Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

"Perfidious creature!" I said to myself; "I understand! Why not say to me frankly: 'I no longer love you'? I should be less angry with you if you did that. But, no, falsehood and dissimulation must needs be added to inconstancy; you must always deceive us!"

"Would you like me to stay with you?" I asked, pretending to be anxious about her health.

"No, no, thanks! All I need is rest; I shall have forgotten all about it to-morrow."

She could not conceal the fright caused by my proposition, which would have upset all her plans. It was in my power to prevent their execution that evening by remaining with her; but what would the result be? I should simply postpone the catastrophe, and I should not have the pleasure of confounding her an hour or two hence! Ah! I had no desire to postpone that moment! I wished that it had already arrived. When we know that we are to undergo a painful trial, the moments that precede it are more cruel than those that follow it.

The clock struck eight; she went to bed, in order to try to sleep. That was the signal for me to retire. I bade her good-night. She came to me to kiss me; she pressed my hand, and her eyes were dry, her heart beat no faster!--I left the house; it was high time, for I was on the point of breaking out!

I was not sorry to have two hours before me previous to meeting Raymond. I had time to calm myself and to decide what course to pursue. I felt at once that the fresh air did me good. I have had that experience hundreds of times; an atmosphere more or less heavy has a great influence on our way of looking at things, especially when we are so unfortunate as to have excitable nerves. A little rain, a little wind, calms or arouses our passions; those which are natural are submissive to nature, and, thank heaven! I know no other passions and do not agree with those persons who declare that all passions are natural.

For my sake she left her aunt, her little Jules, and many others! Why should she not leave me as well? She had ceased to love me: that was not a crime. But she had deceived me: that, I believe, was what distressed me most; for it humiliates one to be deceived, especially when one is old enough one's self to deceive.

However, such a liaison is bound to end, a little sooner or later. What did it matter? I was no longer in love with her. That, I believe, was why I was so incensed with her. I was vexed because I had allowed her to anticipate me. Love forgives many things that self-esteem refuses to forgive.

If Nicette should deceive me! then, I felt that my grief would be a very different matter. I remembered how disturbed, how agitated, I was when I learned that she had taken a shop; and yet, I was only her friend. I tried to think of Nicette; that was the best remedy for Caroline's treatment of me.

I walked the whole length of the boulevards. I had had time to reason with myself, and I had fully decided upon my course of action. I realized what an idiot a man must be to torment himself over the treachery of a woman who has thrown others over for him. Indeed, how can one rely on the word of a person who has no other guaranty to offer than previous infidelities.

I decided, therefore, to amuse myself at Mademoiselle Caroline's expense. That is the most satisfactory vengeance one can wreak on a woman who deceives one. Every vengeance which savors of hatred, jealousy, or anger denotes a lingering remnant of love; it is not real vengeance.

At ten o'clock I was at the Café Anglais. I ordered a glass of punch, pending Raymond's arrival. I did not propose to muddle my wits, but I desired to attain that degree of excitement which makes one less sensible of the folly of other people. My neighbor appeared, in the careful négligé of a lady killer. One would have thought, from his radiant expression, that he was the hero of the evening's festivities.

"We shall have great sport," he said, taking a seat by my side, and resting his elbow on the next table, regardless of the fact that he put it in the dish of rice and milk of an old habitué.

"What the devil, monsieur! be careful what you're doing!" said the old gentleman, putting down his newspaper. Raymond apologized profusely, and removed his thoroughly drenched elbow from the bowl with such vivacity that he rolled it onto the white trousers of a dandy who was reading the _Journal des Modes_.

The dandy made a great outcry, the old habitué scolded Raymond roundly, and I saw that his apologies would soon bring matters to a climax. As I did not propose that any fresh scrape should interfere with our going to Monsieur de Grandmaison's, I made haste to intervene, striving to pacify the two gentlemen and to restore peace. I succeeded at last, and, dreading some new mishap, I dragged Raymond out of the café.

"The evening seems to open inauspiciously," I said, as I led him toward Rue Caumartin.

"Pshaw! far from it! this incident promises sport. It wasn't my fault that that old politician stuck his rice right under my arm; he ought to have eaten it, instead of reading his newspaper; and then it wouldn't have happened.--But it's half-past ten; let's make haste; I'll bet they're waiting for us."

"For you, you mean."

"Oh! I wrote Grandmaison a line to tell him I should bring one of my friends; so he expects you."

We arrived at Rue Caumartin and entered a pretentious mansion; it was directly opposite Caroline's rooms. We ascended a superb staircase; we passed through several antechambers, lighted by globes suspended from the ceiling, where half a dozen lackeys were yawning. Everything denoted opulence and ostentation. I had not all that to offer her. I had thought that I was doing a great deal for her: I had straitened myself and run into debt; and what had I to show for it?--Ah! I was not likely to forget my experience as a protector!

My heart beat fast as I drew near the little salon where the company awaited us; but I soon recovered my self-possession. We entered the room, where I saw four men, but the host was not among them.

"Ah! good-evening, my friends!" said Raymond, running from one to another of the guests to shake hands. "Allow me to present a friend of mine, a good fellow, who has a fancy to enjoy himself with us to-night.--But where's Grandmaison?"

"In the boudoir; he's taming his pet before supper."

"Ah! to be sure! to be sure! they are making their final arrangements, perfecting their agreement. Have you seen her, messieurs?"

"Not yet. They say she's charming!"

"Fascinating; and almost a novice!"

"The deuce! that's a marvel!"

"So Grandmaison wishes us to be less indecent than usual."

"Good! We'll proceed by degrees, so as not to frighten her. But still, this little one must be trained, and, really, Grandmaison is not the man to do it!"

"Poor man! the utmost he can do will be to say a word or two to her--after supper."

"He's not a blunt talker, like Joconde."

"No; but his wine is delicious."

"And he has an excellent cook."

"Upon my word, I have the greatest esteem for him!"

"For the cook?"

"No; for Grandmaison, you sorry joker!--Come, messieurs; no remarks with a double meaning; that's forbidden to-day. Besides, I am for morals before everything!"

During this pleasant conversation, I amused myself by examining the four gentlemen. One, who was short, stout, and red-headed, contented himself with laughing at every sally of the others, but did not venture to add any of his own. He who talked most was a little man of some fifty years, who tried to outdo the younger men by assuming the airs of a rake and uttering all the obscenities that came into his head. A thin, pallid young man, whose hollow, lifeless eyes betrayed his abuse of life, was stretched out in an easy-chair, and swayed to and fro as he addressed an occasional senseless rhapsody to the jocose Raymond, who was in his element. A tall, bulky individual, with large oxlike eyes and a nose that would have put a colocynth to shame, completed the circle, which, in my opinion, lacked only Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche.

At last a door at the end of the room opened and Monsieur de Grandmaison appeared, dragging his leg after him. But he was alone.

"Where is she? where is she?" cried all the guests, with one voice.

"One moment! one moment, pray! you'll see her in a moment. She is giving a little attention to her toilet. When I told her that she was to sup with some friends of mine, she didn't want to appear in négligé; and then, too, I am not sorry to let her see all the presents I have for her. I left her with a lady's-maid. A little patience and some punch--that will help us to wait for our supper."

Raymond presented me to Monsieur de Grandmaison, who exhausted himself in commonplace felicitations upon my kindness in honoring his little party. I answered in fear and trembling, lest he should recognize me; but my apprehension soon vanished; I saw that Monsieur de Grandmaison needed his opera glass to distinguish objects.

An enormous bowl of punch was brought, and the gentlemen did it so much honor that I was very doubtful what their condition would be at supper. The tall man with the stupid face, whom the others called _milord_, did nothing but fill his glass and empty it; while the little red-headed fellow, whom I heard them call Zamorin, stuffed himself with macaroons, cake, and biscuits, to assist him to wait for the supper.

The old rake and the languid young man questioned Grandmaison concerning his new mistress's features; and the host went into her charms in detail, promising to inform them more fully on the morrow.

"What shall we call her?" inquired Raymond.

"Her name is Madame Saint-Léon. A pretty name, isn't it, messieurs?"

"Yes, very pretty. I think a great deal of the name myself."

"Has she any children?"

"Idiot! didn't I tell you that she was almost a novice?"

"True; but _almost_ doesn't mean that----"

"Nonsense! hold your tongue, Raymond; you insult innocence!" said Monsieur Rocambolle, the old rake. "I am sure that Grandmaison found this woman at Les Vertus."

Enchanted by his jest, Monsieur Rocambolle turned, with a laugh, to the young man; who laughed with him, showing two or three discolored teeth, his only remaining ones.

Amid the general clatter, as I did not wish to seem bored in the agreeable company of these gentry, I said at random whatever came into my head; and sometimes, without any effort to that end, I had the pleasure of making the merry fellows laugh.

"Didn't I tell you that he was a wag, a delightful fellow?" cried Raymond.

I was a delightful fellow! I swear that I had taken no pains to be delightful, but I fancy that my companions were not exacting.

Supper was announced, and Grandmaison looked at his watch.

"Three-quarters of an hour," he said; "she must be ready; I will fetch her. Go into the supper room, and I will bring her to you there."

He left the room, and Raymond, who was familiar with the locality, led us into a round, elegantly decorated room, in the centre of which was a table laden with everything calculated to flatter the sight, the smell, and the taste.

A handsome clock on a low white marble mantel marked within a few minutes of midnight.

"The devil!" exclaimed Monsieur Rocambolle; "almost twelve o'clock! We shall have mighty little time to enjoy ourselves."

"Or to eat," said Zamorin.

"Wait, wait, messieurs," said Raymond, who always insisted upon finding a way to provide for everything; "I'll set it back an hour."

"Well said! well said!" cried all the others. "That devil of a Raymond is never at a loss! he's as inventive as a girl."

Overjoyed to display the resources of his imagination, Raymond ran to the clock, raised with startling rapidity the globe that covered it, moved back the hands, and set the regulator so far toward _slow_ that, from the way in which he went about it, I concluded it would not be midnight for two hours. Our attention was diverted by Monsieur de Grandmaison's voice, which announced the arrival of her whom all the guests awaited, but how much less impatiently than myself!

All eyes were turned toward the door by which she was to enter; I alone stood aside, in such a position that she would not see me at once. We heard the rustling of her gown, but at that moment there was a loud report in the room; Raymond had broken the mainspring of the clock; and to cover up his stupidity, he hurried away from the fireplace and ran to meet the beauty who was to be presented to us.

She appeared at last, escorted by Monsieur de Grandmaison and by Raymond, who had taken possession of her other hand and was already pouring forth all the pretty things he was capable of saying. I saw her, and my heart beat more violently, my chest swelled. That was the last time that her presence ever produced any effect on me.

She was magnificently dressed: an emerald necklace gleamed on her breast, a very handsome comb and long earrings added to the splendor of her costume. She entered the room with downcast eyes, assuming a modest air almost exactly like that which deceived me the first time I saw her. That woman was able to do whatever she chose with her face.

"Now," thought I, "let us see how she will endure a sight of me."

She raised her eyes to the company at last; instantly a concert of praise and compliments burst forth. She was in truth very fair to look upon, and the gentlemen vied with one another in their efforts to find words enthusiastic enough to depict their ecstasy and enchantment. How happy she was at that moment! there was a flush on her brow, but it was a flush of pleasure, of pride, not of modesty.

"But where's my friend?" cried Raymond, looking about for me. He spied me in the corner from which I was observing the scene, ran to me, seized my hand, and dragged me toward Caroline.

"Come on," he said; "come, I say, and see the Three Graces! She's Hebe, she's Venus, she's Psyche, she's----"

Raymond was interrupted by a cry from Caroline. She glanced at me as I began to pay my respects to her, congratulating Monsieur de Grandmaison. She turned pale, stammered, tried to recover herself; but the shock was too sharp; she tottered, and fell upon her latest adorer. He, being then occupied in responding to his friends' congratulations, received the young woman's weight as he was about to take a pinch of snuff, to help him to make some witty response. The poor man was not strong enough to resist that unexpected blow; his left leg was always out of line, and Caroline's weight causing the right one to bend, Monsieur de Grandmaison fell heavily, trying to grasp what was nearest him, which happened to be Monsieur Rocambolle's thigh. He clung to that, which he supposed to be an integral part of the person, but his hand grasped nothing but the cotton wool with which the old libertine stuffed his breeches in order to improve his shape. The broadcloth split and tore, and Monsieur Rocambolle's fictitious thigh remained in Monsieur de Grandmaison's hand.

While Monsieur Rocambolle angrily reclaimed his cotton posterior, while the toothless youth threw himself upon a couch, laughing like a maniac, while Zamorin looked to see if the supper were growing cold, and while milord gazed from one to another of the company with eyes that seemed to be starting from his head, Raymond, wishing to repair the damage unassisted, rushed to the table in search of something to give the fainting woman. As he put out his hand for a carafe, he overturned a decanter of madeira, also a candelabrum, the candles in which fell upon a fromage glacé and went out. The decanter fell on Monsieur de Grandmaison's face, who swore that his nose was broken; while Zamorin, seeing the havoc Raymond was making on the supper table, called loudly for help. The servants hastened to the spot, but their presence served only to increase the confusion. Caroline was still unconscious, or pretended to be in order to conceal her embarrassment; Monsieur de Grandmaison continued to curse, Monsieur Rocambolle to shout, Zamorin to lament, and the young man to laugh; the Englishman tried to put a bottle or two of champagne in a safe place; and Raymond, in attempting to assist the young woman, to raise Grandmaison, and to restore order, overturned furniture, smashed bottles and plates, sent a chicken in one man's face, a pie into another's lap, and ended by falling upon a small table laden with liqueurs and brandied fruits.

What further business had I at Monsieur de Grandmaison's? My revenge was complete; the confusion was at its height; the scene of pleasure was transformed into a scene of uproar and distress; singing had given place to outcries, bonsmots to lamentations, drunkenness to wrath, merriment to gloom; in a word, Caroline had seen and recognized me, and the effect had surpassed my anticipations. I was satisfied; and leaving them all to extricate themselves from their plight as best they could, I left Monsieur de Grandmaison's house, thoroughly cured of the sentiment the young flowermaker had inspired in me.

XXIII

THE TWO VISITS.--THE LESSON IN HANDWRITING

On the following morning, at nine o'clock, my doorbell rang. I was still in bed, reviewing the events of the evening, and laughing at that which had been powerless hitherto to extort a smile from me, because a single sentiment had filled my mind and prevented me from considering the scene from its comic side. But now that my head was cool, my heart tranquil, and my mind no longer tormented by the anticipation of what was to happen, I thought of the different personages I had left at Monsieur de Grandmaison's house; I fancied that I could see them gathered about the lost supper, lost by the exertions of Monsieur Raymond; and I laughed all by myself, as if I were still in their midst.

If at that moment some inquisitive mortal, escorted by the _Diable Boiteux_ or some other imp, had perched on the roof of my house and amused himself by watching me, he would have thought, no doubt, that I was temporarily insane. For my own part, I cannot see that it was any more extraordinary to laugh at those reminiscences than it would have been to weep at them; but we are never astonished to see a person shed tears; whereas, if you laugh all by yourself, you are looked upon as a madman or an idiot. Can it be that tears are more natural to man than laughter?

My concierge, who, as I believe I have already told you, did my housework every morning, opened my door and ushered in my neighbor Raymond, who, seeing that I was in a hilarious mood, thought that his presence was responsible for it, and stood for a moment uncertain whether to be angry or to join in my laughter. He prudently adopted the latter course, and approached my bed chuckling.

"Well, my dear fellow, it was a warm evening! Ha! ha! ha! You are still thinking about it, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I look to you for the details of the catastrophe."

"And I to you for an explanation."

"Do you want it in the Bois de Boulogne again?"

"No, no! Ah! you fox! the lovely Caroline had some reason for fainting when she saw you!"

"A perfectly natural reason: I am the young man whom Monsieur de Grandmaison has replaced."

"Is it possible? Gad! it was a unique situation! And to think that it was I who took you to the supper and introduced you to poor Grandmaison! Deuce take it! you never said a word, you did not give me your confidence, although I am devoted to you, heart and soul!"

"I wanted to arrange a surprise."

"You succeeded mighty well!"

"Tell me how the evening ended?"

"Very dismally. There wasn't any supper. The young woman insisted on retiring. Poor Grandmaison's face was cut by a bottle of wine that fell on him, heaven knows how, and we had to leave them at liberty to go to bed. But I fancy the night passed very differently from what they anticipated. We parted in an execrable humor. Rocambolle was angry about his cotton padding, Zamorin regretted the supper, and the other the youthful beauty whom he hoped to seduce. I am the only one of the party who takes everything philosophically, as you know. But I confess that I was impatient to see you, to learn the cause of the catastrophe which disturbed the festivities. I came near waking you up last night, in order to find out earlier."

"You did very well to let me sleep."

"Well, I must go, neighbor; but, I beg you, have a little more confidence in me another time! You know how close-mouthed I am; you can safely tell me anything! I always receive it under the seal of secrecy. I should have made an excellent inquisitor, or an _illuminé_! I love secrets. In the matter of secrets, I am absolutely impenetrable. For instance--I am a Freemason: have I ever divulged the secrets of the order?"

"You have told me that there weren't any."

"True, true; but I said that to deceive you the better. Adieu, neighbor!--By the way, do you know the news? They say that the Baron de Witcheritche wears horns. There's a young musician who offered to show the baroness how to play the serpent; the husband consented, because it would be one more string to their bow, and it might be useful on occasion. Moreover, the baron thought that he would compose some little duets for the violin and the serpent, that he and his wife could perform in company. So the musician came every morning to give her lessons; but one fine day, Witcheritche, who was supposed to be in the country, returned home unexpectedly; he found the teacher's method of instruction too progressive and the baroness too apt. It seems that Witcheritche wasn't as fond of music as usual that day; for he shrieked and swore; his wife wept, the musician skipped; in short, there was a scandalous scene. Little Friquet, whom I happened to meet the other day, told me about it; he had it from his aunt, who had it from Madame Bertin, who had it from Crachini, who had it from Gripaille, who had it from a young lady who lives in the house with Witcheritche. But I say that we shouldn't be too ready to believe rumors; we should go back to the fountain head. I am going to the baron's this morning; I shall see whether he is on cool terms with his wife, and I'll find a way to make him tell me everything, without seeming to do so, by just mentioning the serpent. Adieu! I have to finish a little vaudeville for which I have an order from Rue de Chartres."

"Have you had a play accepted at some theatre?"

"Why, I have had plays accepted everywhere."

"It's strange that they are never produced."

"Oh! I'll tell you why that is: when they are not produced at once, I withdraw them! I have a will of my own, you know. Withdrawn at once, if not produced as soon as I request it. It's like my pictures, my little water-colors, which I don't send to the Salon, for fear they'll be hung in a bad light. A man should have some pride; veritable talent is centred within itself, and there always comes a time when its envelope is pierced.--Adieu, neighbor! I'll give you a chance to dress."

"That man ought to be happy," I said to myself, thinking of Raymond; "he has no doubt of anything; he believes himself to be intellectual, talented, and handsome. If a woman doesn't listen to him, it's because she's afraid of loving him too well; if his poems are not printed, it's because the publishers are ignorant; if his plays are not accepted, a cabal of authors is responsible: his self-esteem does not allow him to look at things from any but a flattering point of view. I am convinced that he believes himself to be courageous, although he fought a duel with bulletless pistols; and that he would consider himself a soldier if he were in the band of the national lottery; just as he thinks he has a fine leg because he has fat calves, and beautiful hair because he's as woolly-headed as a negro. However, he is happy, and that's the main point. Happy people are not so rare as they are said to be; for there are many in the world who resemble neighbor Raymond."

If it had not been so late, I would have gone to see Nicette; to read in her eyes that sentiment so sweet, so affectionate, and, perhaps, so true, that I had never found in Mademoiselle Caroline's lovely eyes; I say _perhaps_, for I dared not trust anything or anybody.

On going out I unconsciously took the direction of Rue Caumartin, nor did I stop until I reached the corner of that street and the boulevard. It was all a matter of habit; habit is responsible for many things that we do. In fact, it is a sort of second nature, it binds us in default of love. How many people there are who have ceased to love each other, and who remain together from habit! I do not refer to those who are married; they cannot do otherwise.

In order to put an end the sooner to that habit, which could not be very deeply rooted, as my intimacy with Caroline had lasted only two months, I determined to call upon Madame de Marsan, with whom I recalled that I had been more or less in love. At all events, I owed her a visit for the invitation which she had sent me, and of which I had been unable to avail myself, thanks to my travelling companion.

She lived on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I remembered, near the first street on the right; in any event, I could inquire; rich people are well known and are always easy to find; it is only the poor who are ashamed of their poverty whom no one knows; but then, it is so seldom that anyone seeks them. I bent my steps toward Faubourg Saint-Honoré and inquired for Monsieur de Marsan. Three or four persons eagerly showed me his house, pointed it out with their fingers. Evidently Monsieur de Marsan was a very wealthy man! everybody knew him or wished to appear to know him. Really, wealth is a fine thing!

His house was, in fact, of imposing aspect; less elegant, less ostentatious perhaps, than Monsieur de Grandmaison's; but I suspected that it was more productive, and to a man of calculating mind that advantage is certain to outweigh others. It was only twelve o'clock; might I see madame? It was very early for the first call on a pretty woman, especially one who has passed her thirtieth year. The further a lady recedes from her springtime, the more time she spends at her toilet, so that she cannot be visible very early. At fifteen, a girl appears just as she happens to be; at twenty, she receives callers in a simple négligé; at twenty-five, she poses before her mirror for some time before she appears; at thirty, she takes much pains with her toilet; at thirty-six--but that would carry us too far; let us pause at thirty-six.

The concierge told me to go up to the first floor, the left-hand door; that led to madame's apartment. Monsieur's offices were on the ground floor. I walked through several rooms, and found at last a young lady's-maid--who was not pretty, and with whom no man was likely to tarry when he was going to see her mistress. I asked for madame, gave my name, and the maid went to announce me. I waited only five minutes; that is not too long to wait to see a pretty woman, when so many wealthy fools, vulgar parvenus, and public officials have the assurance to keep visitors waiting an hour before they condescend to show their inane faces.

"You may enter, monsieur," said the lady's-maid, and she ushered me into her mistress's presence. This prompt reception seemed to me of favorable augury.

I found Madame de Marsan sitting on a causeuse in a pretty little room decorated in the daintiest style, where the light, being filtered through double curtains and blinds, was very soft. I spied a piano, a harp, and music. I have a great liking for women who are fond of music, and a greater for those who play or sing; it is a sure resource in idleness; and a woman who does nothing thinks too much.

Madame de Marsan received me with an amiable smile, in which I fancied that I could detect a shade of vexation. I attributed it to the absence of zeal on my part in calling upon her; and that course of action, which, however, was not premeditated, served me better than the most assiduous love-making would have done. She was piqued; she believed that she had surely subjugated me, and she had not seen me since. In truth, that must have seemed very strange to her after the way I had ogled her at the theatre and my conduct at Vauvert's; it surprised myself, for I now thought her a hundred times prettier than Caroline.

She did not reproach me, however; but I made haste to apologize for having failed to avail myself of her invitation, and told her what had happened to Raymond and myself. The story of our adventures at Montmorency made Madame de Marsan laugh heartily; and merriment, by banishing the etiquette and formality of a first interview, permitted our minds to understand each other and our hearts to divine each other.

In order to prolong my visit, I urged Madame de Marsan to sing to me. She consented, and acquitted herself with a grace and good taste that fascinated me. She accompanied herself perfectly on the piano; in short, she was a thorough musician. How she must have suffered at Vauvert's party!--But I realized that I must not unduly prolong the first interview. It is judicious to make people desire one's presence, and not to be too lavish of one's self at first, especially with women who are accustomed to homage and love-making; in fact, to being assiduously courted. Hitherto I had never had the art of concealing what I felt; perhaps I was boasting too soon, but I had determined to be on my guard in the future! My last adventure had revived all my grievances against a sex which I could not shun, but to which I would gladly have repaid a part of the torments it had caused me.

I took leave, therefore, of Madame de Marsan.

"Will you be as long again without letting me hear from you?" she asked, as I rose to go.

"No, madame; I shall take frequent advantage of the permission you accord me to come to see you and listen to your singing. I trust that you will not consider that I abuse it."

"Be assured, monsieur, that I shall never complain of that. You love music, and we will sing together sometimes. I go out very little; and it will be very good of you to make one of our little circle."

She was a charming woman. I am inclined to think that I say that every time my heart takes fire. But, no matter; I may as well repeat it, as the same sentiments were constantly renewed in my heart. What she had said to me could not have been more amiable. She could not see me too often--that was almost a declaration! I left her, with the most flattering hopes stirring in my breast, believing that I was adored already. To be sure, according to what Raymond had told me, it would not be her first weakness; he had spoken, I think, of three or four _inclinations_. But I refused to judge Madame de Marsan according to the remarks of my neighbor, who was a liar and a slanderer.

"I will go to her house this evening," I thought. But, no; that would be altogether too soon! I had vowed never again to go so fast in an intrigue, but to try to learn first of all the character of the woman who attracted me, to avoid letting my sentiments appear until I was sure of hers; and lo! I had taken fire already! I wanted to obtain everything at once! Ah! I was incorrigible; I should never know how to spin out a genuine romance.

I determined not to go to Madame de Marsan's again for two days. Meanwhile, I must have distraction; not that I was still thinking of Mademoiselle Caroline! so far as she was concerned, I was thoroughly cured; indeed, I had concluded that the wound was not very deep. However, if I were left to my own devices, my natural impatience would drive me to Madame de Marsan. But had I not always Nicette to oppose to ennui, sorrow, and, above all, new love affairs?--I would see her; but not yet, for it was only two o'clock. I should be seen talking with her, and that was what I did not want. I must wait until night; so I went home, thinking that I would try to straighten out my affairs a little before dinner.

I found there a letter from my sister. Poor Amélie! She complained that I had entirely forgotten her. In truth, it was now September, and I had not yet been to see her. If I could have gone for two or three days; but that was impossible! when I was once there, she would never let me go.--She wrote of a superb match she had found for me: sixteen years old, beauty, virtue, and fortune. I agreed that the combination was dazzling, but it did not tempt me as yet; perhaps in two or three years--we would see. I made up my mind, however, to go to Amélie and her husband for a fortnight during the autumn; indeed, it was essential that I should do something to set my affairs in order, for my liaison with the flowermaker had disarranged them sadly. The deuce! at the rate things had been going, my income would soon have disappeared. I was much indebted to her for leaving me soon enough to prevent my ruining myself. With six months of strict economy, I should be able to pay my debts; for six months, therefore, I would abstain from those passions that cost so dear; Mademoiselle Caroline had proved that the women for whom we do the most are not the ones who love us best.

At nightfall, I went to see Nicette. Her shop was closed; but I saw a light through the glass over the door. I knocked softly, fearing to attract the attention of the neighbors. I had every appearance of a lover who is afraid of being seen.

"Who is there?" she asked.

"It's I, Nicette; it's----"

But I did not need to give my name; the door was already open and she was before me. I entered the shop, closing the door behind me; then paused to examine the girl, who was all alone amid the flowers and shrubs which filled the whole shop, save a small space where there were a table and a chair. The table was covered with paper, pens, and books; and a single candle lighted that little room, where the different flowers diffused a most agreeable odor.

She bade me sit beside her.

"How kind you are to come to see me, Monsieur Dorsan, and to think of me sometimes!"

"Don't you think of me, Nicette?"

"Oh! all the time! but that's no reason why--why--I mean, it's very different!"

"What were you doing when I came?"

"I was writing, monsieur--learning my lesson."

She blushed as she said it. I glanced at the table and saw several sheets of paper covered with large letters--a name written again and again--and that name, mine! Poor Nicette!

I looked at her; she blushed even more, and stammered, lowering her eyes:

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, for taking your name for a copy; but I thought that my benefactor's name ought to be the first thing that I wrote."

I took her hands and pressed them.

"Really, Nicette, I do not deserve so much friendship--if you knew me better!"

"Oh! I know you well enough by all that you have done for me."

"Are you happy now?"

"Yes, monsieur; I can't be more so."

The tone in which she said that, and the melancholy expression of her face, gave me much food for thought.

"You seem to me much changed, Nicette."

"How, monsieur?"

"You are pale, and a little thinner than you were."

"But I am not sick."

"Perhaps this smell of flowers----"

"Oh! I've been used to that a long time."

"I miss in your manner that light-heartedness and vivacity that I noticed at the time of our first meeting."

"Oh! a person can't be always the same."

"Still, if you have nothing to distress you----"

"No, monsieur, no, I haven't anything."

"Your eyes tell me the contrary. Dear Nicette, you have been crying."

"No, monsieur; and even if I had--why, sometimes one cries without knowing why, and without being unhappy."

We said nothing more. I did not choose to question her further, for I thought that I could guess what caused her distress. She did not look at me again; doubtless she was afraid that I would read her eyes. She was pensive and silent. Nor could I find anything to say. Her sadness had infected my heart. But the silence had a charm which we both enjoyed. However, I thought that I ought to try to divert her thoughts, and at the same time turn my own mind from reflections that were too hazardous. I went to the table and looked at the paper and the writing.

"You write well already, Nicette."

"Not any too well yet, monsieur; but I hope, with time----"

"Do you still take lessons?"

"No, I haven't any teacher now; he said things to me that I didn't like; he didn't want to give me the word I wanted for a copy; he always made me write: _Commencement, commonly, exactly_; and I didn't see why I couldn't learn just as well by writing _Dorsan_ as _commonly_, although it isn't so long. That made him angry, so I sent him away; I can get along without him. I know how to write the small letters too."

"Let me see."

"Oh! my hand would tremble before you, monsieur."

"Why so? I will give you a lesson."

"Will you, really?"

"Why, yes; to be sure."

She seated herself at the table; I placed a chair close beside hers, put my right arm about her, and guided her hand with mine; my face touched her hair; her whole body was against mine; I inhaled her sweet breath, and I could count the beating of her heart. Ah! what pleasure that lesson afforded me! Unconsciously, without premeditation, I made her write _I love you_ again and again. My hand trembled as violently as the hand I was guiding. But a tear fell from her eyes. The pen dropped from our hands. I have no idea how it happened; but Nicette's pretty face was hidden against my breast, her two arms were about me, and mine pressed her fondly to my heart. At that moment I felt that even if Madame de Marsan, or any other woman, were present, I would not put Nicette's arms away.

We had been a long while in that position and did not think of changing it. Nicette was happy, and I--I must confess it--enjoyed a pleasure that I had never known before, a pleasure of which I had no conception, undisturbed by any desire for which I need blush. But, engrossed as I was by the present, I could not answer for the future; another caress might kindle a conflagration.

There came a loud knock at the door of the shop. Nicette started from my arms, and I looked at her with some disquietude.

"Who can have come to see you so late? You told me that you had no acquaintances."

"I don't know who it is; I don't expect anybody!"

Her eyes reassured me; they could not lie! But the knocking was repeated, and we distinguished these words:

"Open the door, open quick, Mamzelle Nicette! your mother's very sick and wants to see you."

Nicette ran to the door and recognized the daughter of one of Madame Jérôme's neighbors. The girl told her that her mother had had an apoplectic attack as the result of a violent quarrel with her daughter Fanchon; and feeling very ill, she longed to see the child she had so unjustly turned out of doors. Nicette flew about the shop; in an instant she had taken off her apron and put on her cap.

"Adieu, adieu, Monsieur Dorsan!" she said, in a trembling voice, and with eyes filled with tears; "my mother is sick and I must forget everything."

We left the shop; she took the little girl's arm and dragged her away; the child could hardly keep pace with her. I soon lost sight of them.

Sweet girl! she possessed all the virtues, and I loved her better than I thought, more dearly than I had ever loved. The most convincing proof that I really loved her was that I had thus far respected her innocence; but I felt that I must avoid going to see her at night; to be alone with her would be too dangerous. If it had not been for that knocking--I do not know what might have happened.

I decided to return to Madame de Marsan, so as to turn my thoughts from Nicette; I must give my brain occupation, in order to allow my heart to become calmer. By that means I should at least provide myself with a pardonable motive for my new follies.

XXIV

THE BOURGEOIS COMEDY.--THE REHEARSAL

For several days my conduct was really most exemplary; I paid court to Madame de Marsan, concerning whom my neighbor had told me too much. I did not go again to see Nicette at night; and when I passed her shop during the day, I bade her good-morning without stopping. Her black dress told me of the loss she had sustained, but I did not ask her for any details of Madame Jérôme's death.

Madame de Marsan was a very agreeable, lively, coquettish person; I found several young men assiduously attentive to her, but had no idea whether they were more fortunate than I. I was not sufficiently enamored of her to be jealous; and yet, it annoyed me to see that swarm of admirers who so often forced themselves between her and myself. Twenty times I was tempted to cease to augment their number, but a secret hope whispered to me that I was the preferred one and that I should distance all my rivals.

Madame de Marsan's receptions were delightful: the company was select, the women were pretty, the men well bred; courtesy without affectation or reserve was the ordinary rule; we were lively and cheerful without ceasing to be decent, gallant without mawkishness; and if anyone did say something a little spiteful, it was said in the good-natured tone in which one may say anything with impunity. The music was excellent, without being pretentious; sometimes they played for high stakes, but you could never detect the faintest emotion on the faces of the players; in good society, people know how to lose their money with a charming grace.

The month of October was drawing near, and before the winter should come and open the season for balls Madame de Marsan proposed to give a party at her country house, at which there were to be some theatricals. I had been hearing of this function for a long while, and extensive preparations were being made therefor. The matter of the plays to be given was thoroughly discussed, and at last they fixed upon _Le Barbier de Séville_ and _Fanchon la Vielleuse_. Madame de Marsan insisted that I should take part. I had never acted in anything but charades, but I could not refuse to do whatever she wished. I was cast for Lindor, and she for Rosine; I could not complain of that arrangement. The other parts were distributed, and Raymond was not forgotten; he was an invaluable man for bourgeois comedies. As for Monsieur de Marsan, he never took part in theatricals. In large parties, husbands are of no use except to provide the money.

On the appointed day, Madame de Marsan went to her country house, where all the actors were to report a week before the performance, in order to have plenty of time to rehearse and arrange the stage business. Raymond, who had left me in peace for some time, came to me now every morning to urge me to hear him repeat the rôle of Bartholo; and as he was to appear in _Fanchon_ also, in the part of the Abbé de Lattaignant, I must needs teach him the airs he had to sing; for, although he held himself out as a great musician, it took him a fortnight to learn a vaudeville couplet, even though he always had some score or other in his pocket.

"They'd have done much better to give some short new play instead of this interminable _Fanchon_," my neighbor said to me every morning. "I'd have written one myself! indeed, I have some all written, which would be just the thing for amateurs!"

"You ought to suggest them."

"Pshaw! there's that Madame Saint-Marc, Madame de Marsan's friend, who's determined to play Fanchon, because, I suppose, she thinks she's very pretty _en marmotte_. And that tall thin fellow who wants to play Sainte-Luce--we shall see how it goes. I myself could have played the officer much better than the abbé; the part's better suited to my figure and style; however, I'm willing to take the other part to oblige; I sacrifice myself. I hope, however, that if we have time, before the fête, they'll play my little opera, _Les Amants Protégés par Vénus_; there are only three short acts, but very spectacular. Listen, this is the first----"

"I'm studying my part."

"Never mind, I want you to judge of the effect. The stage represents a magnificent country house, where preparations for the wedding of the lovers are in progress. The princess begins and says:

"'Prince, 'tis here that we're to be united.
How happy I am! how----'"

I listened no longer; and although the fête was not to come off for ten days, I rid myself of Raymond by leaving Paris for Madame de Marsan's country house, where I was not sorry to arrive in advance of the rest of the guests. I hoped there to find a more favorable opportunity; and opportunity is such a precious thing! Many people have owed their happiness to it; all that is necessary is to know enough to grasp it.

This time I had obtained such directions as were necessary to prevent my going astray, and in due time I arrived at Madame de Marsan's estate. It was almost a little château; the situation was delightful, the surroundings beautiful; the gardens seemed quite extensive and very well kept, the apartments decorated with refined taste, and so well arranged that a large number of guests could easily be accommodated. But I postponed my examination of these details, being in haste to present my respects to the mistress of the house.

"Madame is alone," said the maid; "none of the guests have arrived yet."

I had hoped that that would be the case.

"And Monsieur de Marsan?"

"Oh! monsieur won't come until the day of the party or the day before. He never meddles in such things."

I could not have chosen my time better. I hastened to surprise her. The welcome I received satisfied me that she was flattered by my zeal.

"It is very good of you to come first," she said; "we can rehearse a scene from _Le Barbier_ together. Our parts are very long, you know, and, for my part, I have a very poor memory."

"I will do whatever you please, madame."

"Come first of all to look at our theatre. I am sure that you expect to find a cramped little place, where your head touches the flies, and the houses are smaller than the actors. Come, monsieur; I am determined that the sight of our playhouse shall arouse a spirit of emulation in you."

She laughingly led me into the garden; the theatre was in the centre. It was large, convenient, and excellently arranged. The auditorium was tastefully decorated and would hold about three hundred people.

"Well, monsieur! what do you say to our theatre?"

"That it would put many provincial theatres to shame."

"And we flatter ourselves, too, that we give better performances than one sees in the provinces. We do not shrink from anything: comedy, vaudeville, opéra-comique! We play everything except tragedy."

"Why that exception?"

"You will agree that in the best amateur company at least half of the performers are good for nothing and provoke laughter, which in our theatre is never prohibited; but we noticed that the audience always laughed more at tragedies than at other plays; and as we could not mistake that for applause, we have ceased to play any but merry pieces; now, when we cause laughter we can persuade ourselves that it is a sign of approval. There is always some way of sparing one's self-esteem, you see. At our last performance we had a most complete success! We gave _Porceaugnac_, with all the scenic accessories; nothing was forgotten; I fancy that we bought all the syringes in Montmorency. But it was charming, and it made a great sensation. It was spoken of in Paris; we even had an article in the paper. You will agree, monsieur, that our honor is involved now in maintaining our reputation."

I promised Madame de Marsan to do my best to make myself worthy to appear upon her stage; and we left it, to stroll through the garden. It was almost a park; it was possible to lose one's self there, and I hoped to take advantage of that fact. There was a little clump of trees, a grotto, a bridge, which lacked nothing but water, dense, bosky groves, shaded paths, turf that was always green, several pretty little elevations, a subterranean path, a cliff, a waterfall, and all the games that can be played in a garden. It was a delicious spot, into which it seemed to me that ennui could never find its way. Madame de Marsan gave me a small bedroom overlooking the fields. I should have been delighted with it, except that it was a long way from hers. I reproached her for it, and she answered with a jest. Patience! perhaps my turn would come.

Meanwhile, it was incumbent on me to learn my part. Madame de Marsan wished to rehearse some scenes that night, and she left me to study. No constraint, no etiquette in the country.

"Here," she said, "everyone does what he pleases--rises in the morning, goes out to walk, stays in the house, goes away, returns, as his fancy bids him. So long as you are prompt at meals, and, above all, at rehearsals, you are absolutely your own master."

I promised to conform to the established rules, and buried myself among the trees to study the rôle of Almaviva. But the thought that I was alone in that house with Madame de Marsan--for servants and workmen do not count--that thought made my mind wander. What! I was under the same roof with a pretty woman, who allowed me to make love to her without apparent displeasure, who seemed indeed to manifest something more than interest in me--and I could be satisfied with anything less than a complete victory!--I saw that I had to do with an accomplished coquette, who perhaps pretended to be sensible to my attentions in order to keep me bound to her chariot for a longer time.