Chapter XXIII: Chamoureau Takes the Plunge Headforemost

Beauregard threw himself upon a chair, facing Thélénie. When Mademoiselle Héloïse had left them alone, they gazed at each other for some time without speaking; but one could read on their faces that the same thought was not in the minds of both.

The beautiful courtesan pressed her lips together in a convulsive fashion, her eyes avoided her companion's and wandered about the room, and she opened and closed her hands with a sort of nervous contraction of the muscles that indicated an impatience which she could hardly control.

Beauregard, on the contrary, seemed perfectly calm and placid; he amused himself watching the woman before him, and the ironical expression of his eyes might have created the impression that he took a secret pleasure in the annoyance which his presence caused her.

"May I be permitted to know to what I owe the honor of seeing you, monsieur?" said Thélénie, breaking the silence at last.

"Ah! so you assume, madame, that I must have some special reason for coming to see you? Why should you not think that I am impelled solely by the desire to do homage to your beauty?"

"Because I know that my beauty has long been entirely indifferent to you; we have got beyond the complimentary stage!"

"Which may be interpreted to mean that we no longer tell each other falsehoods, may it not?"

"I don't interpret it so! When you told me that you thought me pretty, that I pleased you, I was pretty enough to justify me in believing that you meant it."

"Yes, we men sometimes tell the truth; I am convinced that, as a general rule, we lie less than women."

"Do you think so? it is quite possible! Did you come here to work out that problem?"

"No, indeed; it would take too long; I should prefer the labors of Hercules. Restrain your impatience, madame, I am coming to the purpose of my visit. The liaison which once existed between us two was not without result, as you know."

Thélénie turned paler and pressed her lips together more tightly; but she kept silent and waited.

"In short, to speak plainly, you had a child, whose paternity you chose to attribute to me; in fact, I do not deny it, as the step which I am taking at this moment sufficiently proves. Yes, we had a few months of ardent passion, of exalted sentiments! we even went so far as to live away from the world for some time, in a chalet, surrounded by goats and cheese. It was superb, but it didn't last long; things that are carried to excess never do last.--Briefly, you returned to Paris, and I had gone to Italy for a little trip, I believe, when you wrote me that you had given birth to a son--for it was a boy, was it not, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur, it was a boy; and you didn't even answer my letter."

"Because I was very much occupied then; but when I returned to Paris, nine months later, I lost no time in calling upon you; I had some difficulty in finding you; I had even more in obtaining an audience. You were so surrounded by adorers, courtiers, slaves! You had them in all ranks of life--bankers, Hungarian counts, speculators!--Oh! I must do you the justice to say that you have always had a very marked penchant for finance!--and you no longer cared to receive a visit from me."

"It was my turn, monsieur, to be very much occupied."

"My reign had gone by; I do not presume to make any complaint on that score, madame!"

"And you are wise, for you have no right to; didn't you leave me first--to go to Italy?"

"Possibly; it may be that I had reasons for leaving you. But let us not recriminate; that matter is not in question now. When I saw you again, my first remark was to ask you where my son was; and you replied that he died three months after his birth."

"I certainly did, monsieur; and as it was true, I could make no other answer."

"At first, I was satisfied with that answer; and I left you; but later, other ideas occurred to me, and I called on you again. I found the same difficulty in speaking to you, for you seemed to shun me, and to display the greatest persistency in avoiding my presence."

"Why should I have desired it, monsieur? For a long time we had ceased to have anything to say to each other."

"Pardon me, madame; I had certain questions to ask you concerning the particulars of the child's death; and those questions seemed to annoy you exceedingly, for only with the very greatest difficulty did I succeed in obtaining the answers I desired."

"There are subjects which it is painful to revive; that was one of them; it could not fail to renew my grief."

"Oh! as for your grief, madame, you will pardon me if I refuse to believe in it. I think that maternal love does not fill a very large place in your heart."

"Why do you think that, monsieur?"

"Because, if it were otherwise, you would have been the first to talk to me about our son, to give me a thousand and one details of his birth and death. Whereas, on the contrary, your answers on those subjects were so short and sharp that it was easy to see that you were in a hurry to put an end to the interview."

"Did you expect me to give you very many details of the life of a child that lived three months?"

"A mother would have found them."

"I was not a mother, then?"

"No, not in the full acceptation of the word. However, after making me repeat my questions many times, you told me that you had entrusted your child to a nurse who lived at Saint-Denis. I asked you the woman's name,--you had forgotten it; but I was so persistent that you finally remembered the name: it was Madame Mathieu, the wife of a farm hand. I asked you her address. Oh! then you jumped from your seat in your wrath, as if I had asked you where you had hidden a treasure! Again your memory was at fault. You finally told me that the woman lived near the church on the square, and that that was all you knew."

"Well, what then?"

"Then I went to Saint-Denis myself; I asked for Madame Mathieu, wife of a farm hand; nobody knew such a person. I visited all the houses near the church, and it was impossible for me to discover that nurse. I found two women named Mathieu at Saint-Denis, but one was eighty years old, the other sixty-six; so that neither of them could be the one I was looking for--quite uselessly, for you had lied to me."

"I beg you, monsieur, to choose your expressions more carefully."

"I have no need to be considerate toward you, madame, for I know you and I know what you are, what you are worth.--A melancholy knowledge, for which I have paid very dear!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur? It seems to me that you never ruined yourself for me."

"Thank God! I left that pleasure to others; but you know very well what I mean.--To resume, madame, you lied when you gave me the address at Saint-Denis of a nurse who never existed."

"I told you all that I knew, monsieur; it was not my fault if the woman had left the place where she once lived."

"Peasants don't move about like lorettes, and if they do happen to change their place of abode, everyone knows everyone else so well in a village, that it is easy to find them."

"Saint-Denis is not a village, monsieur, it's a town."

"Once more, madame, I am convinced that you lied in everything that you told me on the subject of that child."

"Why should I have lied to you, monsieur?"

"Because you did not wish to be a mother; because you had never manifested anything but regret at being one; because you were capable of sending the poor little fellow to the Foundling Hospital."

"That is a shocking thing for you to say to me, monsieur!"

"Very well! I do not propose that my son shall be brought up by charity; I want to take the child with me; I want to love him, and I want him to love me. Those sentiments in my mouth surprise you, do they not, madame? But it is all true. I have never had any great confidence in love or friendship, but there must be such a thing as filial love, for I feel the love of a father.--Moreover, for some time past I have suffered from ennui; I am weary of the pleasures one procures with money; it seems to me that if I had that child with me, it would occupy my mind, it would make a different man of me. My youth is at an end; I have carried everything to excess; but paternal love will afford me enjoyment of a new kind. You will say perhaps that I have waited rather long before having these ideas, and it is true; but each day carries away with it some illusion, my passions are dying out; I feel that I must have something to attach me to life.--Come, Thélénie, be honest for once. Tell me what you did with that child, who still lives, perhaps. Yes, I have a presentiment that he is alive. He must be seven years and a half old now. Tell me where he is, and don't be afraid; he will never ask you for anything, you will never have to spend a sou for him; more than that, I shall not tell him who his mother is, he will not know you! It seems to me that you can ask nothing more. Tell me, where is the child? I have a cab below, I will go and get him."

"I have told you, monsieur, all that I can tell you on the subject of your son; it is useless for you to ask me anything more."

"You have told me a parcel of infamous lies!" cried Beauregard, whose eyes assumed a threatening expression; and he sprang to his feet, pushing his chair back with such violence that he overturned it. Having made the circuit of the room two or three times, he confronted Thélénie once more, and demanded with renewed emphasis:

"What have you done with my son?"

"I tell you again, monsieur, that he died at the age of three months."

"Where?"

"At the nurse's."

"Then find that nurse for me, let me see her, speak to her, find out where the child was buried."

"I can only tell you again what I have already told you about the woman: she lived at Saint-Denis. It isn't my fault if she has left her house--and the neighborhood too, very likely. I could not answer for such things."

"But when a child dies, no matter how young it may be, there is always a certificate of death; that certificate the nurse should have sent you with a minute of the expenses for the child's burial, for which she was entitled to be reimbursed; such things as that, nurses never forget to do. Well! show me that certificate."

"I lost it when I moved."

"Ah! you are a villain, capable of anything!--Poor Duronceray! who lost his head because I took his mistress from him. Gad! he has no idea how much he owes me! But men never look beyond the present; they never foresee the future."

Beauregard paced the floor for some time longer; it was evident that he was trying to restrain his anger, to recover his tranquillity; but when his eyes rested on Thélénie, he turned them away as if he had seen a serpent. She, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the torments she inflicted on her former lover; it was her turn now to watch him with a sarcastic expression, affecting a calmness that she was far from feeling.

Some minutes passed thus, Thélénie contenting herself with picking up the chair Beauregard had overturned.

At last he halted in front of her once more, saying:

"Your mind is made up--you refuse to tell me anything more?"

"Because I have nothing more to tell you."

"Very good! now mark well what I say to you: I shall seek for that child, and if I succeed in finding him, I shall teach him to hate and despise the woman who has tried to deprive him of his father's affection! You seem to defy me. You make a great mistake; for I am your enemy now, and I shall act accordingly whenever I find an opportunity. I had forgiven your inconstancy, your conduct, which has been decidedly scandalous at times. One may be vicious without being really wicked; but now I see that everything about you is perverse--mind as well as heart. Your nature is complete!"

"It seems that yours consists now in making impertinent remarks; but I care little for them."

"Beware if you find me in your path! and as for that unhappy child, if I succeed in finding him, rest assured that, though you are in the midst of the most brilliant festivity, be it ball or reception, he will appear and present his respects to you. Adieu!"

Beauregard abruptly left the room after these last words, and Thélénie, who had turned pale at his concluding threat, soon recovered herself.

"Do what you please," she muttered, "you won't find your son! that would require a combination of chances,--so extraordinary--no, it is impossible! So I will simply forget Monsieur Beauregard, who will leave me in peace hereafter, I trust. The idea of that man--a ne'er-do-well, a confirmed rake, a man who believes in nothing and has passed his life making fun of everything--taking it into his head to feel a father's love for a little boy that he never saw, that he doesn't know! It is amusing, on my word!--I am very glad to avenge myself on this Beauregard; he was the cause of my missing a fine fortune; for Duronceray would have married me, I am sure; he loved me so passionately. Oh! I made a great fool of myself!--But I must forget the past and think only of this new and brilliant position which is offered me."

Thélénie recalled Mademoiselle Héloïse, who, in accordance with her habit, had not failed to listen at the door; that fact, however, did not prevent her from asking:

"What did that big bouncer, with his pretentious air, want of you? He always looks as if he were going to laugh in your face. I knew him by his yellow skin; he's the fellow who stalked into our box at the Opéra ball."

"Yes, that's the man."

"Was that man ever your lover?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?"

"Because at that time I was adored, idolized by an extremely rich man, who would certainly have married me, if I had been true to him, or if he had not discovered that I was deceiving him."

"It would seem that you weren't so shrewd in those days as you are now; you wouldn't allow yourself to be caught to-day!"

"Mon Dieu! who can tell what may happen? the most adroit are taken by surprise sometimes. But let us dine at once. I can hardly wait for this evening, to find out if this Chamoureau has told me the truth. Twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year--that's not bad."

"I should say so! I haven't even the odd hundreds!"

"With the ten thousand francs I have, it would make a fortune; I could go everywhere, be received everywhere!"

"You would become a very _comme il faut_ person!"

The two friends dined in haste. Thélénie ate little; she was too preoccupied to have any appetite.

But Mademoiselle Héloïse did not lose a mouthful; and while her companion formed projects for the future, she confined herself to signifying her approval by an occasional monosyllable, never a complete sentence; at table she maintained a laconism which she did not lay aside until coffee was served.

Thélénie left the table to attend to her toilet. Although she was certain of pleasing the man whom she expected, she desired to augment the power of her charms; she was familiar with all the expedients of the most consummate coquetry; she selected the colors which blended best with the brilliancy of her eyes and her glossy hair; in a word, she strove to make herself irresistible.

"Do you mean to turn the poor man's head altogether?" cried Mademoiselle Héloïse, as she swallowed her second glass of _crême de vanille_.

"Oh! I know that that is already done; but as this is a matter of great importance, I want to confirm my power; for, as you may imagine, I shall impose conditions."

"Trust you for that!"

At eight o'clock the bell rang, and the maid announced that Monsieur Chamoureau desired to know if he might see madame.

Thélénie at once dismissed her friend, saying:

"Come to-morrow morning, and you shall know the result of the interview."

Mademoiselle Héloïse would have preferred to step into an adjoining room, in order to listen at the door; but as she was accustomed to obey without comment, she took her leave.

A moment later the former business agent was ushered into the presence of Madame Sainte-Suzanne, who awaited him, half reclining on a couch, in a pose calculated to deprive her adorer of what reason he still possessed.

Chamoureau had put on the clothes he had recovered from Freluchon, but he had paid less attention to his dress than usual. The moment a man feels conscious of being rich, he gives little heed to a multitude of trivial details which he formerly magnified into matters of moment. The fact is that wealth instantly imparts a self-possession, an assurance, which sometimes reaches the point of fatuity; and a man is no longer afraid of being unfashionable, when he can say to himself:

"Everyone knows that I have the means to do just as I please."

Chamoureau, then, appeared before Madame Sainte-Suzanne with less than his usual timidity; but when he saw how lovely, how fascinating she was, he became so perturbed that he instantly forgot the sentence he had prepared, and could only stammer:

"Madame--it is I who--I had the honor to write you--still more in love--more enamored--and--how are you?"

"Very well, monsieur, thank you. Won't you sit here beside me?"

Chamoureau made one leap to the couch, and dropped upon it with so much _abandon_ that he broke one of the springs. But he reflected that he was rich and could venture to break many springs, even those of the steel skirts which ladies wear nowadays.

"Madame," he said, turning amorously toward Thélénie, "I believe that I must begin by apologizing for my share in that adventure--in the coupé on the Champs-Elysées. I assure you that I was far from suspecting--Freluchon and Edmond Didier had assured me----"

"Enough, Monsieur Chamoureau; I beg you not to refer to that affair again. I am convinced that you were not to blame, but those two gentlemen whom you have just named, they acted like vile blackguards, like true bar-room loafers; it doesn't surprise me on their part, and in a moment I will tell you my intentions with regard to them. Let us come now to your own affairs. Is it true that you have inherited money, monsieur?"

"Perfectly true, madame; twenty thousand francs a year."

"Why, that is a very pretty little fortune! Do you know, monsieur, that this is like a dream, like a tale from the _Thousand and One Nights_, or the conclusion of a comedy! A legacy which you did not expect, which fell upon you suddenly, from the clouds!"

"Good fortune almost always comes like that; when you are looking for it, it keeps you waiting!"

"True; indeed, there are some people who wait for it all their lives."

"Here is the wallet which contains my fortune; be good enough to examine it, madame, to make sure that I have not deceived you."

"Oh! I believe you, monsieur."

Nevertheless, although she said: "I believe you," the fair Thélénie closely scrutinized the wallet, which Chamoureau had placed in her lap. She examined the notes of the Treasury and of the Caisse d'Escompte, the drafts and the bank-notes; then she returned the wallet to Chamoureau, saying:

"Yes, you are rich; there are more than four hundred thousand francs there. What do you propose to do with this fortune?"

"Did I not write you that I offered it to you, with my hand?"

"Yes, you did write me that; so the offer is serious, is it?"

"Is it serious! as serious as is my love for you, which has become a passion that I cannot control."

"Do you know that you are a very dangerous man? that it's hard to resist you?"

Chamoureau's face became radiant; his eyes dilated like a cat's; his nostrils swelled; he seized a hand, which was not withdrawn, and kissed it again and again, puffing like a man who has ascended seven flights of stairs without stopping.

When Thélénie considered that her visitor had kissed her hand sufficiently, she withdrew it, saying in her sweetest voice--for she had inflections for all occasions:

"Be good, and let us talk seriously.--I am going to tell you what conditions I should impose if I consented to become your wife."

"Oh! I agree to them all beforehand."

"Let us not go so fast; I wish you to reflect before accepting; marriage is a chain which cannot be broken, in France; so one should not submit to it heedlessly.--Listen: I believe you to be a sensible man, of orderly habits; but as you may become a gambler, a spendthrift, a rake----"

"Oh! madame!"

"A man who is none of those things, may become one or the other! In a word, I wish to have the sole right to keep the key to the cash-box, to handle our fortune. You know that I myself have ten thousand francs a year."

"Yes, charming creature; but if you had nothing----"

"Let me speak. I desire that, when you marry me, you will certify that I have brought you property to the amount of four hundred thousand francs----"

"Certainly; twice that, if you choose."

"You will leave to me the management of our fortune. It will not diminish, never fear."

"I trust implicitly in you."

"I will give you two hundred francs a month for your clothes and your private expenses; I should say that that was enough, eh?"

"It is more than I need! I shan't spend it."

"You will not have to worry about the housekeeping; that will be my business and mine alone."

"That will be all the better."

"Do you agree to all these conditions?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

"It is well. But there is something else: I do not propose that the man whose wife I am, whose name I bear, shall continue to entertain the slightest relations with those persons who have insulted me, and whom I justly regard as my enemies. You must understand me? you must break off all relations with Messieurs Edmond Didier and Freluchon."

"That is understood. Indeed, I shall regret them very little; I will break with them forever!"

"Unless, however, as the result of events which cannot be foreseen, I myself authorize you to see them again."

"Of course, if you authorize me, I must obey you."

"Nor do I want you to speak to a certain Monsieur Beauregard, whom you have met here, I believe?"

"Ah, yes! a gentleman with a bilious complexion!"

"He is a detestable fellow; he paid court to me long ago, and as I refused to listen to him, he spreads all sorts of slanders and falsehoods about me!"

"I guessed as much, _belle dame_; I said to myself: 'This man abuses Madame de Sainte-Suzanne too much not to have been rigorously treated by her.'--I won't talk with him any more, and if he should try to talk to me, I'll turn my back on him at once."

"Very good; you are submissive. Look you, I believe you will be an excellent husband."

"With you, who would not be? no man could fail to be!"

"By the way, there is one thing more; it is a weakness, a puerile fancy, but I am set upon it nevertheless."

"Speak; I am here to obey."

"I don't like your name--Chamoureau; no, I don't like it at all!"

"The devil! that's rather embarrassing; I can't unbaptize myself."

"No, but listen: you were born somewhere."

"There's not the slightest doubt of that."

"Where were you born?"

"At Belleville."

"Belleville--very well; from this moment you are Chamoureau de Belleville, and you will not sign your name in any other way. Furthermore, you will be careful to use only the last name with any new acquaintances you may make; in that way, before long your name of Chamoureau will be entirely forgotten and you will be Monsieur de Belleville!"

"Pardieu! that's very nice! you have a mind as big as yourself! Monsieur de Belleville--that's an altogether coquettish name, and it pleases me beyond words.--Then you consent to become Madame de Belleville?"

"I must, since you promise to agree to everything I have stipulated."

"And to everything you may order in future; I swear it at your feet!"

And Chamoureau, rising from the couch, threw himself at Thélénie's feet, took her hand and kissed it with rapture, and even tried to take her knees; but his haughty conquest checked him, saying, with an air which had a faint suggestion of dignity:

"Monsieur! remember that I am to be your wife! and respect me until I no longer have the right to deny you anything."

"That is true!" cried Chamoureau, rising from the floor; "I am a villain! a blackguard! you did well to call me to order! I will lose no time about taking all the necessary steps, in order to enter into possession at the earliest possible moment of the charms which overthrow my reason."

"Do so; I approve your purpose and you have my consent; I will not conceal from you now that I desire the marriage to take place at once."

"Ah! dear love! you overwhelm me! I'm beside myself! You share my impatience! Oh! permit me to----"

"Well, monsieur?"

"Fichtre! I was going to put my foot in it again! Your hair is so lovely--you are so alluring!--Upon my word, I believe that I shall do well to go, for I can't answer for myself."

"Go; to-morrow I will look about for an apartment suited to our future position; you will trust me, I suppose?"

"In everything, and blindly. Whatever you do will be approved."

"Au revoir then, my dear De Belleville."

"De Belleville! really I am mad over that name. Au revoir, my goddess!"

Chamoureau kissed once more the hand that was offered him; then took his leave, as light as a feather, saying to himself:

"She loves me, she adores me, for she wants to be married at once! Oh! I'll not let the grass grow under my feet.--The devil! is it only three months since Eléonore died? I certainly am an idiot! it's an endless time since I became a widower!"

While her newly-rich adorer went away in raptures, Thélénie, alone once more, said to herself:

"A new name--an apartment in a distant quarter--a new position in society! Madame Sainte-Suzanne will be lost to sight, and she will hear no more of the Croques and the Beauregards. But she will be careful not to lose sight of those upon whom she is determined to be revenged!"