JEALOUSY.
The first sensation D'Harmental experienced on returning was one of
inexpressible satisfaction at finding himself again in that little room
so filled with recollections. Though he had been absent six weeks, one
might have supposed that he had only quitted it the day before, as,
thanks to the almost maternal care of Madame Denis, everything was in
its accustomed place. D'Harmental remained an instant, his candle in his
hand, looking around him with a look almost of ecstasy. All the other
impressions of his life were effaced by those which he had experienced
in this little corner of the world. Then he ran to the window, opened
it, and threw an indescribable look of love over the darkened windows of
his neighbor. Doubtless Bathilde slept the sleep of an angel,
unconscious that D'Harmental was there, trembling with love and hope.
He remained thus for more than half an hour, breathing the night air,
which had never seemed to him so pure and fresh, and began to feel that
Bathilde had become one of the necessities of his life; but as he could
not pass the whole night at his window, he then closed it, and came into
his room, although only to follow up the recollections with which it was
filled. He opened his piano, and passed his fingers over the keys, at
the risk of re-exacting the anger of the lodger on the third floor. From
the piano he passed to the unfinished portrait of Bathilde. At length he
slept, listening again in his mind to the air sung by Mademoiselle
Berry, whom he finished by believing to be one and the same person as
Bathilde. When he awoke, D'Harmental jumped from his bed and ran to the
window. The day appeared already advanced; the sun was shining
brilliantly; yet Bathilde's window remain hermetically closed.
The chevalier looked at his watch; it was ten o'clock, and he began to
dress. We have already confessed that he was not free from a certain
almost feminine coquetry; but this was the fault of the time, when
everything was mannered--even passion. At this time it was not a
melancholy expression on which he reckoned. The joy of return had given
to his face a charming expression of happiness, and it was evident that
a glance from Bathilde would crown him king of the creation. This glance
he came to the window to seek, but Bathilde's remained closed.
D'Harmental opened his, hoping that the noise would attract her
attention; nothing stirred. He remained there an hour: during this hour
there was not even a breath of wind to stir the curtains: the young
girl's room must be abandoned. He coughed, opened and closed the
window, detached little pieces of plaster from the wall, and threw them
against the window--all in vain.
To surprise succeeded uneasiness; this window, so obstinately closed,
must indicate absence, if not misfortune. Bathilde absent!--where could
she be? What had happened to disturb her calm, regular life? Who could
he ask? No one but Madame Denis could know. It was quite natural that
D'Harmental should pay a visit to his landlady on his return, and he
accordingly went down. Madame Denis had not seen him since the day of
the breakfast. She had not forgotten his attention when she fainted. She
received him like the prodigal son. Fortunately for D'Harmental, the
young ladies were occupied with a drawing lesson, and Boniface was at
his office, so that he saw no one but his hostess. The conversation fell
naturally on the order and neatness of his room during his absence; from
this the transition was easy to the question if the opposite lodging had
changed tenants. Madame Denis replied that she had seen Bathilde at the
window the morning before; and that in the evening her son had met Buvat
returning from his office, but had noticed in him a singular air of
pride and hauteur. This was all D'Harmental wished to know. Bathilde was
in Paris, and at home; chance had not yet directed her looks toward that
window so long closed, and that room so long empty. He took leave of
Madame Denis with an effusion of gratitude which she was far from
attributing to its true cause; and on the landing he met the Abbe
Brigaud, who was coming to pay his daily visit to Madame Denis.
The abbe asked if he was going home, and promised to pay him a visit. On
entering his room D'Harmental went straight to the window. Nothing was
changed; it was evidently a plan, and he resolved to employ the last
means which he had reserved. He sat down to the piano, and after a
brilliant prelude sang the air of the cantata of Night which he had
heard the evening before, and of which he had retained every note in his
memory. Meanwhile he did not lose sight for an instant of the
inexorable window; but there was no sign. The opposite room had no echo.
But D'Harmental had produced an effect which he did not expect. Hearing
applause, he turned round, and saw the Abbe Brigaud behind him.
"Ah! it is you, abbe?" said D'Harmental; "I did not know that you were
so great a lover of music."
"Nor you so good a musician. Peste! my dear pupil, an air you only heard
once. It is wonderful."
"I thought it very beautiful, abbe, and as I have a very good memory for
sounds, I retained it."
"And then it was so admirably sung. Was it not?"
"Yes," said D'Harmental; "Mademoiselle Berry has an exquisite voice, and
the first time she sings I shall go incognito to the opera."
"Is it that voice you want to hear?" asked Brigaud.----"Yes."
"Then you must not go to the opera for that."
"And where must I go?"
"Nowhere. Stay here. You are in the boxes."
"What! The Goddess of Night?"
"Is your neighbor."
"Bathilde!" cried D'Harmental. "Then I was not deceived; I recognized
her. But it is impossible! How could she have been there?"
"First of all," said the abbe, "nothing is impossible; remember that,
before you deny or undertake anything. Believe that everything is
possible; it is the way to succeed in everything."
"But Bathilde?"
"Yes, does it not appear strange at first? Well, nothing is more simple.
But it does not interest you, chevalier; let us talk of something else."
"Yes, yes, abbe; you are strangely mistaken--I am deeply interested."
"Well, my dear pupil, since you are so curious, this is the whole
affair. The Abbe Chaulieu knows Mademoiselle Bathilde; is not that your
neighbor's name?"
"Yes. How does the Abbe Chaulieu know her?"
"Oh! it is very simple. The guardian of this charming child is, as you
know, or do not know, one of the best writers and copyists in the
capital. The Abbe Chaulieu wants some one to copy his poetry, since,
being blind, he is obliged to dictate in the first instance to a little
lackey who cannot spell, and he has confided this important task to
Buvat. By this means he has become acquainted with Mademoiselle
Bathilde."
"But all this does not explain how Mademoiselle Bathilde came to
Sceaux."
"Stop; every history has its commencement, its middle, and its
termination."
"Abbe, you will make me swear."
"Patience, patience."
"Go on; I listen to you."
"Well, having made Mademoiselle Bathilde's acquaintance, the Abbe
Chaulieu, like the rest, has felt the influence of her charms, for there
is a species of magic attached to the young person in question; no one
can see her without loving her."
"I know it," murmured D'Harmental.
"Then, as Mademoiselle Bathilde is full of talent, and not only sings
like a nightingale, but draws like an angel, Chaulieu spoke of her so
enthusiastically to Mademoiselle de Launay that she thought of employing
her for the costumes of the different personages in the fete."
"This does not tell me that it was Bathilde and not Mademoiselle Berry
who sang lost night."
"We are coming to it."
"Well?"
"It happened that Mademoiselle de Launay, like the rest of the world,
took a violent fancy to the little witch. Instead of sending her away
after the costumes were finished, she kept her three days at Sceaux. She
was still there the day before yesterday, closeted with Mademoiselle de
Launay, when some one entered with a bewildered air to announce that the
director of the opera wished to speak to her on a matter of importance.
Mademoiselle de Launay went out, leaving Bathilde alone. Bathilde, to
amuse herself, went to the piano and finding both the instrument and
her voice in good order, began to sing a great scene from some opera,
and with such perfection that Mademoiselle de Launay, returning and
hearing this unexpected song, opened the door softly, listened to the
air, and threw her arms round the beautiful singer's neck, crying out
that she could save her life. Bathilde, astonished, asked how, and in
what manner, she could render her so great a service. Then Mademoiselle
de Launay told her how she had engaged Mademoiselle Berry of the opera
to sing the cantata of Night on the succeeding evening, and she had
fallen ill and sent to say that to her great regret her Royal Highness
the Duchesse de Maine could not rely upon her, so that there would be no
'Night,' and, consequently, no fete, if Bathilde would not have the
extreme goodness to undertake the aforesaid cantata.
"Bathilde, as you may suppose, defended herself with all her might, and
declared that it was impossible that she should thus sing music which
she did not know. Mademoiselle de Launay put the cantata before her.
Bathilde said that the music seemed terribly difficult. Mademoiselle de
Launay answered that for a musician of her powers nothing was difficult.
Bathilde got up. Mademoiselle de Launay made her sit down again.
Bathilde clasped her hands. Mademoiselle de Launay unclasped them and
placed them on the piano. The piano being touched gave out a sound.
Bathilde, in spite of herself, played the first bar; then the second;
then the whole cantata. Then she attacked the song, and sang it to the
end with an admirable justness of intonation and beauty of expression.
Mademoiselle de Launay was enchanted. Madame de Maine arrived in despair
at what she had heard of Mademoiselle Berry. Mademoiselle de Launay
begged Bathilde to recommence the cantata. Bathilde did not dare to
refuse; she played and sang like an angel. Madame de Maine joined her
prayers to those of Mademoiselle de Launay. You know, chevalier, that it
is impossible to refuse Madame de Maine anything.
"Poor Bathilde was obliged to give way, and half laughing, half crying,
she consented, on two conditions. The first, that she might go herself
to her friend Buvat to explain her absence; the second, that she might
remain at home all that evening and the next morning in order to study
the unfortunate cantata. These clauses, after a long discussion, were
granted, with reciprocal promises, on Bathilde's part that she would
return at seven o'clock the next evening, on the part of Mademoiselle de
Launay and Madame de Maine that every one should continue to believe
that it was Mademoiselle Berry who sung."
"But then," asked D'Harmental, "how was the secret betrayed?"
"Oh! by an unforeseen circumstance," replied Brigaud, in that strange
manner which caused one to doubt if he was in jest or earnest. "All went
off capitally, as you know, till the end of the cantata, and the proof
is, that having only heard it once, you are able to remember it from one
end to the other. At the moment the galley which brought us from the
pavilion of Aurora touched the shore, whether from emotion at having
sung for the first time in public, or that she recognized among Madame
de Maine's suite some one she had not expected to see there, for some
unknown reason, however, the poor Goddess of Night uttered a cry and
fainted in the arms of the Hours, her companions. All promises and oaths
were at once forgotten; her veil was removed to throw water in her face,
so that when I came up, while you were going away with her highness, I
was much astonished to find, instead of Mademoiselle Berry, your pretty
neighbor. I questioned Mademoiselle de Launay, and as it was impossible
any longer to keep the incognito, she told me what had passed, under the
seal of secrecy, which I have betrayed for you only, my dear pupil,
because, I do not know why, I can refuse you nothing."
"And this indisposition?" asked D'Harmental with uneasiness.
"Oh! it was nothing; a mere momentary emotion which had no bad
consequences, since, in spite of all they could say to the contrary,
Bathilde would not remain another hour at Sceaux, but insisted on
returning, so that they put a carriage at her disposal, and she ought to
have been home an hour before us."
"Then you are sure she is at home? Thanks, abbe, that is all I wished to
know."
"And now," said Brigaud, "I may go, may I not? You have no more need of
me, now that you know all you wish to know."
"I do not say so, my dear Brigaud; on the contrary, stop, you will give
me great pleasure."
"No, I thank you; I have got some business of my own to transact in the
town, and will leave you to your reflections, my dear pupil."
"When shall I see you again?" asked D'Harmental, mechanically.
"Most likely to-morrow," answered the abbe.
"Adieu till to-morrow, then."
"Till to-morrow."
So saying, the abbe turned round, laughing his peculiar laugh, and
reached the door while D'Harmental was reopening his window, determined
to remain there till the next day, if necessary, and only desiring, as a
reward for this long watch, to catch a single glimpse of Bathilde.
The poor gentleman was in love over head and ears.