Chapter I: Should Have Foreseen It

Whether we are sad or merry, happy or wretched, rich or poor, the Fates spin the web of our days none the less. Mine was no longer of silk and gold; but still the days passed; they seemed longer to me than if I had been happy; that was all the difference, and therein people who are fond of life should find some compensation; for years of sorrow count double.

I had been married only a year, and I had already acquired all the ways of an old married man. I did not go out with my wife in the morning; she knew Paris as well as I did, and no longer needed my company; she went out to pay visits, to make purchases, or to walk; I either worked at home or went my own way. We almost always had someone to dinner, very frequently Raymond, who had become the friend of the family. It was not that I liked him any better than formerly; no, I did not look upon him as a friend in the least degree; but he had become necessary to me, he diverted my thoughts, he went about with my wife; he was always at our service if we needed him to take part in a game or to do an errand; he was really extremely obliging. Lastly, he had known Nicette, he was the only person with whom I could talk of her now and then; that reason alone was sufficient to lead me to seek his society. And yet, it was to him that I owed a part of my sorrow; but he had rendered me a service by showing Nicette to me as she really was. If she had listened to him, she must have listened to many others! In a word, his presence was often painful to me, and yet I constantly sought it--I always hoped that he would contradict what he had told me about her.

As for my wife, she could not do without Raymond; he was with her almost every evening, while I went to my little bachelor apartment. They played together; Raymond played the flute a little, and my wife the piano; they both sang also. Raymond was an inferior musician, and my wife was never in time; together, they considered themselves very fine. And then, Raymond had a supply of compliments and gallant phrases which delighted my wife, who had plenty of self-esteem and coquetry, and loved to be told that she turned all the men's heads and that she was as witty as a demon.

I confess that I had never been able to tell my wife that she had overmuch wit. Indeed, I had long since ceased to tell her that she was pretty; it seemed superfluous to me; I had told her so when I was courting her, and I could not keep saying the same thing forever. Such talk seems to me most futile; a husband and wife ought to prove their love to each other without having to pay each other compliments. But Pélagie, who did not know what to reply when you talked to her on a subject of real interest, knew enough to smile at flattery; and Raymond declared that her smile said many things. If I attempted to talk sensibly with her, she yawned; thereupon I left her, only too glad when Raymond was there to take my place.

I was wrong, perhaps, in allowing my wife to do whatever she chose; but how would it have served me to put restraint upon her, to restrict her in the gratification of her tastes? It would have made us both unhappy. We married without love, and we were not made to live together. My wife was bored when alone with me, and I did not enjoy being with her. When I tried to talk sensibly to her, to urge her to give a little more time to her housekeeping instead of thinking solely of gewgaws and dress and pleasure, then Pélagie would weep and say that her aunt was justified in calling me a tyrant! What reply could I make to that?--none at all! I cannot bear to see a woman weep. If I had no love for my wife, I did not choose that she should have cause to complain of my treatment; so I allowed her to buy whatever gave her pleasure, and to go to all the balls and festivities to which she was invited. Pélagie spent on dresses, jewels, cabs, and trifles much more than she brought me; but I held my tongue, to avoid little _discussions_. I was determined to do my best to keep the peace, at all events.

Perhaps I should not have left her so often to listen to the whispering of dandies and the soft speeches of salon seducers; but, in truth, it was impossible for me to be jealous. Moreover, my mind was at ease on that score; Pélagie had been brought up very strictly; she was high-principled, and her manners were so modest and bashful! To be sure, she no longer kept her eyes on the floor, and even played the coquette a bit; but I was none the less confident of her fidelity. And then, too, the young men who paid court to her in society never came to my house; I seldom had any male guest except Raymond; and faith! if a man must torment himself in anticipation, his mind would never be at rest.

I hoped to have children; I would have loved them dearly; I would have looked after their education, and it would have been a great joy to me. But I had not had that satisfaction, and the greatest pleasure I knew was to go to my little apartment on Rue Saint-Florentin. There I seemed to be a different man; I fancied myself still a bachelor. In that house nobody knew that I was married; but I never slept there, and my concierge must have thought that I was leading a strange life; I paid her generously, however, and she indulged in no comments. Indeed, who in the house had any reason to complain of me? I took nobody there, I made no noise, I spoke to nobody, and I did not even know who occupied Raymond's apartment on my landing.

For some time past, my wife had been going more frequently than ever to balls and parties which lasted far into the night. I am no foe to gayeties, but I was afraid that her excessive indulgence in them would injure her health. I reproved her mildly, and she answered sharply; a dispute arose, and madame, who had taken a tone which was entirely new to her, and which surprised me in a woman who had always seemed so timid,--in the modest Pélagie,--put an end to the discussion by announcing that she proposed to have a separate room, so that she might be more at liberty.

I asked nothing better. I had a bed put in the room adjoining my study, which was separated from my wife's bedroom by the salon, the reception room, and a small music room. I took possession of my new quarters that same evening. Raymond, being informed of the new arrangement, said that it was an excellent idea, and that it was all that we needed to make a most charming household.

Pélagie spent money freely; with the purpose of trying to put a curb on the follies she was beginning to commit, I began to go into society with her. It would still have been easy for me to form intrigues, to make conquests; for a young husband is as warmly greeted in Paris as a bachelor in the provinces; but I had no inclination for those liaisons of a moment, for those amourettes which do not touch the heart; I was faithful, but not amorous.

Raymond, too, was most constant in his pretended great friendship for us; often he was obliging enough to bring my wife home when I did not care to stay so late as she did; and as we no longer slept together, Madame Dorsan could come in whenever she pleased, and I know nothing about it. I ceased to say anything to her, for I noticed that she consistently did just the opposite of what I urged her to do.

Still, I was afraid that her lungs, which were delicate, would suffer from such constant late hours. The next time that she was to go to a ball, I advised her to stay at home; she would not listen to me. I decided to go with her and to try to induce her to go home early.

Raymond accompanied us to the festivity in question, which was very gorgeous and very largely attended. At midnight, satiated with dust and écarté, I urged my wife to retire.

"What, monsieur!" replied Pélagie; "go away at the very pleasantest part of the evening! Oh! I propose to stay till the end! You can go home to bed; Monsieur Raymond will bring me home."

What was one to say to a little woman who seemed so determined? I went up to Raymond, who anticipated my wishes.

"My dear fellow, go home if you're tired; I'll bring madame home."

"Will you? very good; I shall be much obliged."

I left the house, saying to myself:

"It's a great mistake to laugh at us poor husbands; for, upon my word, anyone else in our place would do just as we do."

I went home and to bed. I slept about three hours; then something, I know not what, awoke me; doubtless it was written that I should wake. I pressed the repeater of my watch: three o'clock. I thought that I would like to know if my wife was at home; ordinarily, I did not disturb myself about it, but she had a cold which made me anxious about her health; if she was not more careful of herself, it might become serious; and, although I did not love her, although she did not make me very happy, as I was more prudent than she, it was my duty to look after her health.

That idea prevented me from going to sleep again; it seemed to me that I should be more at ease if I were sure that she had come home. Why should I not go to her room to make sure? I had never done such a thing since we had slept apart; but my solicitude ought not to offend her; and besides, I could go there without waking her, and she would not even know that I had been to see her. I had a duplicate key to her bedroom, which I had had made when we slept together, so that I could go in without rousing her; for, in the early days of our marriage, she used to go to bed before I came home, and always locked herself in because she was afraid. I had forgotten to give her that key, which lay in my desk; and she had probably forgotten that I had it.

I rose and felt my way to the desk, for I kept no light in my room at night. I found the key, and stole softly from my room to go to my wife.

I walked noiselessly through the intervening rooms, I was careful not to make a sound; one would have thought that I was on my way to an assignation, but it was something very different. When I reached my wife's door I saw a light through the keyhole.--"Good!" I said to myself; "she's at home;" and I was about to creep away, when I fancied that I heard voices. With whom could she be talking? The servants were always in bed when we came home, as we had our own keys. I listened; I could not hear very distinctly; but it seemed to me that that voice--"Parbleu!" I thought; "that would be a strange thing!" A thousand ideas crowded into my mind. I slipped the key in the lock very softly, turned it quickly, entered the room, and--saw Raymond in bed with my wife!

Surprise held me motionless for an instant. Raymond jumped out of bed and ran about the room like a madman; he could not find the door, although there were two. I came to myself and could not resist the temptation to give him a kick that sent him to the floor. But I soon regretted my imprudence. To make an uproar--a scandal--to let the whole household know that I was--I lacked only that!--I put Raymond on his feet, pushed him out of the room, threw his coat in his face, and even gave him a light, so that he might not break his neck on the stairs; it was impossible to be more polite than I was.

"Until to-morrow!" I said.

I imagined that he did not hear me; but, no matter; he had gone, and I returned to my wife.

She had remained in bed; she did not stir.

"As you may imagine," I said to her, "I do not propose to publish this abroad; however, madame, I am not in the humor to continue to live with you; I may be willing to conceal your misconduct, but I do not choose to witness any more of it. Henceforth we will live apart, as divorces are no longer granted, and as we must remain united all our lives by the laws when we have ceased to be united by any sentiment. It is probable that the blame will be laid on me; people will say that I have deserted you after making you unhappy, for so they often judge the acts of others; but it matters little to me; I leave you everything here; you have your property, and I have mine; henceforth let there be nothing in common between us."

Pélagie did not say a single word in reply; indeed, I am inclined to think that she fell asleep during my speech. I took a candle, closed her door, and returned to my own room. I intended to go to bed again; but I felt that I should not be able to sleep. No matter if a man be not in love or jealous, he cannot see such things as that and remain cool. Still, I was well content with the coolness I had displayed; except for the kick administered to Raymond, I had borne myself like a genuine philosopher; but I felt in the bottom of my heart that one is never a philosopher in respect to those things which concern self-esteem and honor. Honor! Ah! Figaro is right when he asks:

"Where in the devil has honor hidden itself?"

I decided to pack up my belongings; that would keep me busy, and I should be able to carry everything away at daybreak, and to leave forever that woman, to whom I had been married about eighteen months, and who had already made of me a--but one does not care to speak that word concerning one's self, although ready enough to apply it to others.

This, then, is the result of that happy marriage!--Ah! my dear sister, why did I hearken to you? Why did I marry a woman who did not love me--a woman who was not suited to me in any one respect! If we had been happy together, if I had enjoyed being with her, if I had not left her so much to her own resources, perhaps it would not have happened!

So that young innocent, that Agnès, that little simpleton, had betrayed me after only eighteen months! Perhaps it had been going on a long while already; and once more it was Raymond who---- But, in truth, I should have foreseen it; it was certain to happen.

"But," I said to myself, "this will be your last escapade, Monsieur Raymond; to-morrow I will call upon you with a pair of pistols, which I will load myself."

The day was beginning to break; I went down into the street, ordered a messenger to go to my room with me, gave him all my goods and chattels to carry, and bade adieu to my home. Thenceforth I would resume my bachelor life.

I had my bundles carried to my old apartment. Ah! how rejoiced I was that I had kept it! It was as if I had divined that I should return to it some day. Madame Dupont stared at my bundles.

"Does this mean that monsieur is going to sleep in his room now?" she asked slyly.

"Yes, Madame Dupont; after this I am going to live as I used to."

That business completed, I took my weapons and went to Raymond's apartment.

"Where are you going, monsieur?" inquired the concierge, when she saw me hurrying upstairs.

"To Monsieur Raymond's."

"Why, monsieur, didn't you know that he'd gone away?"

"What's that? gone away?"

"To be sure; he didn't sleep here; he took his things away during the night, paid his quarter's rent, and told me to sell his furniture, saying that he'd send someone for the money after a while. I don't know what had happened to him, but he seemed so confused that at first I thought he'd gone mad; he was in such a hurry that he didn't take time to pack the most necessary things. And then he rushed off without telling me where he was going."

"The coward! Woe to him if I ever meet him! But he is quite capable of having left Paris!"

I left Raymond's concierge in open-mouthed amazement and returned to Rue Saint-Florentin, to arrange my little apartment with a view to resuming my former habits.

XXXV

MY NEIGHBOR

After a few days I recovered my tranquillity; even my spirits, which I had lost, seemed to return with me to my old lodgings; sometimes I fancied that I was still a bachelor; in truth, the best thing for me to do, now that I had no wife, was to forget that I was married.

As I had foreseen, I was the one at whom the stones were thrown; I received a letter from my sister, who informed me that it was a frightful thing to have deserted my wife; that we simply must be reconciled; that Madame de Pontchartrain was furious, and that Pélagie was constantly asking her for money. In reply, I wrote my sister an exact account of what had happened, begging her to keep it secret. I knew that she would not, but I did not care if the good people of Melun knew that I was a cuckold; I had no desire to go back there.

In my old lodgings I resumed my former mode of life, save for its follies, in which I no longer indulged; indeed, it was necessary for me to lead an orderly, economical life; for my dear wife was running through her fortune very rapidly, and I foresaw that she would soon have recourse to me, and that I should be obliged to make her an allowance.

I congratulated myself on the perfect tranquillity that I enjoyed in my house; I realized that Raymond was no longer my neighbor. I should have been glad to find him, however; but I searched Paris for him in vain; he must have left the city.

Apropos of neighbors, I began to wonder who lived on my landing. I had never seen anybody go in or out; it was clearly some person of very sedentary habits. I was not curious; still, one likes to know who lives so near one. Madame Dupont would tell me.

My concierge continued to do my housework; when she came one morning as usual, she was delighted to find me inclined to converse a little.

"I believe you told me, Madame Dupont, that the rooms Monsieur Raymond used to occupy are let?"

"Certainly they are, monsieur; they weren't vacant a week; somebody hired 'em right away."

"I never happen to see a living soul go in or out; I never hear a sound."

"Oh! the tenant's a very quiet party, never goes out, never has any callers; it's all right, but I don't believe she has a very exciting time."

"It's a woman, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur--and as to respectability and morals--oh! there's nothing to be said."

"Is she an old woman?"

"Not by any means, monsieur; she's a young woman--very young."

"Oho! and pretty?"

"Yes, very pretty--as well as I can see under the big bonnet she always wears."

"What! a young and pretty woman living all alone? no lovers, no husband?"

"No one, I tell you! Oh! if anyone came, I should know it."

"But she must go out sometimes?"

"In the morning, very early, to buy what she needs; you're still asleep, that's why you don't meet her. After that, she never stirs from her room."

"It's very strange!"

"I've tried to talk with her now and then; but she won't talk; it's impossible to get two words out of her. However, as she behaves decently and pays on the dot, there's nothing to be said. But it seems to me that people ought to be obliged to let you know who they are."

I could not help smiling at my concierge's reflection. What she had told me of my neighbor aroused my curiosity a little, and at first I felt a desire to know her; but why should I annoy the young woman? she did not like society; perhaps she had her reasons for avoiding it. I determined to respect her retirement.

I had ceased to go into society; I should have run the risk of meeting my wife or of being beset with disagreeable questions concerning the cause of our separation; in society, people are so indiscreet that they always ask, from preference, the most unpleasant questions, and I did not choose to afford them that pleasure.

I went to the play, to all the places where one is free from restraint. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of my wife in a carriage, or in a box at the theatre with two or three young men; it seemed that she had not regretted Raymond very deeply, and I was not surprised; she was not so constituted as to regret anyone. When I saw her in the distance, I hastened away in the opposite direction; and she did the same; that was the only thing in which we agreed.

I prayed that she might not have children now! I should have to be their father, willy-nilly. How delightful it would be to be presented with a little family that I must support!

"You should have gone back to your wife," someone will say; "then you could have believed that you were the father of your children."

Thanks; I preferred to live in peace and receive such gifts as my wife chose to send me.

I had been a bachelor three months; that time had passed very rapidly, for ennui never found its way into my little apartment. I had resumed my books and my music;--music! so soothing to the heart, and so sympathetic with our joys and our sorrows! Every evening I sat down at my piano and passed two or three hours there; it seemed to me that Nicette was with me, that she was listening to me; I dreamed that she still loved me, that she had never loved anyone else, and I was happy while cajoling myself thus with chimeras; men are great children who cajole themselves all their lives.

Sometimes I forgot the hour; the quiet of the night inclines the heart to feed on illusions, and I abandoned myself to those illusions that fascinated me. No one in the house had complained because I played so late; there was no one above me but maid-servants, whom it did not keep from sleeping; below was an old annuitant, slightly deaf; so that there was nobody except my neighbor on the same landing who might be annoyed by it; but I had asked the concierge if she had said anything about it, and she said _no_. That woman was absolutely invisible; several times I had fancied that I heard her door open, and had gone out quickly; for I confess that I was curious to see her--but her door was already closed.

She might have passed me again and again, and I should not have noticed her; but nothing arouses curiosity so keenly as an air of mystery. I determined to rise very early some morning and try to see her. I made that resolve at night, but I fell asleep and forgot it. I was not the man to do sentry duty on the landing, or to stare through the keyhole ten or fifteen minutes; I left such methods to Raymond.

I heard nothing more from Melun, and for some time past I had not seen my wife; she left me in peace. I heard sometimes, from one of those officious friends whom one meets in spite of one's self, try as one may to avoid them, that Madame Dorsan was no more prudent in her conduct, that she had the same mania for balls and dissipation, that her coquetry increased every day, and a thousand other bits of news no less agreeable. There were some who advised me to exert my rights and to apply for an order to have her confined. I thanked them and turned on my heel; I would swear that the very same people told Pélagie that I was a tyrant, a bear, a wretch unworthy to be the husband of so pretty and interesting a woman, and that I ought to be put under guardianship.

In order to avoid meeting my wife, I frequently went into the country, not in the direction which fashion has made its own, but to those places where the worthy bourgeois and little grisettes go to amuse themselves; the little grisettes whom I used to follow! But I had grown wiser; marriage had _matured_ my head considerably; I might say, had _embellished_ it.

On a certain day I felt more content than usual with the world; I went out on horseback and rode farther than I was accustomed to do. Darkness overtook me at Vincennes; I urged my horse to a gallop, and returned to Paris in time to avoid a storm that reminded me of the evening at Montmorency.

After taking my horse to the stable, I returned home; I felt tired and needed rest. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs. I was about to open the door--but what was it that my hand touched? Could it be? I dared not believe it, and yet I held the bouquet in my hand. I put it to my nose, I inhaled its perfume with intoxicating joy. Yes, it was really a bouquet--in the same place where she used to put them. Ah! it surely was she who brought that one! who else could have made me that present? I hurried into the room; I could hardly wait to examine it. When I was inside and had struck a light, I gazed at that lovely bouquet and kissed it; it was of orange blossoms, the exact counterpart of those she used to bring me. Ah! it was she, of course, who sent it to me! But, in that case, she was in Paris! she still thought of me! she still loved me!

All these ideas chased one another through my brain; I looked to see if there was a note in the bouquet--nothing! I went to the door, I looked in the keyhole and on the floor--nothing! I had only the bouquet; but that was much! She must have been there; I flew downstairs to question Madame Dupont. I forgot my fatigue.

"Has anyone been here to see me?" I asked the concierge.

"No, monsieur."

"What! no one has been to ask for me?--a young lady?"

"I give you my word, monsieur, that I haven't seen anybody who asked for you, and I haven't been away from my door."

"Oh! you never see anything! you never used to see her before!"

"Who, monsieur?"

"Someone came, all the same, for I found this bouquet on my doorknob."

"Well, well! that's very funny; somebody must have made a mistake in the door."

"Mistake! no, there's no mistake; it was she who came."

"She! who's she?"

"Raise the latch, Madame Dupont."

"What, monsieur! are you going out again now? Wait till the storm has passed; it's raining bucketsful."

"Open the door, I tell you!"

The concierge dared not make any further suggestions. I went out; I had no idea where I was going, but I was absolutely determined to find out something about Nicette, to learn where she was. I hurried along the street, looking all about me--no one! It was a terrible storm. I went to Rue Saint-Honoré, to her former shop; it seemed to me that I might learn something by going to the place where she used to live; but the shop was closed, tightly closed. I knocked--there was no reply. I entered the café opposite and asked the waiters if the former flower girl had returned to her shop. They stared at me, having no very clear idea what I was saying; I was so excited, and my rain-soaked clothes and muddy boots gave me such a wild aspect, that they took me for a lunatic, I doubt not. I left the café without obtaining any information. Where should I go next? I was still determined to find her.--Ah! perhaps where her mother used to live. It was a terribly long way, but I ran there without stopping. It was quite late; I could find nothing open but a grocery in the neighborhood of Mère Jérôme's house. I went in and inquired; there I was at least more courteously treated than at the café, because the grocer was more accustomed to see drenched and muddy people. But I learned nothing; since Madame Jérôme's death her daughters had not been seen in the quarter. So I must needs renounce all hope of learning what had become of her! But, no; I would hope on; she had sent me a bouquet, and perhaps she would return.

I went home sadly enough. I felt completely exhausted; my clothes were stuck to my body; I could hardly walk, but I looked in vain for a cab; it rained in torrents, and I did not meet a single one. I reached home at last. Madame Dupont was waiting for me; the poor woman was terrified when she saw the state I was in; she insisted on going upstairs to warm my bed, on my taking something hot; but I refused her attentions; I hoped that rest would restore me. When I entered my room, my teeth chattered violently and my legs trembled under me. I felt far from well; I crept into bed with Nicette's bouquet on my heart; it seemed to me that that must cure me.

The next morning my concierge found me wildly delirious; I recognized nobody; my head was on fire, my mouth was parched; I was consumed by a burning fever. Fatigue, the storm, the mental agitation of the preceding night, had all combined to make me seriously ill. In a few days I was at the door of the tomb.

Who was there to take care of me? who would nurse me? My relations were not in Paris. I had a wife, but she, instead of coming to my bedside, would have fled from me for fear of contagion; strangers had to take the place of kindred and friends.

For nine days I had no idea who was nursing me; I neither heard nor saw anything. Not until the end of that time was the crisis safely passed; I was saved, my delirium disappeared; all that I needed was good care, quiet, and rest.

I half opened my eyes and looked about me with difficulty, trying to collect my thoughts. I saw Madame Dupont by my side.

"Have I been delirious long?" I asked.

"Nine days, monsieur; oh! you've been very sick; you almost died! But, thank heaven! you're saved; all you need now is patience and plenty of rest. I was sure you'd be sick. The idea of going out in such a storm! and all in a sweat, too! And when you came back, why, your eyes were starting out of your head! But young men will never listen to advice! And then, think of going to sleep with a nosegay under your nose! that's very bad--very unhealthy!"

"What has been done with that bouquet?"

"It's in the other room there; never fear, you'll find it all right."

"Who has nursed me since I have been sick?"

"I have, and--your neighbor."

"My neighbor!"

"Yes, the lady on your landing. Oh! she has taken the best possible care of you. As soon as she heard you was sick, she insisted on being your nurse, and, my word! if she'd been nursing sick folks all her life, she couldn't have done better."

"Where is she? I would like to thank her."

"Oh! you can thank her later. She's just gone to her room. But here you are talking, and the doctor told us we mustn't let you talk! Go to sleep, monsieur, go to sleep; it'll do you good."

Madame Dupont closed my curtains and refused to answer any more questions. I was at a loss to understand the unknown lady's conduct; but I was not strong enough to reflect long; I fell asleep wishing that I might see her. Toward evening I woke. Someone was beside me. When I moved, the person attempted to hurry away; but it was too late; my eyes had met hers, I had recognized her: it was Nicette.

I cried out, and she returned to me.

"Oh! in heaven's name, speak to me!" I said; "so that I may be sure that it is you!"

"Yes, yes, it's I, it's your Nicette. Oh! Monsieur Dorsan, pray don't talk any more; the doctor has strictly forbidden it. That's the reason I didn't want you to see me."

"Dear Nicette! as if the sight of you was not more powerful than all their medicines! It is you! it is really you!"

I took her hands and pressed them and held them to my heart; I no longer had strength to speak. She tried to calm me, but she was as deeply moved as I was; the tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped on me; but how sweet they were to us both!

"So it was you, Nicette, who nursed me during my illness?"

"Wasn't it my duty? Could I have trusted others to do it?"

"Then you were my neighbor?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Cruel girl! you concealed yourself from me!"

"I thought that the sight of me would not give you any pleasure."

"You did not think that!"

"You are married."

"But you see that I have ceased to live with my wife."

"I didn't dare show myself to you, for fear that would make you leave your lodgings."

"What an idea! O Nicette!"

"But I couldn't resist the longing to remind you of me; and that is why you found the bouquet."

"Ah! it is to it that I am indebted for finding you. Nicette, don't leave me again, I implore you!"

"Oh, no! I won't leave you again, monsieur, as you allow me to stay. But, I beg of you, be calm, don't talk any more, and take a little rest."

I yielded to her entreaties; in truth, I did need to pull myself together. Nicette was with me, it was to her nursing that I owed my life! I had difficulty in realizing my happiness. Ah! how blissfully happy I was! and yet, some regret was mingled with my joy, when I thought that Raymond---- But if that were not true, I should be too happy.

Every day my convalescence advanced a step; but I was not content unless Nicette was by my side; so she never left me. She seemed surprised by the feeling that I manifested for her; I saw in her eyes all the intoxicating joy that it caused her. It was plain, therefore, that she still loved me. Often I flattered myself that it was so, and then I abandoned myself to the affection that she aroused in me, I basked blissfully in the fire of her glances, I laid my head on her breast and inhaled her sweet breath. But when the image of Raymond appeared before me, all my happiness vanished, my heart swelled, and I moved away from Nicette.

She noticed these abrupt transitions from joy to gloom, these sudden changes in my manner toward her.

"Are you thinking of your wife?" she asked me one day, when I had moved away from her and sighed.

"No," I said, gazing at her in distress; "I am thinking of Raymond."

"Of Monsieur Raymond; and that makes you sigh?"

"Can you wonder at it? Did he not rob me of the greatest of blessings?"

"What do you mean? I don't understand you."

"Ah! Nicette, you loved him, and yet you say that you don't understand me!"

"I--love him! Great God! who told you that?"

"I saw it; I know that he was your lover."

"My lover! O heaven! then I am a most despicable creature in your eyes! And you believed that!"

Tears suffocated her; she could say no more. I ran to her, threw my arms about her, and covered her with kisses; the mere suspicion that Raymond had lied to me was perfect bliss.

"Nicette, dear Nicette, tell me how it all happened? I saw him in your shop; he held your hands--and you admitted it yourself."

"Ah! could you believe that I loved anybody but you? I, who would give my life for you--who have never given a thought to anybody else since I first saw you! Oh! forgive me for loving you so much; perhaps it offends you, but I must tell you now the whole secret of my heart. When I lived in my shop, the only joy I had was to see you; every day I expected or hoped to see you pass; but it happened very seldom. I used to bring you bouquets as a pledge of my gratitude, and I would seize a moment when the concierge was out to run up and tie them on your door. Sometimes I saw you go by with a lady on your arm. Then I used to cry, for I would say to myself: 'I shall never walk like that with him'--When I went a long while without seeing you, I used to long to know something about you, but I didn't dare go to your house to inquire. One day Monsieur Raymond stopped to buy some flowers of me; he looked at me very hard, recognized me, I suppose, and came again the next day. While he was looking at my flowers, he paid me compliments, but I didn't listen to him. Then he mentioned you, and I was very glad to listen to him. He noticed that, for every time he came he talked about you, and I always urged him to stay. He was the only person from whom I heard anything about you; what he said made me sad, and yet I wanted to hear it. He told me that you had twenty mistresses, that you loved all the women, and that you had made fun of me; then he showed me the bouquets I had carried to you, which he said you had given to him."

"The miserable cur! And you believed him, Nicette?"

"Alas! when I saw you come to buy flowers with that lady who--who called you her dear friend and looked at me with such a sneering expression, I thought he had told me the truth. That made me so unhappy that I couldn't stay at home; I went out and walked about the streets most of the night, hardly knowing what I did. It was while I was out that you came. The next morning, when you came again, you seemed to be very angry, and you left me very suddenly, you know; I wanted to call you back, but I didn't dare. That evening Monsieur Raymond came; he talked about you; I cried, and he tried to comfort me; he may have taken my hands in his, but if he did I didn't feel it; I was thinking only of you. He came again the next night, and then he wanted to talk about himself: he said that he adored me, and a lot of other things; but he said nothing more about you, and I wouldn't listen to him. I didn't let him in again; he wrote me a long love letter, calling me cruel and wicked. I have kept it to show you. At last he let me alone. I never saw you after that. I came to this house and learned that you had gone away, but had kept your apartment; that made me hope you would return. But one day Monsieur Raymond passed my shop, and, being delighted to make me unhappy, told me you were married. Alas! I should have expected it; I knew that there must be many other women who loved you; and yet, I became so miserable that I didn't have the courage to keep my shop; besides, I was rich enough to get along without it. I came to this house and found that the other apartment on your landing was empty, so I hired it on the spot. That brought me nearer to these rooms where I passed that night which changed the whole course of my life. But when you came back here to live, I didn't dare to let you see me, because I was afraid that the sight of me would not be pleasant to you.--That is the truth; do you believe now that I have loved any man but you?"

When she had finished her story, Nicette went for Raymond's letter and brought it to me. I no longer needed it to induce me to believe her; but that final proof thoroughly convinced me that I had been deceived by appearances and by Raymond's lies.

Ah! how delicious was that moment when I found that Nicette was worthy of all my love! I hastened to tell her, in my turn, all that had happened to me, all that I had felt when I believed that she was Raymond's mistress. She wept with joy and love as she listened; she gazed into my face, took my hands, and held them to her heart.

"So you did love me," she said, "and you love me still! Ah! how happy I am!"

The story of my marriage and of Pélagie's conduct caused her the greatest surprise; she could not conceive how my wife could fail to love me. Dear Nicette! But for that miserable Raymond, I should still have been free! but the ties which bound me to Pélagie were broken by nature, if not by man.

"What!" she said; "are you not going back to your wife?"

"Never. That resolution was irrevocable before I found you; it can bring no blame upon you."

"And you really want me to stay with you?"

"Do I want you to! Could I live without you now?"

"Oh! how happy I am going to be, monsieur!"

"Dear Nicette! no more _monsieur_, no more formal address! I am your friend, your lover, and you are the whole world to me! Call me Eugène, your Eugène!"

The evening passed away in this blissful conversation.

"I must go to my room now," said Nicette; "it is time to go to sleep, and you need it."

"Oh! happiness has restored my health. But you are my nurse, and you must not leave me."

She blushed and looked at me; but she had not the strength to deny me anything.

"Dear Eugène," she said, "I am yours. This is surely the place where I owe the reward of your love."

Oh! unalloyed ecstasy of true love, I had never known you before! Never until that day did I really exist!

XXXVI

GREAT EVENTS.--CONCLUSION

A new dawn had risen for me; beside Nicette time fairly flew, and love alone remained. It seemed to me that I loved her more dearly every day. Sometimes the poor child feared that her happiness was only a dream. How keen our pleasures were! how sweet our intercourse! Nicette was no longer the poor flower girl whom I had known long before. Since she had known me, she had striven incessantly to leave behind her every trace of manners and mode of speech that might be unpleasant to me; she had struggled to acquire the indispensable knowledge that she lacked. During all the time that she had lived alone on my landing, she had devoted to study every instant that was not given to thoughts of me. The result was that she talked easily and expressed herself with facility; her manners were refined, her appearance simple, but modest; she did not hold herself perfectly stiff, or keep her eyes cast down, or assume the prudish airs which distinguished Pélagie--before she was my wife; but her demeanor was respectable, her glance sweet and expressive; her whole aspect was most attractive; and her heart--ah! her heart was a treasure!

Six months had passed like a day since I had found Nicette; our happiness would have been perfect but for her occasional fits of melancholy, the cause of which I divined.

"You are married," she often said to me; "perhaps it is very wrong of me to live with you. Suppose that you should despise me some day."

"Dear Nicette! drive away these thoughts, which my heart repels. Let the world think and say what it will! If it blames me, it is wrong. In good faith, which of the two deserves to be despised, the wife who deceives her husband, or the mistress who is true to her lover?"

But one morning, while we were breakfasting, there came a violent ring at my door. Nicette answered the bell and returned, followed by a woman whom I recognized: it was Justine, Pélagie's maid.

My blood froze in my veins. Why had she come?

"Monsieur," said Justine, "madame your wife is very sick; when she came home from a ball three days ago, she began to vomit blood; they think she can't get well, and she wants to see you."

Nicette turned pale; I saw her stagger, but she ran to fetch my hat.

"Go, my dear," she said; "go at once; your wife is waiting for you. If necessary, stay with her, don't come back! But try to save her life."

I hurried after Justine and returned to that house which I had thought that I should never enter again. How everything was changed! What confusion everywhere! I found my way at last to my wife's apartment and approached her bed; I could hardly recognize her. Was this that Pélagie who used to be so fresh and pretty?--I forgot her faults, and I was conscious of no feeling for her but pity.

She held out her hand.

"I wanted to see you before I died," she said, in a faint voice. "Eugène, forgive my wrongdoing. I am punished for it, as you see. If I had listened to you, I should not be standing now on the edge of the grave."

I tried to comfort her, to revive hope in her heart; but I could not; she knew too well that the mainspring of life was broken.

I took my place by her side. The day passed without bringing any change in her condition, but the night was terrible; and about five in the morning, Pélagie ceased to live.

I shed tears over the remains of a woman whose life was so brief and whose happiness was so deceptive.

Having completed the business to which this sad event required me to attend, and having paid my wife's debts, I returned to Nicette.

"Well?" she said; "your wife?"

"She is no more!"

"Oh! my dear, let us weep over her fate! she might have been so happy if she had loved you!"

To divert my thoughts from that occurrence, I formed the plan of taking a journey with Nicette. That would complete her training; the sight of Switzerland and Italy is always profitable to those who can think and remember.

Nicette was ready to go with me; wherever she could be with me, she was perfectly happy; it mattered little to her under what sky or in what climate we were to pass our lives. To her I was the world, pleasure, happiness. Ah! Nicette! love me so always! If you should ever be false to me, then I should know that no one on earth is worthy of love or faith.

We started in a berlin which I had bought, so that we were free to halt wherever some monument should arouse our admiration, or some fact of history our interest; that is the only agreeable and profitable way to travel.

We made the tour of Switzerland. I was anxious to show Nicette the splendors of Mont Cenis, and we stopped at an inn near the foot of the mountain. I observed that there was a great commotion in the house. I ordered a room, and the maid who showed us the way to it kept uttering exclamations.

"What has happened here, in heaven's name?" I asked her; "you all seem much excited. You have guests here, I suppose?"

"Yes, monsieur, a party of foreigners arrived this morning, to climb the mountain; there are Englishmen and Frenchmen and Russians, a whole party of sightseers, in fact. But that isn't what distresses us so. You see, monsieur, this morning before breakfast all these gentlemen were together, and they began to talk about tables d'hôte. One man said that he liked them because he ate very fast; another declared that he was a better eater than any of the rest, and that he'd eat six eggs before breakfast and, even then, eat faster than anyone; they laughed at him, so he bet ten louis, and an Englishman took the bet. The poor man ordered hard-boiled eggs; he ate them, and then began his breakfast; oh! he went at it in fine style, I tell you! and so he won his ten louis. But just after, he turned yellow, red, and blue; they had to put him to bed, and instead of climbing the mountain he's likely to die on our hands."

"It's an Englishman, of course, who undertook that pretty trick?"

"No, monsieur; a Frenchman."

"A Frenchman!"

"If you want to see him, everybody's standing round his bed; everyone has some remedy to save his life."

I was curious to see the fellow. I left Nicette and bade the girl show me to the dying man's room. As I entered, he breathed his last, as a result of his wager. I glanced at his face, and recognized my neighbor Raymond.

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Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

interrupting her converversation=> interrupting her conversation {pg 78}

which I was detemined=> which I was determined {pg 198}

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

even though one act wretchedly=> even though one acts wretchedly {pg 287}

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