Henri d'Estreville sat at his midday meal at the restaurant specially
frequented by the officers of his regiment. He wore the aspect of one
who is more than ordinarily depressed. He was pale and distrait and
neglected the food which had been placed before him.
Several acquaintances entered the room and saluted him as they passed,
but he took no notice of them.
"What ails D'Estreville?" men asked one another. "Is it cards or a
woman?"
Among others there entered presently Michel Prevost, who was known to
very few, having but lately qualified for the right to sit at meals with
the class of men mostly frequenting this eating-house and others of its
kind.
Michel looked round and saw Henri d'Estreville. His face flushed and
then paled. He sat down on the nearest seat to gather breath and
strength. Michel had almost despaired of his friend since the terrible
day at Vilna, when the remnant of Ney's division, tattered and
war-worn, had marched into the town like men returning from the grave;
when he had looked and inquired for Henri among the rest and found him
not. Even when he had heard it said, this very morning, that the Baron
had reappeared, he had scarcely dared to believe it. For five minutes he
sat still, not daring to move or speak. At last he rose from his seat,
and advancing from behind came up and touched the Baron's shoulder.
"So you, too, have reached home in safety, _mon ami_!" he said. "You
have returned from the grave indeed! Do you not know that we mourned
you for dead? Allow me to share your table? I am a little shy of these
super-aristocratic persons in times of peace; in the field the devil may
care how many airs they put on; but here it is different. My commission
feels new and strange to me; I am afraid at every moment that some one
will say 'What right have you here? go out!'" Michel talked quickly, to
conceal his agitation. Henri looked up and gave Michel his hand, smiling.
"Yes, I found my way home somehow," he said; "yet for all the joy I feel
in living I wish to God I had stayed beneath the Russian snows."
Michel gazed at his friend in amazement.
"Why--what mean you--what has happened?" he asked.
"Michel, _mon ami_, you have been a good friend to me; you will
sympathise; it will do me good to tell you; listen. Have I your
permission to bore you with my tale of woe?"
"Yes--speak--who knows, I may be able to counsel you, give you
relief----"
"No, it is impossible. Listen, my friend. You may remember our first
meeting, when I lay wounded at Smolensk, I spoke confidentially--you
will call it raving, I daresay--the subject, women; I confessed many
things foolish and wicked; I spoke of one pure sentiment; of the love,
strange and unfamiliar, because pure and disinterested, that I cherished
for a very simple, very charming maiden whose name----"
"Was Mathilde--was it not?--or Louise; one of the daughters of a _maître
d'armes_."
"Yes; Louise; you professed to know her--to have heard of her, at
any rate. Well, let that pass then. It is strange, my friend, but my
affection in that quarter has not vanished after the fashion of the
wretched sentiment I have hitherto felt for other women, which has
evaporated when the object is absent. On the contrary, it has increased
in absence. I returned home to Paris inclined, certainly, to love the
girl even more than I loved her at parting; a wonderful thing for me,
Michel, _mon brave_, and very remarkable." Henri smiled ruefully at his
friend.
"Continue," said Michel, whose face looked pale, perhaps in sympathy
with that of his companion.
"Well, I return. I go, almost the first available moment, to see
my charming one. I enter the house, my heart glowing with love and
sweet anticipation. I am received by her father, who is cold, polite,
long-winded, unsympathetic. I ask for Louise----" Henri paused; his
fingers tapped upon the table; his voice had grown suddenly hoarse;
there was actually moisture in his eyes.
"Continue," murmured Michel, who wondered what was coming, for all this
was a surprise to him, neither Dupré nor Marie having breathed a word of
the visit of Baron Henri.
"I ask for Louise," D'Estreville continued. "She is dead."
"Dead?" exclaimed Michel, suddenly rising to his feet and pushing back
his chair with a clatter. "Who said so? Why dead? What mean you?"
Michel was never so grateful to destiny as at this moment, for he was
able to ease his feelings by an exhibition of genuine surprise. But for
that he must soon have burst into tears.
"Simply that she is dead. It is true, my friend. 'She is dead,' said her
parent, and 'since it appears you come as a lover and would have stolen
from me my daughter who should be above such feminine foolishness as
love and marriage, I add my thanks to the Highest that she has ceased
to exist in time'--these are the very words of her father, whose throat
I could have pinched with satisfaction. What say you, _mon ami_, have I
the right to be distressed? By all the Saints, Michel, it is too cruel a
trick of Destiny. I could have loved this girl. God knows, I might even
have married her. Never before have I felt so fondly disposed towards a
woman, never so virtuous. I believe this was true love, my friend, or
the beginning of it."
"_Nom de la Guerre!_" exclaimed Michel. "And she is dead, say you--the
father himself declared it?"
"I have said so. 'She ceased to exist'--that was his odd manner of
expressing it; 'she ceased to exist on the day of conscription'; it is
odd how the crazy old man dates naturally from that day; he is mad upon
men; he loves only men, honours men, thinks men; women are nothing to
him. You would suppose he would be affected in speaking of the death of
his daughter; but no! It seemed that her loss is nothing to him. Why?
because she was not a man."
To Henri's surprise and displeasure Michel at this point suddenly burst
into a roar of laughter. He looked up frowning.
"I beg ten thousand pardons," cried Michel, half choking; "I am not
wanting in sympathy, _mon ami_; but in truth the attitude and words of
this old man are very comical. Forgive me, Baron, I was very rude."
"Enough. I would laugh also if I had the heart. Certainly the old man is
a lunatic. Tell me, Michel; what shall I do? What is going on? I shall
die of ennui if I sit and nurse my grief, as now. Thanks to Heaven that
you have arrived; it may be that the Saints sent you for my salvation,
as before at Smolensk. Come, suggest. I must be made amused; must laugh.
I must see movement of men and women."
"Ha! you are not so overwhelmed by your grief, I see, that you cannot
feel the desire for amusement. That is a good sign, Baron; you will soon
recover, I prophesy."
"A good sign, say you? There is no question of recovery. You are far
from the truth, my friend. It is distraction that I need. I do not yet
ask to be cured, that would be impossible."
"That depends! The rapidity of the healing depends upon the severity or
otherwise of the wound. Yours is, I take it, but a shallow slash."
"Michel, you wound me again by these words. I need distraction; but that
does not imply that I am not almost heart-broken, which I verily believe
that I am. You, who have never been in love, are unable to appreciate
the anguish of having loved and lost."
"Thanks be to Heaven I have never yet loved woman in that foolish
manner," said Michel. "You are right, my friend. Tell me, is it worth
while to love when an accident, such as this from which you now suffer,
may in an instant turn love to misery? Is there any woman in this world
for whose sake it is worth while to break one's heart?"
"I thought the same but a short while since. You are young, Michel; do
not boast. One day you too will love."
"_Absit omen!_" laughed the other. "I say that there is no woman worth
loving; worth, that is, breaking one's heart over, in case she should
prove unfaithful, or die or what not."
"And I say that one such, at least, there has been. Do not speak so
positively, Michel, my friend, of matters in which you are altogether
ignorant."
"Well, have it your own way; but I swear that I, for one, shall never
love a woman."
"I am sorry that my grief has had so deterrent an effect upon you,"
Henri sighed, "though I will not say that I am surprised; for indeed,
now that I have lost her before she was won, I wish with all my heart I
had never seen her. Like you, I am tempted to swear that I shall never
give my heart of hearts to another woman."
"Oh, oh!" laughed Michel. "That is not easily believed; for they say
that once a heart has become susceptible to womankind there is no more
controlling its vagaries. Be sure, my friend, that we shall find you
falling in love, and maybe far more seriously than before, with the
first fair lady you see."
Henri looked reproachfully at his friend.
"Let us talk of other things," he said; "it is too early as yet to make
of love a jesting matter; my heart is sorer than you think, Michel, or
perhaps you would speak more sympathetically. Remember that my grief is
as yet very green."
"Forgive me," said Michel, a softer look stealing into his eyes. "I will
jest no more. Come, we will walk in the streets of Paris; _Sapristi!_ it
is better than Moscow, ha?"