COUNTERPLOTS.
On her part, as may be easily understood, Bathilde had not made such an
effort without suffering from it; the poor child loved D'Harmental with
all the strength of a love at seventeen, a first love. During the first
month of his absence she had counted the days; during the fifth week
she had counted the hours; during the last week she had counted the
minutes. Then it was that the Abbe Chaulieu fetched her, to take her to
Mademoiselle de Launay; and as he had taken care, not only to speak of
her talents, but also to tell who she was, Bathilde was received with
all the consideration which was due to her, and which poor De Launay
paid all the more readily from its having been so long forgotten toward
herself.
This removal, which had rendered Buvat so proud, was received by
Bathilde as an amusement, which might help her to pass these last
moments of suspense; but when she found that Mademoiselle de Launay
wished to retain her longer, when, according to her calculation, Raoul
would return, she cursed the instant when the abbe had taken her to
Sceaux, and would certainly have refused, if Madame de Maine herself had
not interposed. It was impossible to refuse a person who, according to
the ideas of the time, from the supremacy of her rank, had almost a
right to command this service; but as she would have reproached herself
eternally if Raoul had returned in her absence, and in returning had
found her window closed, she had, as we have seen, insisted on returning
to study the cantata, and to explain to Buvat what had passed. Poor
Bathilde! she had invented two false pretexts, to hide, under a double
veil, the true motive of her return.
If Buvat had been proud when Bathilde was employed to draw the costumes
for the fete, he was doubly so when he found that she was destined to
play a part in it. Buvat had constantly dreamed of Bathilde's return to
fortune, and to that social position of which her parents' death had
deprived her, and all that brought her among the world in which she was
born appeared to him a step toward this inevitable and happy result.
However, the three days which he had passed without seeing her appeared
to him like three centuries. At the office it was not so bad, though
every one could see that some extraordinary event had happened; but it
was when he came home that poor Buvat found himself so miserable.
The first day he could not eat, when he sat down to that table where,
for thirteen years, he had been accustomed to see Bathilde sitting
opposite to him. The next day, when Nanette reproached him, and told him
that he was injuring his health, he made an effort to eat; but he had
hardly finished his meal when he felt as if he had been swallowing lead,
and was obliged to have recourse to the most powerful digestives to help
down this unfortunate dinner. The third day Buvat did not sit down to
table at all, and Nanette had the greatest trouble to persuade him to
take some broth, into which she declared she saw two great tears fall.
In the evening Bathilde returned, and brought back his sleep and his
appetite.
Buvat, who for three nights had hardly slept, and for three days had
hardly eaten, now slept like a top and ate like an ogre. Bathilde also
was very joyous; she calculated that this must be the last day of
Raoul's absence. He had said he should be away six weeks. She had
already counted forty-one long days, and Bathilde would not admit that
there could be an instant's delay; thus the next day she watched her
neighbor's window constantly while studying the cantata. Carriages were
rare in the Rue du Temps-Perdu, but it happened that three passed
between ten and four; each time she ran breathless to the window, and
each time was disappointed. At four o'clock Buvat returned, and this
time it was Bathilde who could not swallow a single morsel. The time to
set out for Sceaux at length arrived, and Bathilde set out deploring the
fate which prevented her following her watch through the night.
When she arrived at Sceaux, however, the lights, the noise, the music,
and above all the excitement of singing for the first time in public,
made her--for the time--almost forget Raoul. Now and then the idea
crossed her mind that he might return during her absence, and finding
her window closed, would think her indifferent; but then she remembered
that Mademoiselle de Launay had promised her that she should be home
before daylight, and she determined that Raoul should see her standing
at her window directly he opened his--then she would explain to him how
she had been obliged to be absent that evening, she would allow him to
suspect what she had suffered, and he would be so happy that he would
forgive her.
All this passed through Bathilde's mind while waiting for Madame de
Maine on the border of the lake, and it was in the midst of the
discourse she was preparing for Raoul that the approach of the little
galley surprised her. At first--in her fear of singing before such a
great company--she thought her voice would fail, but she was too good an
artiste not to be encouraged by the admirable instrumentation which
supported her. She resolved not to allow herself to be intimidated, and
abandoning herself to the inspiration of the music and the scene, she
went through her part with such perfection that every one continued to
take her for the singer whom she replaced, although that singer was the
first at the opera, and was supposed to have no rival. But Bathilde's
astonishment was great, when, after the solo was finished, she looked
toward the group which was approaching her, and saw, seated by Madame de
Maine, a young cavalier, so much like Raoul, that, if this apparition
had presented itself to her in the midst of the song, her voice must
have failed her. For an instant she doubted; but as the galley touched
the shore she could do so no longer. Two such likenesses could not
exist--even between brothers; and it was certain that the young cavalier
of Sceaux and the young student of the attic were one and the same
person.
This was not, however, what wounded Bathilde; the rank which Raoul
appeared to hold, instead of removing him from the daughter of Albert du
Rocher, only brought him nearer to her, and she had recognized in him,
at first sight, as he had in her, the marks of high birth. What wounded
her--as a betrayal of her good faith and an insult to her love--was
this pretended absence, during which Raoul, forgetting the Rue du
Temps-Perdu, had left his little room solitary, to mix in the fetes at
Sceaux. Thus Raoul had had but an instant's caprice for her, sufficient
to induce him to pass a week or two in an attic, but he had soon got
tired of this life: then he had invented the pretext of a journey,
declaring that it was a misfortune; but none of this was true. Raoul had
never quitted Paris--or, if he had, his first visit had not been to the
Rue du Temps-Perdu.
When Raoul touched the shore, and she found herself only four steps from
him, and saw him whom she had supposed to be a young provincial offering
his arm, in that elegant and easy manner, to the proud Madame de Maine
herself, her strength abandoned her, and with that cry which had gone to
D'Harmental's heart, she fainted. On opening her eyes she found near her
Mademoiselle de Launay, who lavished on her every possible attention.
She wished that instead of returning to Paris Bathilde should remain at
Sceaux, but she was in haste to leave this place where she had suffered
so much, and begged, with an accent that could not be refused, to be
allowed to return, and as a carriage was in readiness to take her, she
went directly. On arriving, Bathilde found Nanette waiting for her;
Buvat also had wished to do so, but by twelve o'clock he was so sleepy
that it was in vain he rubbed his eyes, and tried to sing his favorite
song; he could not keep awake, and at length he went to bed, telling
Nanette to let him know the next morning as soon as Bathilde was
visible.
Bathilde was delighted to find Nanette alone; Buvat's presence would
have been very irksome to her, but as soon as she found that there was
no one but Nanette, Bathilde burst into tears. Nanette had expected to
see her young mistress return proud and joyous at the triumph which she
could not fail to obtain, and was distressed to see her in this state,
but to all her questions Bathilde replied that it was nothing,
absolutely nothing. Nanette saw that it was no use to insist, and went
to her room, which was next to Bathilde's, but could not resist the
impulse of curiosity, and looking through the key-hole, she saw her
young mistress kneel down before her little crucifix, and then, as by a
sudden impulse, run to the window, open it, and look opposite. Nanette
doubted no longer, Bathilde's grief was somehow connected with her love,
and it was caused by the young man who lived opposite. Nanette was more
easy; women pity these griefs, but they also know that they may come to
a good end. Nanette went to sleep much more easy than if she had not
been able to find out the cause of Bathilde's tears.
Bathilde slept badly; the first griefs and the first joys of love have
the same results. She woke therefore with sunken eyes and pale cheeks.
Bathilde would have dispensed with seeing Buvat, but he had already
asked for her twice, so she took courage, and went smiling to speak to
him. Buvat, however, was not deceived; he could not fail to notice her
pale cheeks, and Bathilde's grief was revealed to him. She denied that
there was anything the matter. Buvat pretended to believe her, but went
to the office very uneasy and anxious to know what could have happened
to her.
When he was gone, Nanette approached Bathilde, who was sitting in her
chair with her head leaning on her hand, and stood an instant before
her, contemplating her with an almost maternal love; then, finding that
Bathilde did not speak, she herself broke silence.
"Are you suffering still, mademoiselle?" said she.
"Yes, my good Nanette."
"If you would open the window, I think it would do you good."
"Oh! no, Nanette, thank you, the window must remain closed."
"You do not know perhaps, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, yes, Nanette, I know."
"That the young man opposite returned this morning--"
"Well, Nanette?" said Bathilde, raising her head and looking at her with
severity, "what is that to me?"
"Pardon, mademoiselle," said Nanette, "but I thought--"
"What did you think?"
"That you regretted his absence, and would be glad of his return."
"You were wrong."
"Pardon, mademoiselle, but he appears so distinguished."
"Too much so, Nanette; a great deal too much so for poor Bathilde."
"Too distinguished for you, Mademoiselle!" cried Nanette, "as if you
were not worth all the noblemen in the world! besides, you are noble!"
"I know what I appear to be, Nanette--that is to say, a poor girl, with
whose peace, honor, and love, every nobleman thinks he may play with
impunity. You see, Nanette, that this window must be closed. I must not
see this young man again."
"Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle Bathilde, you wish then to kill this poor young
man with grief? This whole morning he has not moved from his window, and
looks so sad that it is enough to break one's heart."
"What does his looking sad matter to me? What has he to do with me? I do
not know him. I do not even know his name. He is a stranger, who has
come here to stay for a few days, and who to-morrow may go away again.
If I had thought anything of him I should have been wrong, Nanette; and,
instead of encouraging me in a love which would be folly, you ought, on
the contrary--supposing that it existed--to show me the absurdity and
the danger of it."
"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle, why so? you must love some day, and you may as
well love a handsome young man who looks like a king, and who must be
rich, since he does not do anything."
"Well, Nanette, what would you say if this young man who appears to you
so simple, so loyal, and so good, were nothing but a wicked traitor, a
liar!"
"Ah, mon Dieu! mademoiselle, I should say it was impossible."
"If I told you that this young man who lives in an attic, and who shows
himself at the window dressed so simply, was yesterday at Sceaux,
giving his arm to Madame de Maine, dressed as a colonel?"
"I should say, mademoiselle, that at last God is just in sending you
some one worthy of you. Holy Virgin! a colonel! a friend of the Duchesse
de Maine! Oh, Mademoiselle Bathilde, you will be a countess, I tell you!
and it is not too much for you. If Providence gave every one what they
deserve, you would be a duchess, a princess, a queen, yes, queen of
France; Madame de Maintenon was--"
"I would not be like her, Nanette."
"I do not say like her; besides, it is not the king you love,
mademoiselle."
"I do not love any one, Nanette."
"I am too polite to contradict you; but never mind, you are ill; and the
first remedy for a young person who is ill, is air and sun. Look at the
poor flowers, when they are shut up, they turn pale. Let me open the
window, mademoiselle."
"Nanette, I forbid you; go to your work and leave me."
"Very well, mademoiselle, I will go, since you drive me away," said
Nanette, lifting the corner of her apron to her eye; "but if I were in
that young man's place I know very well what I would do."
"And what would you do?"
"I would come and explain myself, and I am sure that even if he were
wrong you would excuse him."
"Nanette," said Bathilde, "if he comes, I forbid you to admit him; do
you hear?"
"Very well, mademoiselle; he shall not be admitted, though it is not
very polite to turn people away from the door."
"Polite or not, you will do as I tell you," said Bathilde, to whom
contradiction gave strength; "and now go. I wish to be alone."
Nanette went out.
When she was alone, Bathilde burst into tears, for her strength was but
pride. She believed herself the most unfortunate woman in the world, as
D'Harmental thought himself the most unfortunate man. At four o'clock
Buvat returned. Bathilde, seeing the traces of uneasiness on his
good-natured face, tried all she could to tranquilize him. She smiled,
she joked, she kept him company at table; but all was in vain. After
dinner he proposed to Bathilde, as an amusement which nothing could
resist--to take a walk on the terrace. Bathilde, thinking that if she
refused Buvat would remain with her, accepted, and went up with him into
his room, but when there, she remembered that she must write a letter of
thanks to the Abbe Chaulieu, for his kindness in presenting her to
Madame de Maine; and, leaving her guardian with Mirza, she went down.
Shortly after she heard Mirza scratching at the door, and went to open
it. Mirza entered with such demonstrations of joy that Bathilde
understood that something extraordinary must have happened, but on
looking attentively she saw the letter tied to her collar. As this was
the second she had brought, Bathilde had no difficulty in guessing the
writer. The temptation was too strong to be resisted, so she detached
the paper with one hand, which trembled as she remembered that it
probably contained the destiny of her life, while with the other she
caressed Mirza, who, standing on her hind legs, appeared delighted to
become so important a personage. Bathilde opened the letter, and looked
at it twice without being able to decipher a single line. There was a
mist before her eyes.
The letter, while it said a great deal, did not say quite enough. It
protested innocence and asked for pardon; it spoke of strange
circumstances requiring secrecy; but, above all, it said that the writer
was madly in love. The result was, that, without completely reassuring
her, it yet did her good. Bathilde, however, with a remnant of pride,
determined not to relent till the next day. Since Raoul confessed
himself guilty, he should be punished. Bathilde did not remember that
half of this punishment recoiled upon herself. The effect of the letter,
incomplete as it was, was such that when Buvat returned from the terrace
he thought Bathilde looked infinitely better, and began to believe what
she herself had told him in the morning, that her agitation was only
caused by the emotion of the day before. Buvat went to his own room at
eight o'clock, leaving Bathilde free to retire at any hour she liked,
but she had not the least inclination to sleep; for a long time she
watched, contented and happy, for she knew that her neighbor's window
was open, and by this she guessed his anxiety. Bathilde at length
dreamed that Raoul was at her feet, and that he gave her such good
reasons that it was she, in her turn, who asked for pardon.
Thus in the morning she awoke convinced that she had been dreadfully
severe, and wondering how she could have had the courage to do so. It
followed that her first movement was to run to the window and open it;
but perceiving, through an almost imperceptible opening, the young man
at his window, she stopped short. Would not this be too complete an
avowal? It would be better to wait for Nanette; she would open the
window naturally, and in this way her neighbor would not be so able to
pride himself on his conquest. Nanette arrived, but she had been too
much scolded the day before about this window to risk a second
representation of the same scene. She took the greatest pains to avoid
even touching the curtains. Bathilde was ready to cry. Buvat came down
as usual to take his coffee with Bathilde, and she hoped that he at
least would ask why she kept herself so shut up, and give her an
opportunity to open the window. Buvat, however, had received a new order
for the classification of some manuscripts, and was so preoccupied, that
he finished his coffee and left the room without once remarking that the
curtains were closed.
For the first time Bathilde felt almost angry with him, and thought he
must have paid her very little attention not to discover that she must
be half-stifled in such a close room. What was she to do? Tell Nanette
to open the window? She would not do it. Open it herself she could not.
She must then wait; but till when? Till the next day, or the day after
perhaps, and what would Raoul think? Would he not become impatient at
this exaggerated severity? Suppose he should again leave for a
fortnight, for a month, for six weeks--forever; Bathilde would die, she
could not live without Raoul. Two hours passed thus; Bathilde tried
everything, her embroidery, her harpsichord, her drawing, but she could
do nothing. Nanette came in--a slight hope returned to her, but it was
only to ask leave to go out. Bathilde signed to her that she could go.
Nanette was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine; she would be away two
hours. What was she to do during these two hours? It would have been so
delightful to pass them at the window.
Bathilde sat down and drew out the letter; she knew it by heart, but yet
she read it again. It was so tender, so passionate, so evidently from
the heart. Oh! if she could receive a second letter. This was an idea;
she looked at Mirza, the graceful little messenger; she took her in her
arms, and then, trembling as if she were about to commit a crime, she
went to open the outer door. A young man was standing before this door,
reaching out his hand toward the bell. Bathilde uttered a cry of joy,
and the young man a cry of love--it was Raoul.