to him even lovelier than at the ball, and in his enthusiasm he bowed so
low that he caused his coat to split in the back.
He drew himself up in haste, sorely perturbed by the sound, but afraid
to put his hand behind him to ascertain what had happened to his coat.
Besides, he was obliged to answer the lady, who said to him:
"You are very good, monsieur, to remember my invitation. I was thinking
that you had forgotten it."
"Oh! madame! forget to come to you! to seize an opportunity to see you
once more! That would be like forgetting to be happy."
And Chamoureau, well pleased with his reply, ventured to explore the
back of his coat with his right hand; but he had to cut short his
exploration, for Thélénie seated herself on a couch and motioned to him
to sit by her side.
"Won't you sit here, monsieur?"
"With the greatest pleasure, madame, if it will not incommode you."
"But I ask you to."
Chamoureau placed his hat on a table, taking care not to turn his back,
so that Thélénie might not see the accident which must, he knew, have
happened to the back of his coat. Then he took his seat beside her on
the couch, thinking what gallant speech he should make to her. Now, when
a man tries to think what he shall say, he usually says nothing. But the
beautiful brunette came to the assistance of the visitor who was at such
a loss for language.
"Well, monsieur, how did you wind up the night before last? did you stay
much longer at the ball?"
"At the Opéra? Oh, no! madame, I didn't stay long; what pleasure could I
have had there when I could no longer see you? And as you forbade me to
follow you, I didn't follow you, despite my longing to do so; for I did
long to, terribly!"
"But you joined your friends, I suppose."
"My friends--yes; first I found Freluchon, who was looking for me; I
confess that I was not looking for him; I had no thought for anything
but the delightful conversation I had just had with you, and the
remembrance of your face."
"Well, you went to supper with those gentlemen. Was there a large
party?"
"There were five men--Freluchon, Edmond Didier, and two friends of
theirs; but there were only four ladies, for I didn't take one; you had
refused to sup with me, and what other woman could have taken your
place? There were not two like you at the ball--I would lay my life on
it! And when one has had the happiness of seeing you----"
"So each of those gentlemen took his mistress?"
"His mistress, if you choose. As for me, I don't call that a mistress;
if I had a mistress, I would devote all my thoughts to her, every moment
of leisure that I could spare from my toilet-room--I mean my office; I
am so confused, so happy with you, that I cannot think of even the most
common words."
"Pull yourself together, monsieur; really, I don't see what there is to
confuse you."
"You do not see! Ah! madame, if you would but condescend to read in the
depths of my heart you would see there the flame which----"
"But the supper! was it very lively? And that flower-maker, that young
Amélia, Monsieur Edmond's inamorata--is she as pretty as the portrait he
drew of her?"
Chamoureau began to be conscious that the lovely brunette cut him short
whenever he attempted to speak of his love for her. These interruptions
annoyed him, and he put his left hand behind his back, saying to
himself:
"Where in the devil did that split?"
"Well, monsieur, you don't answer. I asked you if that little Amélia
seemed to you as piquant as Monsieur Edmond described her?"
"Little Amélia? who is she, madame?"
"Why, Monsieur Edmond's mistress; you know perfectly well, you told me
it yourself at the ball. You are very absent-minded, aren't you,
monsieur?"
"Absent-minded!--why, that is natural enough when you talk of any other
person than yourself; for I think of you, of you alone."
Thélénie made an impatient gesture and moved to the extreme end of the
couch. But Chamoureau interpreted that pantomime as a proof of intense
agitation on the part of the lovely brunette, who evidently feared to
yield too quickly to the man who attracted her. Thereupon, determined to
take advantage of that agitation, our amorous swain threw himself at the
lady's feet, crying:
"Ah! madame, I can no longer restrain----"
But a cracking sound infinitely more prolonged than the former one
interrupted the declaration which the agent was on the point of making.
This time there was no possible doubt as to the locality of the tear;
his trousers had followed the example of his coat, and a cool breeze
blowing upon a spot ordinarily covered informed him that there was
danger in store.
Our widower was stricken with consternation. Thélénie roared with
laughter as she looked at him on his knees; and he, fearing that the
noise occasioned by the accident might be interpreted in a way even more
humiliating to him than the reality, made haste to say:
"My trousers have split, madame, that's all."
"Mon Dieu! I had no doubt of that, monsieur."
"It's the first time I ever wore them; they have straps under the feet,
and they're a little tight; that is why, when I stooped--you
understand."
"Perfectly, monsieur; pray rise."
"I believe that the same thing has happened to the back of my coat; it's
the first time I have worn that, too. It is all Freluchon's fault; he
has a black coat and trousers of mine in his room, and he has gone off
to Rouen without sending them back to me."
"These are trivial annoyances not worth a thought, monsieur. Rise, I
beg; what on earth induced you to throw yourself at my feet like that?
Rise, monsieur, I insist."
Chamoureau decided to rise, putting one hand over the place where his
trousers had torn. But he was covered with confusion by what had
happened, and he did not know how to resume his declaration.
"Well, monsieur," said Thélénie, who could hardly resist the desire to
laugh anew at her visitor's embarrassment, "you seem to be unwilling to
tell me whether this little Amélia is pretty."
"The girl in a _débardeur's_ costume? she is rather attractive--one of
those roguish grisette faces. There are some better-looking ones among
young women of her class, but there are many inferior to her."
"Tell me what happened at your supper. Did you laugh much? did you have
much sport? Was Monsieur Edmond very devoted to his little
flower-maker?"
"The supper, madame; you persist in wanting to talk about the
supper--after the ball!"
"Well, yes, monsieur, I do. Sometimes I am very curious; where's the
harm?"
"I see none, madame; but I must admit that I am hardly able to satisfy
your curiosity."
"Why so, monsieur, as you were with your friends?"
"I was there, madame, it is true, but it was almost as if I were not
there. I don't know how it happened, but after the oysters I felt very
dizzy; I suppose the wine was not pure! In fact, while my friends were
chatting with the ladies, I, who did not take the slightest interest in
what they said, as I could think of nothing but you--I fell asleep, yes,
sound asleep."
"Indeed! you fell asleep thinking of me; that is very flattering!"
"That proves, _belle dame_, that your image transports me from the
earth, that I dream, and----"
"And that you fall asleep. But still, you didn't sleep all the time, of
course; and when you woke----?"
"When I woke, they had all gone; which was the more unkind of Freluchon,
because he had my clothes at his rooms! You cannot imagine all the
annoyance that has caused me--to say nothing of the embarrassing plight
in which I find myself at this moment."
For several seconds Thélénie had not been listening to Chamoureau. Her
brow had become grave, her features expressed dissatisfaction. She rose
and paced the floor, apparently quite oblivious of her guest's presence.
For his part, Chamoureau was no better pleased with his tête-à-tête. She
seemed unwilling that he should talk to her of love; she questioned him
concerning things which did not interest him in the least, and now she
left him alone on the couch and strode about the room regardless of him.
He said to himself that if he had torn his coat and trousers simply to
obtain that result, it was not worth while to go to so much expense. He
was strongly tempted to rise in his turn and walk beside his hostess,
who seemed to have the fidgets in her legs; but he feared that if he did
so he might add to the rents that he had already made in his garments,
and that fear cast him into the most painful perplexity.
At last Thélénie seemed suddenly to remember that she was not alone. She
halted in front of him, then resumed her seat on the couch, saying:
"Excuse me, monsieur; you must consider me most impolite, but I am
sometimes extremely absent-minded; ideas come into my head which absorb
me completely. It is a part of my temperament."
"You are forgiven, _belle dame_; indeed, I myself have moments when I am
downright stupid! Really, I don't know how to explain it."
"And then I will admit that I am angry with you for falling asleep at
that supper after the ball. I had asked you to report to me all that you
heard. If that is the way you perform commissions that are entrusted to
you----"
"Forgive me, madame; in future I will keep awake, if that will give you
pleasure; and it will be all the easier for me, because I feel that you
have robbed me of repose forever!"
Thélénie looked at him severely, and said:
"So you absolutely persist in talking to me about love, do you,
monsieur?"
"Insist upon it! Why, madame, I came here for no other purpose."
"Ah! that is true frankness! I am going to be as frank with you,
monsieur: perhaps you hope to make me your mistress?"
"Oh! madame, I dare not say that I hope it, but I may at least confess
that it would be to me the height of felicity! And if the purest love,
the most immovable constancy will avail me anything, put me to the
test."
"I had an idea that you were in mourning, monsieur. Yes, there is a band
on your hat. You are in mourning for your wife, are you not?"
"Yes, madame, for my wife, whom I regret; that is to say, I did regret
her profoundly and weep bitterly for her; but it was for the very
purpose of putting an end to my grief that I welcomed with joy this new
love which has taken possession of my heart, my senses, my----"
"What do you take me for, monsieur?"
Chamoureau was embarrassed; that seemed to him an artful question.
"Why, madame," he stammered, looking down at his trousers, "I take you
for a lady of the best society--ex--exceedingly well-bred--er--with much
wit--in short--er--created to attract the homage of all mankind."
"You don't say all you think; you met me at the Opéra ball, and you said
to yourself: 'A woman who comes to the masquerade is sure to be an easy
victim. She began to talk to me, consequently she won't make a long
resistance.'"
"Oh! madame, I beg your pardon----"
"Monsieur Chamoureau, it is my duty to inform you that you are entirely
mistaken in your conjectures. I will not be your mistress, monsieur. In
fact, I do not propose to be anyone's mistress. Oh! I won't pretend that
I am of the most rigid virtue. I have had a very stormy youth, I don't
deny it; but now I am growing old, I must be prudent----"
"You, growing old, madame! what a mockery!"
"I am past thirty, monsieur; at that age one must think of the future;
one must think about obtaining a name, a position in society. Do you
understand, monsieur?"
"I think that I understand you, charming creature; but if you will deign
to accept my name, my hand, my office, I will place them all at your
feet by becoming your husband."
"Your offer touches me, monsieur, but between ourselves, marriage is a
business matter, and a matter of the greatest importance! What is your
fortune, monsieur? How much is this office worth that you lay at my
feet?"
Chamoureau drew himself up, did a little mental reckoning, then replied:
"With what I already have and my office, I do not exaggerate when I
place my income at four to four thousand five hundred francs."
The fair Sainte-Suzanne threw herself back on the couch with a mocking
laugh. Our widower, disquieted by that laugh, waited until it subsided
before he said timidly:
"Don't you think that a neat income?"
"Oh, no! frankly, it isn't neat enough for me. I have ten thousand
francs a year, and I would not accept any man for a husband who did not
bring me at least twice that. I am fully decided as to that. Let us
forget this nonsense, my dear Monsieur Chamoureau; let us think no more
about your love, which is not old enough to have taken very deep root
yet; but come to see me sometimes as a friend. In that capacity, I shall
be glad to receive you, but, you understand, only as a friend."
"Forget my love! Ah! fascinating woman! Why, you do not know that you
have bewitched me, that you have turned my head, that I fairly dote on
you! You do not know----"
"I beg pardon, Monsieur Chamoureau, but I do know that I have visits to
pay to-day, and that it is time for me to think about dressing. Permit
me therefore to bid you adieu."
Sorely vexed to be thus summarily dismissed, Chamoureau rose, grasped
the seat of his trousers with his left hand, took his hat in his right
hand, bowed very slightly, so that his coat might not split more, and
walked out backwards.
But once outside, he pulled his hat over his ears, muttering:
"Much satisfaction there is in spending money for this! Oh! these
women!--And I have got to take a cab again!"
XII
AGATHE'S PARENTS
Honorine Dalmont, with her young friend Agathe, occupied a modest
apartment on Rue des Martyrs. Their only servant was a woman who came in
to do their housework, and went away again after preparing their
dinner.
Madame Dalmont's slender fortune would not allow her to live more
expensively in Paris, where living is so dear, and it was in the hope of
being less straitened and of being able to obtain more of the comforts
of life, that she had formed the plan of going into the country--a plan
which had keenly delighted her friend Agathe.
For women who go into society, who follow the fashions, who pass their
evenings at theatres or concerts or balls, or at fashionable receptions,
it seems a terrible penance to go to the country to live. To them it is
equivalent to ceasing to exist, it means the renunciation of all the
pleasures of life, it means, in short, condemning themselves to die of
ennui.
But it is not so with those who, although they dwell in Paris, pass
their lives in their own homes, seldom go out, and know nothing of that
splendid capital save the uproar, the crowd, the vehicles which
constantly threaten them with destruction out of doors, and the
tumultuous throng that blocks the popular promenades on Sundays and
holidays. To them there is nothing painful about leaving the great city.
On the contrary, when they turn their backs on the tumult, the
confusion, the incessant whirl of business and pleasure in which they
have no part, they breathe more freely; they feel more at liberty to
raise their heads, they find in nature something that they had lost;
they have their places there, whereas in Paris they were nothing at all!
Honorine's past life had been uneventful. The daughter of respectable
people who had not succeeded in business--there are many respectable
people who do not make a fortune--she had nevertheless received a
careful education. She had learned music and drawing; she was blessed by
nature with that fortunate temperament which enables one to learn
quickly and without much difficulty that which others often spend long
years in studying.
Honorine, who was a very intelligent girl, would have liked to marry an
artist, but circumstances did not permit her to choose. She was fain to
be content with a simple government clerk, an honest fellow who had
nothing poetic in his nature, but who attended punctually at his desk
and performed his duties promptly.
Honorine longed to become a mother; that would at least afford some
occupation for her heart, which longed for someone to adore; for, with
the best will in the world, she could only esteem her husband.
After she had been married two years, she had a son; but she was denied
the joy of rearing him; he died at the age of twenty months, when he was
just beginning to stammer his mother's name and to take his first
tottering steps. Honorine's grief was so intense that it affected her
health. From that moment she began to lose her color, and her lungs
seemed to be impaired. Another child alone could have consoled her for
the loss of the first; for the heart is of all the organs most amenable
to homoeopathic treatment; but she had no other child, and a few
months later her husband died suddenly of inflammation of the lungs.
At twenty-one, Honorine was left alone--a widow and an orphan, for her
parents had died long before.
Then it was that she made the acquaintance of Madame Montoni, the mother
of Agathe, at that time a child of nine.
Madame Montoni, who lived in the strictest retirement, happened to
occupy an apartment in the same house as Madame Dalmont; she had seen
her grief when she lost her child, and had been deeply moved by it. When
she learned that she had lost her husband suddenly, she hastened to
offer her consolation and attentions.
Honorine received her advances gratefully. Being without experience and
entirely unacquainted with business, she was in danger of being deprived
of the small property which her husband had left her, and which was
claimed by collateral relations. But Madame Montoni had strength,
courage and resolution; she took all the necessary steps, and the young
widow was enabled to enjoy in peace the two thousand francs a year which
her husband had left her.
As for Madame Montoni herself, she supported herself and her child with
her hands. She made those pretty pieces of fancy work which bring in so
little, and require so much time and care. Luckily she was very skilful.
But she often passed whole nights over her embroidery frame, in order
that she might buy a new dress for her daughter.
Honorine had tried to assist her new friend a little; but Madame Montoni
was proud; she would accept nothing from her to whom she had, however,
rendered material service.
Incessant toil exhausts vitality. Moreover, Agathe's mother had in the
depths of her heart a mortal sorrow which was crushing her; she had
confided it to Honorine, who could only weep with her. There are sorrows
which admit of no consolation.
Little Agathe used often to ask her mother:
"Why don't we ever see papa? what can have become of him? When I was a
little girl, I remember he used to come to see me often; he used to take
me out to ride and to dine at restaurants; you used to be very bright
then, mamma; you didn't work all day long; and then papa always brought
me nice presents, and you too; and he used to kiss me a lot and tell me
he loved me with all his heart. And then he stopped coming all of a
sudden, and then you cried every day, yes, every day.--Is my papa dead?"
When Madame Montoni heard that question she always wept and strained the
child to her heart as she replied:
"Alas! dear child! I don't know what to tell you! I have no idea what
has become of your father; I do not know if he still lives, and that is
the cause of this grief that is wearing my life away!--Adhémar loved me
so dearly! and he adored you! How can I believe that he could have
determined to abandon us for no reason whatever?--that he, who promised
me such a lovely future,--certain happiness--would have left us
suddenly without means, without resource, without support--oh, no! no!
he would not have done that! Your father must be dead! My Adhémar
certainly has ceased to live, since we are so unhappy!"
"How long ago did you last see him?" inquired Honorine one day, when she
had become the confidante of the mother and daughter.
"Alas! my Agathe was just six years old when her father came to see us
the last time."
"Why, didn't papa live with you?"
Madame Montoni blushed and turned her face away.
"No, my child, he couldn't; his business prevented him."
"My papa was very nice-looking, wasn't he, mamma?"
"Oh! yes, my child! he was as handsome as he was noble and generous; a
little hasty only, and quick to lose his temper; that was the only fault
I ever discovered in Adhémar. The last time he came to see us, he said
to me: 'In a few days we will start for Italy; it is your native land,
Julia, and I want to see it with you; then we will return to France and
I will leave you no more.'"
"And you have never seen him since?"
"No; and no news of him, no letter! nothing from him! nothing!"
"But you must have made inquiries, have tried to learn something?"
"When a week had passed without my seeing Adhémar--ordinarily he never
let more than two days pass without coming to us--I decided to go to the
hotel where he had told me that he lived; it was one of the finest
hotels in Paris. I asked for Monsieur Adhémar de--I asked for Monsieur
Adhémar, and the concierge assured me that he had left the hotel six
days before.
"'He can't have gone away,' I said; 'if he has, where has he gone?'
"As that man knew nothing, I went to the hotel-keeper himself, who said
to me:
"'Madame, I am quite as surprised as you are at the absence of Monsieur
de--of Monsieur Adhémar. I know that he intended to go to Italy, he had
spoken of it several times; but when he left the house six days ago, he
said simply: "I am going into the country; I shall return to-morrow
morning."'
"'And he has not returned since?'
"'No, madame.'
"'Where was he going in the country?'
"'Mon Dieu! he didn't tell me; he had received a letter that
morning--probably an invitation.'
"'And he went away alone?'
"'Alone, yes, madame. But he will surely return; he has left his linen
here, and property of much greater value than the amount of his bill,
for he paid every week. He's a young man of orderly habits, and he will
return, madame; he is bound to return. The probability is that he's
enjoying himself in the country and so is making a longer stay there
than he intended.'
"'I will return in a few days then,' I said, as I went away. And I did
in fact go there again the second day after. But Adhémar had not been
seen! So it went on for a month; until at last I had to abandon all
hope."
"But his family--didn't you know them?"
"I knew from Adhémar that his family lived in the neighborhood of
Toulouse; they were uncles and aunts, all proud of their rank and
titles, and they did not condescend to answer the letters I wrote them.
At last, someone who was going to that part of the country was obliging
enough to make inquiries of several persons, and they told him that
Monsieur Adhémar had not been seen by his relations, but that they took
little interest in his fate, for they knew that, heedless of his name
and his birth, he had contracted in Paris a liaison unworthy of him; and
if he did not break off that liaison, he would never be received again
by his noble family. That is all that I learned concerning him whom I
loved better than my life. Ah! if it had not been for my daughter, his
disappearance would have killed me; but what would have become of my
little Agathe, without friends or kindred on earth? I felt that I must
live for her, for her whom her father loved so dearly! And that is what
I did; I lived, but I have never been comforted!--Alas! suppose that he
died far away from us--unable to embrace us once more, to bid us a last
farewell, and above all, to ensure the future welfare of his daughter!
Poor Adhémar! think what his anguish must have been, his despair, at the
thought that he left us here in misery! Oh! that idea haunts me
incessantly and intensifies the bitterness of my regrets."
This conversation was often renewed between the new friends, for Madame
Montoni was never tired of talking of her Agathe's father. In those
soothing outpourings of her soul, she concealed nothing from Honorine,
whereas she kept one thing secret from her daughter.
Several years passed; Madame Montoni, exhausted by toil and grief, soon
lost her little remaining strength. Feeling that she must soon say
farewell to life, she placed in Honorine's hand the hand of her
daughter, then twelve years of age, and said to little Agathe: