden bound up the sheaves; in one corner a young
peasant sifted his horse’s grain; in another, the old man drank his ale,
while the laborer smoked his pipe, leaning on a barrel; the children
crawled about on the floor or played with Sans-Souci’s moustache, while
Louise prepared the soup, Guillot sorted out grains, and one and all had
their eyes fixed upon Jacques, listening attentively to his description
of a battle. When the affair became hot and Jacques grew animated, the
faces of the listeners expressed anxiety, dread, terror; the old woman
stopped her spinning-wheel, the laborer took his pipe from his mouth,
the old man forgot his glass, the young man ceased to shake his sifter,
and everyone, with head stretched forward and mouth wide open, awaited
the result of the battle before resuming his former occupation.
A week passed thus with great rapidity. Our two companions, who did not
choose to pay for the farmer’s hospitality with stories alone, went out
in the morning to assist the peasants in their work. Jacques went with
Guillot to the fields, and plowed and dug with great strength and
good-will. At first the farmer had set his face against his working,
but Jacques had insisted, and in a very short time had become very
skilful. As for Sans-Souci, he preferred to remain in the house. Louise
undertook to supply him with work and she kept him busy. She was a very
capable woman, and a hand never lacked work with her; whether it was in
the attic, or in the cellar, or in the garden, or in the kitchen, she
found some way to employ him always.
After some time, the farm-hand who had married went to live in his
cottage with his wife. Guillot was in need of some one to take his
place; the farm was an extensive one, and its dependencies considerable,
and the farmer felt that Jacques and Sans-Souci would be none too many
to help him work it. He dared not make the proposition to the two men,
but Louise, who was anxious to keep them, undertook to arrange the
affair. At the first words which she said, Jacques joyfully embraced the
farmer’s wife.
“I was afraid,” he said, “of being a burden to you, but you offer me the
means of earning my living honorably and I accept with gratitude. I will
be a farm-hand, and I promise you that Sans-Souci will follow my
example. We have both been soldiers, but whether one carries the musket
or guides the plough, he is still serving his country, is he not?”
Thus everything was arranged to the perfect satisfaction of everyone.
Jacques devoted himself completely to his new occupation; sometimes, in
the midst of his toil, the thought of his brother came to his mind, and
then his features would become clouded, his hand rest on the spade, and
his eyes turn toward the road to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. But he
instantly banished his melancholy thoughts, and resumed his work with
renewed zeal, striving to banish Edouard’s image from his heart.
XV
FOUR MONTHS OF MARRIED LIFE.--NEW PLANS
Edouard, his wife and Mamma Germeuil were settled in the pretty house at
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Edouard, who had not mentioned his brother,
had trembled with apprehension as he drew near the village, and he was
even more agitated when he stepped inside his parents’ former abode. He
thought every instant that he should meet his brother, and on the day of
his arrival he absolutely refused to walk in the garden. However, he had
fully decided to welcome Jacques cordially and to present him to his
wife’s family; but while forming this resolution, he was conscious of an
embarrassment, a vague dread, which aroused a secret dissatisfaction in
his heart.
On the second day after his arrival in the country, he privately
questioned the concierge of his house:
“Has anybody been here in my absence? Have you seen that stranger again,
that man who was forever standing at the foot of the garden?”
“No, monsieur, no, I haven’t seen him again, and no one has been here to
see you.”
Edouard began to breathe more freely, and became more cheerful with the
ladies. Time passed, and the face with moustaches did not reappear.
Madame Germeuil sometimes referred to it, laughingly, with no suspicion
of the distress which she caused her son-in-law; but they finally forgot
the episode altogether, and Edouard recovered his tranquillity.
Adeline’s heart had not changed; still sentimental and emotional, she
loved her husband with idolatry, she was happy so long as he was with
her, and so long as she could read in his eyes the same sentiments, the
same love, the same happiness. She carried in her bosom a pledge of
Edouard’s love; that was a new subject of delight, of hopes, of projects
for the future. Engrossed by that happiness, Adeline was less
thoughtless, less vivacious.
They had little company in the country, but Edouard was still in love
with his wife, and he was not at all bored. Sometimes, however, the
evenings seemed rather long to him; Madame Germeuil’s game of piquet was
endless, and the excursions about the neighborhood impressed him as
being slightly monotonous. But Adeline’s caresses were still pleasant to
him, and her kisses as sweet as ever.
One fine day a carriage stopped in front of Edouard’s house, and two
ladies and a gentleman alighted and entered the courtyard. The concierge
asked the strangers’ names in order to announce them to the ladies, who
were in the garden. But they desired to surprise the Murville family and
one of the two ladies who seemed to be in command, at once walked toward
the garden, beckoning to her friends to follow her.
At last they discovered Madame Germeuil and Adeline, who rose in
surprise and ran to meet Madame Dolban.
“What! is it you, my dear love? How kind of you to come!”
“I wanted to surprise you; I have been promising myself this pleasure
for a long time, for I am passionately fond of the country. I have
brought my little cousin with me; and as we required an escort, I have
taken the liberty of bringing Monsieur Dufresne, who is delighted to
present his respects to you.”
Monsieur Dufresne bowed low to the ladies, and Mamma Germeuil assured
Madame Dolban that anybody whom she might bring would always be welcome.
“But monsieur is not a stranger to you,” continued Madame Dolban; “he
was at my dear Adeline’s wedding; it was Madame Devaux who introduced
him to you.”
“Indeed I believe that I remember,” said Madame Germeuil; “but on such
days one is so busy that one may be pardoned for not noticing all the
young people. You know too, how many strange things happened that
evening! Poor Madame de Volenville, and Monsieur Robineau!”
“Oh! don’t speak of them, my dear love, or I shall die of laughter.--But
where is Murville?”
“He is somewhere in the neighborhood; he will soon return home;
meanwhile, come into the house and rest yourselves.”
They went to the salon; Dufresne offered Madame Germeuil his hand, and
Adeline escorted Madame Dolban and her cousin. Edouard soon returned. He
seemed agreeably surprised to find company. No matter how much a man may
be in love, the most delightful tête-à-têtes become tiresome after a
while; so that a coquette is very careful to be sparing of them,
interrupting them sometimes in order that they may be more eagerly
desired afterwards. But Adeline was not a coquette.
Let us return to our company. Madame Dolban was still a young woman; she
was not pretty, but her face had character, and she had that quality
which in society is called ease of manner, and plenty of small talk.
Little Jenny was a girl of eighteen, very sweet and simple-mannered, and
trained to be silent when her cousin was talking. As for Dufresne, we
know him already; imperfectly to be sure, but the sequel will enable us
to judge him better.
It was at Adeline’s wedding that he had made Madame Dolban’s
acquaintance. Had he fallen in love with her? That seemed rather
improbable; however, he had acted like a very passionate lover; paying
the most assiduous court to the widow, he had easily triumphed over her.
Madame Dolban was not a prude, but she made a point of concealing her
feelings, in order to be received more willingly in circles where
morality and decency are held in esteem, and Madame Germeuil’s house was
one of the small number of which that could be said.
Dufresne had acquired absolute empire over the mind of Madame Dolban,
who loved him passionately and who would have sacrificed everything for
him. She had soon discovered that that young man, who claimed to be a
business agent, broker, commission merchant, and tradesman, and who
assumed all sorts of titles according to circumstances, was in reality
nothing more than a knight of industry, having no trade, no office, and
no perceptible means of livelihood.
A prudent woman would have broken with such a character; Madame Dolban
had not the moral courage; on the contrary, she devoted herself
absolutely to him, opened her purse to him, and allowed him to become
absolute master in her house; and Dufresne used his friend’s small
fortune without the slightest hesitation, assuring her that he was about
to make a bold stroke in business, and that he would very soon treble
her capital.
Impelled by some unknown motive, Dufresne often inquired about Adeline
and her husband. At last, he expressed one day a desire to go to their
place in the country. Madame Dolban instantly made her preparations to
go; she took her little cousin, in order to dispel any suspicion of a
too close intimacy with a young man whom she wished to introduce to
Madame Germeuil.
Dufresne was bright, he was accustomed to society, and could be
entertaining when he chose to be; and in the visit to the young husband
and wife he did whatever he considered most likely to attract the whole
family. Attentive, zealous, even gallant with Madame Germeuil,--for he
knew that gallantry has a fascination even for mothers,--he was
agreeable, reserved and respectful to Adeline; but it was with Edouard
especially that he put forth all the resources of his wit, in order to
obtain Murville’s entire confidence; and he at once applied himself to
the study of his disposition, and to finding out his tastes and sounding
his sentiments.
Everything assumed a festive appearance in the household at
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. Three additional persons cause much change in
a house. They sang and played, drove, hunted and fished. The time passed
very quickly to Edouard, who longed for company. But it seemed long to
Adeline, who was unable to find a moment in the day to be alone with her
husband.
On the third day after her arrival, Madame Dolban talked about returning
to Paris. Edouard insisted on keeping his guests a few days longer. He
could not do without Dufresne. They went hunting together, and drove in
the morning before the ladies were up. Murville was delighted with his
new friend; wit, merriment, an even disposition, and a similarity of
tastes made Dufresne’s presence a necessity to him, as his friendship
was a delight.
Adeline could not be jealous of this new intimacy; and yet she felt a
secret pain when she saw that her own affection did not fill her
husband’s heart sufficiently to exclude every other sentiment. Love is
often selfish and even friendship offends it; anything which for a
moment attracts the loved one seems a theft to that exacting god. But
this excess of love is always excusable, and it does not seem a burden
except when it ceases to be shared.
Madame Dolban and her friends took leave of the young couple at last.
Adeline was pleased, for she was about to be alone with Edouard once
more; she could talk to him without reserve as to the future, of the
education of their children, and of all the family joys which were in
store for them. Murville was sorry to see their guests go; but he was
careful to urge Dufresne to come often to see him, and to pass at
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges all the time that his business left him at
leisure.
In the evening, Adeline took her husband’s arm and led him into the
garden; she told him how delighted she felt at being alone with him; she
pressed his hands lovingly in hers; and she fixed her lovely eyes,
filled with love, upon him. But Edouard was distraught and preoccupied;
while replying to his wife, he seemed to be thinking of something else
than what he said. Adeline noticed it; she sighed and the walk came to
an end much earlier than usual.
The next day when they met at breakfast, Edouard spoke of Dufresne and
of the pleasure it had afforded him to make his acquaintance. He was a
charming man, full of intelligence and talent, who could not fail to
succeed and make a handsome fortune.
“But, my dear,” said Adeline, “it seems to me that you can hardly know
that gentleman as yet.”