I mean.--To resume, madame, you lied when you gave me the address at
Saint-Denis of a nurse who never existed."
"I told you all that I knew, monsieur; it was not my fault if the woman
had left the place where she once lived."
"Peasants don't move about like lorettes, and if they do happen to
change their place of abode, everyone knows everyone else so well in a
village, that it is easy to find them."
"Saint-Denis is not a village, monsieur, it's a town."
"Once more, madame, I am convinced that you lied in everything that you
told me on the subject of that child."
"Why should I have lied to you, monsieur?"
"Because you did not wish to be a mother; because you had never
manifested anything but regret at being one; because you were capable of
sending the poor little fellow to the Foundling Hospital."
"That is a shocking thing for you to say to me, monsieur!"
"Very well! I do not propose that my son shall be brought up by charity;
I want to take the child with me; I want to love him, and I want him to
love me. Those sentiments in my mouth surprise you, do they not, madame?
But it is all true. I have never had any great confidence in love or
friendship, but there must be such a thing as filial love, for I feel
the love of a father.--Moreover, for some time past I have suffered from
ennui; I am weary of the pleasures one procures with money; it seems to
me that if I had that child with me, it would occupy my mind, it would
make a different man of me. My youth is at an end; I have carried
everything to excess; but paternal love will afford me enjoyment of a
new kind. You will say perhaps that I have waited rather long before
having these ideas, and it is true; but each day carries away with it
some illusion, my passions are dying out; I feel that I must have
something to attach me to life.--Come, Thélénie, be honest for once.
Tell me what you did with that child, who still lives, perhaps. Yes, I
have a presentiment that he is alive. He must be seven years and a half
old now. Tell me where he is, and don't be afraid; he will never ask you
for anything, you will never have to spend a sou for him; more than
that, I shall not tell him who his mother is, he will not know you! It
seems to me that you can ask nothing more. Tell me, where is the child?
I have a cab below, I will go and get him."
"I have told you, monsieur, all that I can tell you on the subject of
your son; it is useless for you to ask me anything more."
"You have told me a parcel of infamous lies!" cried Beauregard, whose
eyes assumed a threatening expression; and he sprang to his feet,
pushing his chair back with such violence that he overturned it. Having
made the circuit of the room two or three times, he confronted Thélénie
once more, and demanded with renewed emphasis:
"What have you done with my son?"
"I tell you again, monsieur, that he died at the age of three months."
"Where?"
"At the nurse's."
"Then find that nurse for me, let me see her, speak to her, find out
where the child was buried."
"I can only tell you again what I have already told you about the woman:
she lived at Saint-Denis. It isn't my fault if she has left her
house--and the neighborhood too, very likely. I could not answer for
such things."
"But when a child dies, no matter how young it may be, there is always a
certificate of death; that certificate the nurse should have sent you
with a minute of the expenses for the child's burial, for which she was
entitled to be reimbursed; such things as that, nurses never forget to
do. Well! show me that certificate."
"I lost it when I moved."
"Ah! you are a villain, capable of anything!--Poor Duronceray! who lost
his head because I took his mistress from him. Gad! he has no idea how
much he owes me! But men never look beyond the present; they never
foresee the future."
Beauregard paced the floor for some time longer; it was evident that he
was trying to restrain his anger, to recover his tranquillity; but when
his eyes rested on Thélénie, he turned them away as if he had seen a
serpent. She, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the torments she
inflicted on her former lover; it was her turn now to watch him with a
sarcastic expression, affecting a calmness that she was far from
feeling.
Some minutes passed thus, Thélénie contenting herself with picking up
the chair Beauregard had overturned.
At last he halted in front of her once more, saying:
"Your mind is made up--you refuse to tell me anything more?"
"Because I have nothing more to tell you."
"Very good! now mark well what I say to you: I shall seek for that
child, and if I succeed in finding him, I shall teach him to hate and
despise the woman who has tried to deprive him of his father's
affection! You seem to defy me. You make a great mistake; for I am your
enemy now, and I shall act accordingly whenever I find an opportunity. I
had forgiven your inconstancy, your conduct, which has been decidedly
scandalous at times. One may be vicious without being really wicked; but
now I see that everything about you is perverse--mind as well as heart.
Your nature is complete!"
"It seems that yours consists now in making impertinent remarks; but I
care little for them."
"Beware if you find me in your path! and as for that unhappy child, if I
succeed in finding him, rest assured that, though you are in the midst
of the most brilliant festivity, be it ball or reception, he will appear
and present his respects to you. Adieu!"
Beauregard abruptly left the room after these last words, and Thélénie,
who had turned pale at his concluding threat, soon recovered herself.
"Do what you please," she muttered, "you won't find your son! that would
require a combination of chances,--so extraordinary--no, it is
impossible! So I will simply forget Monsieur Beauregard, who will leave
me in peace hereafter, I trust. The idea of that man--a ne'er-do-well, a
confirmed rake, a man who believes in nothing and has passed his life
making fun of everything--taking it into his head to feel a father's
love for a little boy that he never saw, that he doesn't know! It is
amusing, on my word!--I am very glad to avenge myself on this
Beauregard; he was the cause of my missing a fine fortune; for
Duronceray would have married me, I am sure; he loved me so
passionately. Oh! I made a great fool of myself!--But I must forget the
past and think only of this new and brilliant position which is offered
me."
Thélénie recalled Mademoiselle Héloïse, who, in accordance with her
habit, had not failed to listen at the door; that fact, however, did not
prevent her from asking:
"What did that big bouncer, with his pretentious air, want of you? He
always looks as if he were going to laugh in your face. I knew him by
his yellow skin; he's the fellow who stalked into our box at the Opéra
ball."
"Yes, that's the man."
"Was that man ever your lover?"
"Yes, unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately?"
"Because at that time I was adored, idolized by an extremely rich man,
who would certainly have married me, if I had been true to him, or if he
had not discovered that I was deceiving him."
"It would seem that you weren't so shrewd in those days as you are now;
you wouldn't allow yourself to be caught to-day!"
"Mon Dieu! who can tell what may happen? the most adroit are taken by
surprise sometimes. But let us dine at once. I can hardly wait for this
evening, to find out if this Chamoureau has told me the truth.
Twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year--that's not bad."
"I should say so! I haven't even the odd hundreds!"
"With the ten thousand francs I have, it would make a fortune; I could
go everywhere, be received everywhere!"
"You would become a very _comme il faut_ person!"
The two friends dined in haste. Thélénie ate little; she was too
preoccupied to have any appetite.
But Mademoiselle Héloïse did not lose a mouthful; and while her
companion formed projects for the future, she confined herself to
signifying her approval by an occasional monosyllable, never a complete
sentence; at table she maintained a laconism which she did not lay aside
until coffee was served.
Thélénie left the table to attend to her toilet. Although she was
certain of pleasing the man whom she expected, she desired to augment
the power of her charms; she was familiar with all the expedients of
the most consummate coquetry; she selected the colors which blended best
with the brilliancy of her eyes and her glossy hair; in a word, she
strove to make herself irresistible.
"Do you mean to turn the poor man's head altogether?" cried Mademoiselle
Héloïse, as she swallowed her second glass of _crême de vanille_.
"Oh! I know that that is already done; but as this is a matter of great
importance, I want to confirm my power; for, as you may imagine, I shall
impose conditions."
"Trust you for that!"
At eight o'clock the bell rang, and the maid announced that Monsieur
Chamoureau desired to know if he might see madame.
Thélénie at once dismissed her friend, saying:
"Come to-morrow morning, and you shall know the result of the
interview."
Mademoiselle Héloïse would have preferred to step into an adjoining
room, in order to listen at the door; but as she was accustomed to obey
without comment, she took her leave.
A moment later the former business agent was ushered into the presence
of Madame Sainte-Suzanne, who awaited him, half reclining on a couch, in
a pose calculated to deprive her adorer of what reason he still
possessed.
Chamoureau had put on the clothes he had recovered from Freluchon, but
he had paid less attention to his dress than usual. The moment a man
feels conscious of being rich, he gives little heed to a multitude of
trivial details which he formerly magnified into matters of moment. The
fact is that wealth instantly imparts a self-possession, an assurance,
which sometimes reaches the point of fatuity; and a man is no longer
afraid of being unfashionable, when he can say to himself:
"Everyone knows that I have the means to do just as I please."
Chamoureau, then, appeared before Madame Sainte-Suzanne with less than
his usual timidity; but when he saw how lovely, how fascinating she was,
he became so perturbed that he instantly forgot the sentence he had
prepared, and could only stammer:
"Madame--it is I who--I had the honor to write you--still more in
love--more enamored--and--how are you?"
"Very well, monsieur, thank you. Won't you sit here beside me?"
Chamoureau made one leap to the couch, and dropped upon it with so much
_abandon_ that he broke one of the springs. But he reflected that he was
rich and could venture to break many springs, even those of the steel
skirts which ladies wear nowadays.
"Madame," he said, turning amorously toward Thélénie, "I believe that I
must begin by apologizing for my share in that adventure--in the coupé
on the Champs-Elysées. I assure you that I was far from
suspecting--Freluchon and Edmond Didier had assured me----"
"Enough, Monsieur Chamoureau; I beg you not to refer to that affair
again. I am convinced that you were not to blame, but those two
gentlemen whom you have just named, they acted like vile blackguards,
like true bar-room loafers; it doesn't surprise me on their part, and in
a moment I will tell you my intentions with regard to them. Let us come
now to your own affairs. Is it true that you have inherited money,
monsieur?"
"Perfectly true, madame; twenty thousand francs a year."
"Why, that is a very pretty little fortune! Do you know, monsieur, that
this is like a dream, like a tale from the _Thousand and One Nights_, or
the conclusion of a comedy! A legacy which you did not expect, which
fell upon you suddenly, from the clouds!"
"Good fortune almost always comes like that; when you are looking for
it, it keeps you waiting!"
"True; indeed, there are some people who wait for it all their lives."
"Here is the wallet which contains my fortune; be good enough to examine
it, madame, to make sure that I have not deceived you."
"Oh! I believe you, monsieur."
Nevertheless, although she said: "I believe you," the fair Thélénie
closely scrutinized the wallet, which Chamoureau had placed in her lap.
She examined the notes of the Treasury and of the Caisse d'Escompte, the
drafts and the bank-notes; then she returned the wallet to Chamoureau,
saying:
"Yes, you are rich; there are more than four hundred thousand francs
there. What do you propose to do with this fortune?"
"Did I not write you that I offered it to you, with my hand?"
"Yes, you did write me that; so the offer is serious, is it?"
"Is it serious! as serious as is my love for you, which has become a
passion that I cannot control."
"Do you know that you are a very dangerous man? that it's hard to resist
you?"
Chamoureau's face became radiant; his eyes dilated like a cat's; his
nostrils swelled; he seized a hand, which was not withdrawn, and kissed
it again and again, puffing like a man who has ascended seven flights of
stairs without stopping.
When Thélénie considered that her visitor had kissed her hand
sufficiently, she withdrew it, saying in her sweetest voice--for she had
inflections for all occasions:
"Be good, and let us talk seriously.--I am going to tell you what
conditions I should impose if I consented to become your wife."
"Oh! I agree to them all beforehand."
"Let us not go so fast; I wish you to reflect before accepting; marriage
is a chain which cannot be broken, in France; so one should not submit
to it heedlessly.--Listen: I believe you to be a sensible man, of
orderly habits; but as you may become a gambler, a spendthrift, a
rake----"
"Oh! madame!"
"A man who is none of those things, may become one or the other! In a
word, I wish to have the sole right to keep the key to the cash-box, to
handle our fortune. You know that I myself have ten thousand francs a
year."
"Yes, charming creature; but if you had nothing----"
"Let me speak. I desire that, when you marry me, you will certify that I
have brought you property to the amount of four hundred thousand
francs----"
"Certainly; twice that, if you choose."
"You will leave to me the management of our fortune. It will not
diminish, never fear."
"I trust implicitly in you."
"I will give you two hundred francs a month for your clothes and your
private expenses; I should say that that was enough, eh?"
"It is more than I need! I shan't spend it."
"You will not have to worry about the housekeeping; that will be my
business and mine alone."
"That will be all the better."
"Do you agree to all these conditions?"
"With the greatest pleasure."
"It is well. But there is something else: I do not propose that the man
whose wife I am, whose name I bear, shall continue to entertain the
slightest relations with those persons who have insulted me, and whom I
justly regard as my enemies. You must understand me? you must break off
all relations with Messieurs Edmond Didier and Freluchon."
"That is understood. Indeed, I shall regret them very little; I will
break with them forever!"
"Unless, however, as the result of events which cannot be foreseen, I
myself authorize you to see them again."
"Of course, if you authorize me, I must obey you."
"Nor do I want you to speak to a certain Monsieur Beauregard, whom you
have met here, I believe?"
"Ah, yes! a gentleman with a bilious complexion!"
"He is a detestable fellow; he paid court to me long ago, and as I
refused to listen to him, he spreads all sorts of slanders and
falsehoods about me!"
"I guessed as much, _belle dame_; I said to myself: 'This man abuses
Madame de Sainte-Suzanne too much not to have been rigorously treated by
her.'--I won't talk with him any more, and if he should try to talk to
me, I'll turn my back on him at once."
"Very good; you are submissive. Look you, I believe you will be an
excellent husband."
"With you, who would not be? no man could fail to be!"
"By the way, there is one thing more; it is a weakness, a puerile fancy,
but I am set upon it nevertheless."
"Speak; I am here to obey."
"I don't like your name--Chamoureau; no, I don't like it at all!"
"The devil! that's rather embarrassing; I can't unbaptize myself."
"No, but listen: you were born somewhere."
"There's not the slightest doubt of that."
"Where were you born?"
"At Belleville."
"Belleville--very well; from this moment you are Chamoureau de
Belleville, and you will not sign your name in any other way.
Furthermore, you will be careful to use only the last name with any new
acquaintances you may make; in that way, before long your name of
Chamoureau will be entirely forgotten and you will be Monsieur de
Belleville!"
"Pardieu! that's very nice! you have a mind as big as yourself! Monsieur
de Belleville--that's an altogether coquettish name, and it pleases me
beyond words.--Then you consent to become Madame de Belleville?"
"I must, since you promise to agree to everything I have stipulated."
"And to everything you may order in future; I swear it at your feet!"
And Chamoureau, rising from the couch, threw himself at Thélénie's feet,
took her hand and kissed it with rapture, and even tried to take her
knees; but his haughty conquest checked him, saying, with an air which
had a faint suggestion of dignity:
"Monsieur! remember that I am to be your wife! and respect me until I no
longer have the right to deny you anything."
"That is true!" cried Chamoureau, rising from the floor; "I am a
villain! a blackguard! you did well to call me to order! I will lose no
time about taking all the necessary steps, in order to enter into
possession at the earliest possible moment of the charms which overthrow
my reason."
"Do so; I approve your purpose and you have my consent; I will not
conceal from you now that I desire the marriage to take place at once."
"Ah! dear love! you overwhelm me! I'm beside myself! You share my
impatience! Oh! permit me to----"
"Well, monsieur?"
"Fichtre! I was going to put my foot in it again! Your hair is so
lovely--you are so alluring!--Upon my word, I believe that I shall do
well to go, for I can't answer for myself."
"Go; to-morrow I will look about for an apartment suited to our future
position; you will trust me, I suppose?"
"In everything, and blindly. Whatever you do will be approved."
"Au revoir then, my dear De Belleville."
"De Belleville! really I am mad over that name. Au revoir, my goddess!"
Chamoureau kissed once more the hand that was offered him; then took his
leave, as light as a feather, saying to himself:
"She loves me, she adores me, for she wants to be married at once! Oh!
I'll not let the grass grow under my feet.--The devil! is it only three
months since Eléonore died? I certainly am an idiot! it's an endless
time since I became a widower!"
While her newly-rich adorer went away in raptures, Thélénie, alone once
more, said to herself:
"A new name--an apartment in a distant quarter--a new position in
society! Madame Sainte-Suzanne will be lost to sight, and she will hear
no more of the Croques and the Beauregards. But she will be careful not
to lose sight of those upon whom she is determined to be revenged!"
XXIV
VISITORS
Honorine and Agathe were installed in the little house at Chelles, and
Poucette was with her new mistresses. The first days were devoted to
arranging the furniture, deciding where to put the various things,
making the necessary changes, and attending to the innumerable petty
details which follow every change of abode, and which are of much more
importance when one takes possession of a house one has purchased.
During those early days the two friends hardly had time to walk in their
garden or to glance at the landscape.
While they were occupied thus, assisted by Poucette, who did her best to
give satisfaction and had already won the regard of her mistresses;
while they arranged, placed and displaced furniture, and set the music
and the books in order, the spring progressed. It was the middle of
May, the time when the country is so lovely, when it is embellished
every day by some new flower or leaf; and when at last Honorine and
Agathe were able to sit at their windows and to go down to inspect their
garden and stroll along the paths, they exclaimed with surprise and
delight at the change which a few weeks had wrought in the face of
nature.
Agathe would pause in admiration before a linden or an ash tree, crying:
"Ah! my dear! how lovely the trees are! I never saw this one before!"
"You did see it," Honorine would reply with a smile, "but you didn't
notice it because it had no leaves."
"Do you think so? it may be true; and the garden too seems to me a
hundred times lovelier than when we first came to see the house."
"For the very same reason."
"It certainly does make a great difference! What a pity it is, when you
live in the country, that it isn't summer all the time!"
"If it were, we shouldn't have the pleasure of seeing the leaves grow,
of seeing all nature come to life anew. Believe me, my dear girl, God
has done well everything that He has done, and we are ungrateful when we
murmur against the order He has established."
Père Ledrux came twice a week to look after the garden; that was quite
as often as was necessary to keep the paths clean and to care for a
small kitchen garden; as for the flowers, Agathe had taken it upon
herself to tend them, and she did it very well, although the gardener
declared that she knew nothing about it.
In short, the two women were enchanted with their new life; ennui had
not once made its way into their abode, for they always found something
to do which occupied their time; as a general rule, ennui visits only
the slothful.
One morning, when Père Ledrux came to work at Madame Dalmont's, the
peasant, after watching the hens for a long time, as usual, to see if
they did not fight--their failure to do so always seemed to surprise
him--went into the house, bowed to Honorine, who was breakfasting with
Agathe, and said to her:
"I say, pardon, excuse me if I tell you this; but it's only so that you
may know it, and then you can do as you choose; it's none of my
business; I just came to tell you because sometimes folks are glad to
know what other folks say about 'em."
"What's that, Père Ledrux? do you mean that people are talking about
us?" said Honorine, who, no less than her friend, had felt strongly
inclined to laugh at the gardener's long preamble.
"Bless me! that they are! You can see for yourself, it's no more'n
natural; in a little place like this the folks as is rich don't have
anything else to do but ask what the other folks do. So then, you and
your friend, when you came here to Chelles to live, you bought Monsieur
Courtivaux's house, and you paid cash for it. Now, you understand, new
people--fine ladies from Paris coming here to live--why that's a big
event in the neighborhood."
"Very good, Père Ledrux; we are an event, I understand that. What next?"
"Why, they says like this at Madame Droguet's: 'Let's see if they come
to call on us, these newcomers.'--Excuse me, but as you ain't been here
long, they call you the newcomers."
"That doesn't offend us at all. Go on."
"Monsieur Droguet says: 'They're young women, they must dance; we must
invite 'em to come here.'--But it seems that Madame Droguet answered:
'We'll invite 'em, if they come to call first; because the latest
arrivals ought to make the first call on the people who live in a town,
and it ain't for us to begin by going to see them.'"
"That is true; Madame Droguet is quite right."
"Then there's Monsieur le Docteur Antoine Beaubichon, who says: 'I have
the pleasure of knowing these ladies already, and they're very
agreeable. As a bachelor and as a medical man I mean to go to call on
'em very soon. I'll let them get settled; we mustn't be in too much of a
hurry.'--And after that Monsieur Luminot, he says: 'I'm a widower, and
I'm going to call on these ladies; they say they're pretty, and I like
pretty women.'--Then there's the Jarnouillards, and they says: 'But we
must find out first if they're rich, and what their money's in.'--I tell
you all this just as they said it, you understand."
"Yes, Père Ledrux, and there's no harm in it. Is that all?"
"No; for, you see, as you've been in Chelles more'n two weeks, and you
haven't called on anyone yet, and nobody ever meets you anywhere,
because you don't go to walk--why, folks are beginning to say:
"'Those ladies must be female bears; they don't go to see anybody! they
don't go out! They're good mates for the owner of the Tower; all they
need is a dog!'--That's what folks say, and I only repeat it so that you
may know it; because it's none of my business, after all."