stopped him on his way upstairs. "Well, then I will come again to-morrow
morning; tell him to wait for me! tell him that I forbid him to go out
until he has seen me! and that he hasn't heard the last of this! You
understand: he hasn't heard the last of this!"
The concierge heard doubtless; but he did not seem at all impressed by
the way in which Chamoureau emphasized his words, and the latter went
away, muttering:
"I have been victimized by Freluchon's jests too long; this thing has
got to come to an end!"
The next morning, at seven o'clock, Chamoureau entered Freluchon's
bedroom; his friend was still in bed and shouted when he saw him:
"May the devil take you for coming to wake me at this hour; I was
sleeping like one of the blessed,--the blessed, you know, sleep
splendidly;--you come too early!"
"I am glad to see, Freluchon, that you have followed the orders I gave
your concierge--and waited for me."
"You! give orders to my concierge! that is delightful, on my word!"
"No joking; I didn't come here to joke. I am perfectly serious.--What!
you are lying down again?"
"Yes, I am still sleepy; but that makes no difference, say on."
"Freluchon, your conduct is shameful! You laid a trap for me; you made a
fool of me--of me, your intimate friend, formerly the husband of that
Eléonore in whom you were so deeply interested! You send me to an
assignation which was not for me. Alas! it was not I who was expected; I
found that out only too soon!--If you had caused me to play that scene
with a woman who was perfectly indifferent to me, I would be the first
to laugh at it; but you know that I love Madame Sainte-Suzanne, that I
adore her, that I would give the whole world to be on good terms with
her, and you expose me to her wrath--what do I say?--to her fury!--When
she saw that I was not the person she was waiting for, she was a
tigress, a lioness; she drove me from her presence, and forbade me ever
to show my face before her again!--Ah! it is that that distresses me
above everything! forbidden to see her again! and this is your work.
What have you to say in answer?--Come, what can you say to justify
yourself?--He doesn't answer! May God forgive me if he isn't snoring!
he's gone to sleep again!"
Chamoureau seized Freluchon's arm and shook it violently; whereupon the
little man opened his eyes and cried:
"Go on! I am listening!"
"No, you were asleep; but I propose that you shall listen to me. I am
going to begin over again what I have just said, and I shall keep on
that way till night if you don't listen."
"In that case, I prefer to have done with it at once."
Freluchon rubbed his eyes and Chamoureau began his speech anew; when he
had finished, the little man sat up in bed.
"And you have the audacity," he cried, "to come here and complain!
Imbecile! I do what I can to make you happy, and you are not content! So
much for obliging ungrateful curs! this is how they reward you!"
"What do you say? to make me happy by----"
"By sending you to the arms of the woman you adore, yes, monsieur; you
weren't the man she expected; no, of course you weren't, since Edmond
was. But I didn't tell you, because I knew that timid as you are, you
wouldn't dare to go to that rendezvous if you had known that you were to
take another man's place."
"No, most certainly I wouldn't have gone."
"Well! wasn't it very hard on you to go to meet a lovely woman, at
night, in a carriage? A woman whom you adore, who is cruel to you--I
arrange for you to have a nocturnal tête-à-tête with her, and you
complain! But tell me, my poor fellow, how you behaved during that
tête-à-tête, that you were sent about your business in such a hurry?"
"Why, I was no sooner inside the carriage, and the door closed--it was
too dark to see anything--when the lady threw herself into my arms,
calling me the most loving names and giving me the most burning kisses."
"My word! and still he complains!"
"I was enchanted, transported! but when she said: 'You won't leave me
any more; this time it is forever!' I replied: 'Why, I never had any
intention of leaving you, for I adore you.'"
"Ah! there spoke my blockhead! instead of keeping quiet, of making the
most of the mistake--in short, of being happy! My chatterbox spoils
everything by jabbering like a magpie! Why, you wretch, if you hadn't
breathed a word, you would be at this moment the conqueror of the
haughty Thélénie!"
"You should say, that if it had gone any further, she'd have killed me
when she found that she'd been deceived, as she was so enraged by the
few kisses she gave me!"
"She wouldn't have killed you; women don't kill men for that sort of
offence."
"What about Lucretia?"
"What in the devil has Lucretia to do with it; what connection is there
between Thélénie and Tarquin's wife?--I say, on the contrary, that she
wouldn't have driven you away, because, when a thing is done, why, it's
done! She'd have scolded you at first, but then she'd have forgiven you
because she couldn't do anything else."
"Is it possible? Do you really think she would have forgiven me,
Freluchon?--Oh! unlucky wretch that I am! why did I speak? why did I let
her hear my voice? He is right; it began so well! _Nox erat! Ardebat
Alexim!_ Oh! I am in despair to think that I spoke!"
"And when one has done one's utmost to make one's friend happy, to
gratify his most ardent desires, monsieur appears in a rage, he
complains, he almost threatens one with his wrath!"
"I was wrong, Freluchon; forgive me, my dear fellow. I realize now that
I was wrong. But what can you expect? all these things upset me--these
alternations of joy and sorrow; I no longer know where I am; I can't
seem to see.--Come, my dear fellow; you have forgiven me--what do you
advise now?"
"What do I advise? Oh! now, my poor friend, your case is ruined, totally
ruined, the best thing that you can do is not to think of this woman any
more, to forget her entirely!"
Chamoureau rushed about the room, crying:
"But I can't do it! it's impossible! every time that she maltreats me
and spurns me, I am more in love than ever! Forget that magnificent
woman!--for she is magnificent; and in her anger, when she glared at me
like a panther that contemplates devouring you, she was superb! I have
never seen anything so fine as those eyes when she said to me: 'I will
be revenged; say to your friends that this jest will cost them dear!'"
"Ah! she said that, did she?"
"Yes; so you and Monsieur Edmond are duly warned."
"Oh! we have no fear of that woman's vengeance!"
"If I were in your place, I should dread it; she's one of the women who
don't look as if they weren't up to snuff, as the plebeians say!"
"Forget her, Chamoureau; that's all I have to say to you."
"Forget her! why, it's more impossible than ever, now that I have tasted
her kisses! now that I know her way of kissing!--Ah! my friend! I had
never been kissed like that, even by Eléonore!"
"I can believe that! Your wife knew that it was you she was kissing,
while this woman took you for another."
"That isn't it at all! it's because Eléonore wasn't passionate, loving,
maddening, like the lovely Thélénie."
"Aha! you propose to cry down your wife now, do you? That's very pretty!
We are becoming ungrateful! Chamoureau, you make me blush! I shall not
be surprised to hear you say in a day or two: 'How glad I am that I'm a
widower!'"
"That isn't what I meant."
"No, but that is your thought!--Look you, I am speaking seriously now,
so be reasonable; your love for this woman is absolutely devoid of
sense."
"Adieu, Freluchon!"
"Come some day and dine with me; we'll go to the _Folies-Nouvelles_, a
charming little theatre, where one always sees some very light-hearted
females; you will very soon find someone to divert your thoughts."
"Adieu, Freluchon!"
Chamoureau would not hear of any distractions.
He hurried away from his friend's rooms, went home, shut himself in his
office, paid no heed to his charwoman, who told him that several clients
had come to inquire for him, neglected all the business that had been
entrusted to him, and when the persons who had employed him came to find
out how their affairs were progressing, he stared at them with a dazed
expression and replied:
"What? what is it? what do you want?"
"That little matter of mine, monsieur--what condition is it in?"
"What's that?--what matter? I don't know anything about it."
"What! you don't know anything about it! Do you mean to say that you
haven't attended to it?"
"Apparently not."
"In that case, monsieur, if you don't propose to attend to it, I will
employ another agent."
"As you please; it's all the same to me."
"Indeed! it's all the same to you, is it? Then give me my papers,
instantly!"
Chamoureau gave up the papers, the clients went away in a rage, and the
office gradually became deserted. Chamoureau passed the day seated at
his desk, with his head resting on his hands.
"My master certainly's got a screw loose," said Madame Monin to the
concierge; "he's been cracked ever since the night he dressed as a
Spaniard. The man's going crazy; I don't dare to buy charcoal for him,
I'm afraid of finding him suffocated to death some fine morning."
A fortnight had passed since our widower had become as despondent as
Werther, when Madame Monin brought him a letter one morning. Chamoureau
took the letter with an indifferent air, broke the seal, still thinking
of Thélénie, and read without at first paying much attention to what he
was reading.
But soon his face changed, became animated; he rubbed his eyes to assure
himself that he read the letter aright, then read it again, this time
with the utmost care. A cry of joy escaped from his lips and he slapped
his thighs, saying:
"Is it possible! I am not mistaken! Rich! rich! twenty thousand francs a
year--left me by that cousin--my godfather--for he was my godfather, but
I have never heard a word from him. And he leaves me his fortune, his
whole fortune! and he had saved, in America, property worth twenty
thousand francs a year!--I must read the notary's letter again; I am
still afraid that I read it wrong, that I have made a mistake!"
Chamoureau had made no mistake: a distant relation, who had been his
godfather, and whose name he had never heard mentioned since the day he
was baptized, had made his fortune in America, and had never married.
Suddenly a longing to see his native country once more had come to him;
he had turned his fortune into cash and had sailed for France. On
landing at Havre, he was taken violently ill; he had barely time to send
for a notary, and as he did not know what to do with the fortune he had
brought back with him, he remembered that he had a godson and made that
godson his sole legatee.
Such was the information which a notary of Paris, who had been
communicated with by a confrère at Havre, had transmitted to Chamoureau,
requesting him to call at his office as soon as possible, provided with
all the documents necessary to establish his identity.
Having read once more the letter that announced this unexpected,
unhoped-for good fortune, which instantly changed his whole future,
Chamoureau ran to his bedroom to dress to go out; and he jumped and
danced and sang and did a thousand foolish things, so that his servant,
seeing him waltzing about the room as he put on his suspenders, stopped
short, terrified beyond words.
"What in the world's the matter with you, monsieur?" she cried; "here
you are dancing, waltzing all by yourself!"
"The matter, Madame Monin, the matter! Ah! you see before you the
happiest of men!
"Wealth, in this world
Thou dost all for me!"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, you were so dismal this morning! you looked like an
undertaker's mute!"
"But now I am rich, Mère Monin, very rich! I have inherited twenty
thousand francs a year! This letter tells me of it."
"Good God! is it possible, monsieur? An inheritance you didn't expect?"
"No more than I expect to be elected to the Academy.--Rich! wealthy! Now
I shall no longer be despised; my homage will no longer be spurned; that
adored woman will be mine!
"What a new life for me! ah! blessed change!
My grief has passed away like summer clouds."
My hat--my handkerchief--my gloves--I have all that I require. Ah! my
certificates of birth and of baptism and marriage. No, I don't need the
last; it's of no consequence. Now I'm off."
"Monsieur has not drunk his coffee."
"Drink it, Madame Monin, drink it; it is no more than fair that you
should partake of my good fortune."
Chamoureau called on the notary, who confirmed what he had written and
advised him to go at once to Havre, in order to obtain immediate
possession of the fortune which was held at his disposal there.
That same day, our legatee took the express train for Havre. There he
exhibited to the notary all the documents which proved that he was the
Sigismond Chamoureau to whom Monsieur Eustache-Hector Chamoureau, his
cousin and godfather, had bequeathed all his property.
Two days later the former business agent was back in Paris, armed with
the well-filled wallet which his godfather had bequeathed to him. It had
all come so suddenly and been done so quickly that, when he was in his
own rooms once more, Chamoureau wondered if he were not the plaything of
a dream, and if he had really become rich. But the rotund wallet was in
his hands; he could feel and count the bank-notes, the government
obligations, and several drafts accepted by the richest bankers in
Paris. Thereupon he said to himself:
"No, I am not dreaming; I am really in possession of a very respectable
fortune; therefore I may aspire to the woman whom I idolize. I must not
delay; my fate must be decided at once."
He seated himself at his desk and wrote:
"Madame:
"It is no longer a humble real estate agent who lays his heart and
his hand at your feet; my position has changed. An inheritance
which I was far from expecting, but of which I have just come into
possession, gives me an income of twenty thousand francs, in
addition to twenty-five hundred which I already had.--I do not
refer to my business, which I have abandoned.--I am therefore
possessed of twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year. This
fortune I place at your disposal, soliciting anew the title of your
husband, which I should be proud to bear.
"If I have offended you, forgive me; I was absolutely innocent in
the affair of the Champs-Elysées, where I went confident of my good
fortune, and no less deceived than yourself. But since I have known
you, my love for you has never diminished; on the contrary, it has
grown greater and greater every day. I will not ask any questions
concerning the past, and I shall always have the blindest
confidence with respect to the present and the future. I await your
reply."
Having signed this letter, Chamoureau went out and gave it to a
messenger in whom he had confidence.
"Ten francs for you," he said, "if you bring me an answer. If she says
that she will write, insist, implore her to give you a line on the spot.
I will wait for you in this café, where I shall absorb much chartreuse,
to give me patience and courage."
Since the adventure on the Champs-Elysées, the fair Thélénie's humor was
uniformly morose; sometimes she passed whole days absorbed in her
thoughts. Her friend Héloïse's society had not the power to divert her,
and when that young woman said to her:
"Do you mean to pass your whole life regretting that little fellow?"
Thélénie would reply:
"I no longer regret him, I no longer love him; I hate him now! But I
shall not be satisfied until I have had my revenge."
Chamoureau's messenger found Thélénie in this frame of mind. She read
the letter which was brought to her, and to which she was told that an
answer was expected. She read it a second time more carefully, then
handed it to Mademoiselle Héloïse, saying:
"Here, read this proposal that is made to me."
Mademoiselle Héloïse punctured her perusal of the letter with many
"ohs!" and "ahs!" and when she had read it through she exclaimed:
"Mon Dieu! why, this is magnificent!--twenty-two thousand five hundred
francs a year! it's superb! And a man who will ask no questions
concerning the past and will have blind confidence in the future! Why,
that's a model husband! Is it possible that you can refuse all that?"
"I find it difficult to believe that it's true; I suppose it's another
miserable joke on the part of those who played that detestable trick on
me before. As for this Chamoureau, he is a downright idiot, who is quite
capable of seconding the schemes of those men because he doesn't suspect
them."
"But if it should be true! a splendid fortune, my dear!"
Thélénie rang for her maid.
"Who brought this letter, Mélie?"
"A messenger, madame."
"Is he still here?"
"Yes, madame, he absolutely insists on having an answer."
"Let him come in."
The messenger was ushered into the presence of the ladies. Thélénie
examined him for some seconds, then asked him:
"Who gave you this letter?"
"Monsieur Chamoureau, madame."
"You know him, then?"
"Yes, madame, he often employs me. He keeps a real estate office; I know
him well."
"Was he alone when he handed you this letter?"
"Yes, madame, he came to my stand for me; he was all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"He said--Well! he seems to be very anxious to have a written answer
from madame, for he promised me ten francs if I'd bring him just a
line."
"Very well; you shall earn your ten francs."
Thélénie took her writing-case and wrote:
"I will receive you at my apartment this evening. But bring the proofs
of what you tell me, or you won't leave my house with both your ears."
She handed the note to the messenger, who left the house with a radiant
face. He had no sooner gone than the door opened again and Monsieur
Beauregard entered the apartment, unannounced. At sight of him, Thélénie
turned pale; then she motioned to her friend, saying:
"Go into the salon while I talk with monsieur."
Mademoiselle Héloïse rose and left the room, muttering:
"Well, well! I wonder if this is a brother, too! at all events, he isn't
of the same type as the other!"
XXIII
CHAMOUREAU TAKES THE PLUNGE HEADFOREMOST
Beauregard threw himself upon a chair, facing Thélénie. When
Mademoiselle Héloïse had left them alone, they gazed at each other for
some time without speaking; but one could read on their faces that the
same thought was not in the minds of both.
The beautiful courtesan pressed her lips together in a convulsive
fashion, her eyes avoided her companion's and wandered about the room,
and she opened and closed her hands with a sort of nervous contraction
of the muscles that indicated an impatience which she could hardly
control.
Beauregard, on the contrary, seemed perfectly calm and placid; he amused
himself watching the woman before him, and the ironical expression of
his eyes might have created the impression that he took a secret
pleasure in the annoyance which his presence caused her.
"May I be permitted to know to what I owe the honor of seeing you,
monsieur?" said Thélénie, breaking the silence at last.
"Ah! so you assume, madame, that I must have some special reason for
coming to see you? Why should you not think that I am impelled solely
by the desire to do homage to your beauty?"
"Because I know that my beauty has long been entirely indifferent to
you; we have got beyond the complimentary stage!"
"Which may be interpreted to mean that we no longer tell each other
falsehoods, may it not?"
"I don't interpret it so! When you told me that you thought me pretty,
that I pleased you, I was pretty enough to justify me in believing that
you meant it."
"Yes, we men sometimes tell the truth; I am convinced that, as a general
rule, we lie less than women."
"Do you think so? it is quite possible! Did you come here to work out
that problem?"
"No, indeed; it would take too long; I should prefer the labors of
Hercules. Restrain your impatience, madame, I am coming to the purpose
of my visit. The liaison which once existed between us two was not
without result, as you know."
Thélénie turned paler and pressed her lips together more tightly; but
she kept silent and waited.
"In short, to speak plainly, you had a child, whose paternity you chose
to attribute to me; in fact, I do not deny it, as the step which I am
taking at this moment sufficiently proves. Yes, we had a few months of
ardent passion, of exalted sentiments! we even went so far as to live
away from the world for some time, in a chalet, surrounded by goats and
cheese. It was superb, but it didn't last long; things that are carried
to excess never do last.--Briefly, you returned to Paris, and I had
gone to Italy for a little trip, I believe, when you wrote me that you
had given birth to a son--for it was a boy, was it not, madame?"
"Yes, monsieur, it was a boy; and you didn't even answer my letter."
"Because I was very much occupied then; but when I returned to Paris,
nine months later, I lost no time in calling upon you; I had some
difficulty in finding you; I had even more in obtaining an audience. You
were so surrounded by adorers, courtiers, slaves! You had them in all
ranks of life--bankers, Hungarian counts, speculators!--Oh! I must do
you the justice to say that you have always had a very marked penchant
for finance!--and you no longer cared to receive a visit from me."
"It was my turn, monsieur, to be very much occupied."
"My reign had gone by; I do not presume to make any complaint on that
score, madame!"
"And you are wise, for you have no right to; didn't you leave me
first--to go to Italy?"
"Possibly; it may be that I had reasons for leaving you. But let us not
recriminate; that matter is not in question now. When I saw you again,
my first remark was to ask you where my son was; and you replied that he
died three months after his birth."
"I certainly did, monsieur; and as it was true, I could make no other
answer."
"At first, I was satisfied with that answer; and I left you; but later,
other ideas occurred to me, and I called on you again. I found the same
difficulty in speaking to you, for you seemed to shun me, and to display
the greatest persistency in avoiding my presence."
"Why should I have desired it, monsieur? For a long time we had ceased
to have anything to say to each other."
"Pardon me, madame; I had certain questions to ask you concerning the
particulars of the child's death; and those questions seemed to annoy
you exceedingly, for only with the very greatest difficulty did I
succeed in obtaining the answers I desired."
"There are subjects which it is painful to revive; that was one of them;
it could not fail to renew my grief."
"Oh! as for your grief, madame, you will pardon me if I refuse to
believe in it. I think that maternal love does not fill a very large
place in your heart."
"Why do you think that, monsieur?"
"Because, if it were otherwise, you would have been the first to talk to
me about our son, to give me a thousand and one details of his birth and
death. Whereas, on the contrary, your answers on those subjects were so
short and sharp that it was easy to see that you were in a hurry to put
an end to the interview."
"Did you expect me to give you very many details of the life of a child
that lived three months?"
"A mother would have found them."
"I was not a mother, then?"
"No, not in the full acceptation of the word. However, after making me
repeat my questions many times, you told me that you had entrusted your
child to a nurse who lived at Saint-Denis. I asked you the woman's
name,--you had forgotten it; but I was so persistent that you finally
remembered the name: it was Madame Mathieu, the wife of a farm hand. I
asked you her address. Oh! then you jumped from your seat in your wrath,
as if I had asked you where you had hidden a treasure! Again your memory
was at fault. You finally told me that the woman lived near the church
on the square, and that that was all you knew."
"Well, what then?"
"Then I went to Saint-Denis myself; I asked for Madame Mathieu, wife of
a farm hand; nobody knew such a person. I visited all the houses near
the church, and it was impossible for me to discover that nurse. I found
two women named Mathieu at Saint-Denis, but one was eighty years old,
the other sixty-six; so that neither of them could be the one I was
looking for--quite uselessly, for you had lied to me."
"I beg you, monsieur, to choose your expressions more carefully."
"I have no need to be considerate toward you, madame, for I know you and
I know what you are, what you are worth.--A melancholy knowledge, for
which I have paid very dear!"
"What do you mean by that, monsieur? It seems to me that you never
ruined yourself for me."