Chapter XXXVI: Two Former Lovers

"Madame, there is a gentleman here who wishes to see you," said Lizida to her mistress one day.

"Did he give his name?"

"He would not; he says that he prefers to afford madame the pleasure of recognizing him."

"It is Monsieur de Merval, no doubt--the same gentleman who came last summer?"

"Oh, no! it's not that gentleman, madame; I should have recognized him. It's one whom I never saw before."

"What sort of looking man? Has he a distinguished appearance? is he stylishly dressed?"

"So far as being distinguished goes--yes, madame. He acts as if he was in the habit of being waited on. As for his dress, why, his clothes don't look as if they'd just come from the tailor's!"

"Arrange my cap, Lizida; does my hair look well?"

"Madame is pretty enough to paint."

"Well then, show the gentleman in; if by any chance it's the unknown friend who sends me bank notes!"

"Oh! he doesn't look like it, madame; or else he's well disguised."

The maid left the room, and in a moment Roncherolle was ushered into his old friend's presence.

Madame de Grangeville was seated on a _causeuse_, dressed in a pretty morning gown, with a charming cap on her head, beneath which great clusters of hair, curled _a la neige_, served as a frame to a face which unfortunately could not be arranged like the hair. The days of privation had left accursed traces which refused to disappear, despite cosmetics and inventions of the perfumer. Wrinkles are most persistent acquaintances; when they once visit us, they never go away.

Roncherolle had made himself as fine as possible; his linen was extremely white, his whole costume scrupulously neat. Unluckily that immaculate neatness could not prevent his coat's being threadbare, his overcoat shabby and of an old-fashioned cut, his trousers of a color that was no longer worn, his waistcoat very ragged on the edges, and his hat much too glossy from overmuch brushing.

Despite all this, however, the former king of fashion presented himself with his distinguished manners of long ago; but he dragged his left leg a little, leaned heavily on his cane, and on removing his hat disclosed a grizzled and almost bald head.

"Here I am, _belle dame_! It is I! Better late than never, eh?"

As he spoke, Roncherolle halted in front of Madame de Grangeville and scrutinized her with a peculiar expression; on her side, that lady examined closely and with an air of amazement the man before her, and tried to think where she had seen him before.

"Well! can it be that you don't recognize me?" continued Roncherolle, walking still nearer, the better to see the baroness; and he added, like a person who fears that he has made a mistake:

"Surely it is Madame de Grangeville to whom I have the honor of speaking?"

"Yes, monsieur; and you are----"

"De Roncherolle, at your service, if you will permit."

"Roncherolle; is it possible? is it really you?"

"Why, yes, it is really I, my dear Lucienne."

"Dear fellow! What a pleasure to see you again! Come and sit here, beside me."

Roncherolle limped to the _causeuse_, saying to himself:

"_Bigre!_ how old she is! what a ruin!"

While the baroness thought:

"How he has changed! how ugly he has grown! I should never have known him!"

"Tell me, my dear friend," said Roncherolle, making himself comfortable on the _causeuse_, "didn't you expect a visit from me? Didn't you receive my bouquets?"

"I beg pardon; indeed I expected you, and most impatiently, I assure you; but the fact is----"

"That I am devilishly changed, eh? What can you expect? time spares no one; and then the gout--that makes one suffer, it wears one out!"

"Have you had the gout?"

"Yes; indeed I have it now."

"That accounts for it then; I noticed in your gait something--that you used not to have."

"I should say so; I limp like an old horse!"

"You have lost your hair too."

"I have lost a lot of things."

"You are no longer as slender as you used to be."

Roncherolle, beginning to be weary of these remarks, replied with his ironical air, pretending to laugh:

"Ha! ha! what do you expect, my dear friend? We aren't either of us what we were twenty years ago! You yourself haven't that wasp-like waist that called forth universal admiration, and those irreproachable teeth that drove all women to despair."

Madame de Grangeville flushed and bit her lips in anger. She tried, however, to maintain an affable manner as she said:

"Ah! so you find me changed? That is strange; there are people who declare that I am just the same."

"That is because those people haven't passed twelve years without seeing you. But we two old friends, old acquaintances, have not met to flatter each other. Bless me! we know each other too intimately and of too long date not to be frank between ourselves. Poor Lucienne! ha! ha!"

"Well, monsieur! what makes you laugh like that, pray?"

"Because I am thinking; I remember that you used to ride like an angel in the old days; and I myself was a very good horseman. We sat in our saddles, I like Baucher, you like a bareback rider at the Hippodrome. Well, just imagine us now if we should have to mount a horse!--Ha! ha! ha!"

Madame de Grangeville made an impatient gesture and turned her head away, saying to herself:

"Mon Dieu! what wretched _ton_ he has now!"

"But let us drop that, my dear, and talk of our affairs a little. We parted twelve years ago--on rather bad terms, as I remember; but we were still lovers then, and lovers often quarrel; at all events, two people can't love each other forever--it grows monotonous. To-day there's no question of all that; we are old friends, and you cannot doubt the interest that I take in whatever concerns you."

"Interest! it seems to me, however, that you have displayed very little interest in me. I have passed twelve years without a word from monsieur; at that time my fortune was already much impaired, and since then I have had time to become ruined altogether, to be reduced to a very straitened, very embarrassing position; but have you troubled yourself about it? Not the least in the world! And yet it seems to me, monsieur, that if you had had any affection for me, if you had taken any interest in me, you would have had an opportunity to prove it."

"Come, come, _belle dame_, let us not lose our tempers, and above all let us not condemn without a hearing. You accuse me wrongfully. In the first place, I supposed that you were still in comfortable circumstances at least; and in the second place, I myself have not been for a long time in a position to assist my friends. I did it often formerly,--without reciprocity; but that would not have prevented me from continuing to do it if fortune had permitted. But she turned her back on me, she deserted me utterly; I treated her too cavalierly and she bore me ill-will. I was unlucky in everything--cards, bets, races, investments; it was impossible for me to retrieve myself in any direction! And what remains now of a handsome property?--some claims on which I can collect nothing, and a few wretched industrial stocks, which I am obliged to sell in order to live, and which will soon be all gone; that is where I am now; so that I can't think of others, being always compelled to think of myself; that is reasonable."

"Ah! so you are reduced to that!" rejoined Madame de Grangeville coldly, casting from time to time an inquisitive glance at the different parts of her former lover's attire. "That is very sad. I understand now. I said to myself: 'Why, Monsieur de Roncherolle, who was always so elegant, so coquettish in his dress--why does he neglect himself so?' But of course, if you can't do otherwise!"

Roncherolle bit his lips, swaying back and forth on the _causeuse_, and replied:

"Oh! that is the least of my troubles! I attach little importance to those trifles now. At our age, you see, my dear friend, coquetry serves no purpose, unless it be to make us ridiculous! When the time has come, it's no use to paint and bedeck ourselves--it doesn't take away either a wrinkle or a year!"

"He has become painfully tiresome, has this man," thought Madame de Grangeville, as she put a phial of salts to her nose. After a moment, she rejoined with a nonchalant air:

"Thank heaven! everybody hasn't deserted me; I have some friends who remember doubtless that I obliged them formerly, and one of them is giving me an allowance of five thousand francs at this moment."

"The devil! that is handsome, that is very handsome! Is it a male or a female friend who treats you in such magnificent fashion?"

"Mon Dieu! I have no idea! the person doesn't divulge his name; he prefers to remain anonymous, in order not to be thanked even. Isn't that a noble act?"

"Superb! and I regret exceedingly my inability to be the author of it. But you must certainly be able to guess, despite the mystery with which this person surrounds himself."

"No--that is to say, I have some suspicions, which I believe to be well founded."

"Indeed! but it seems that you did not suspect me?"

"Oh, no! not for one moment!"

"That is very amiable on your part."

"You see that I was right."

"But you were not aware of my unfortunate plight."

"What does that matter? as if you would ever have thought of me!"

"That is an extraordinary reproach! It seems to me that I proved to you abundantly that I thought of you in the old days."

"Yes, yes,--unfortunately.--Ah! if one could foresee what is going to happen, if one could read the future!"

"True! there are lots of things that one would not do--that one bitterly regrets having done!"

A long silence ensued. Madame de Grangeville broke it by exclaiming suddenly:

"You could never guess whom I met in the country last summer--Monsieur le Comte de Brevanne!"

"Really?"

"Yes, at a party, in a wood, where there were a great many people. I saw him at a distance in the crowd; I saw that he was looking at me and that he recognized me."

"Do you think so?"

"Do I think so! It was evident enough, for his manner was very agitated. I too recognized him instantly; he has changed hardly at all, except that his hair is turning gray; the face is still the same; he is good-looking--yes, he is a very handsome man!"

"Had you never discovered that before?"

"What an unkind thing to say to me!"

"Well! did you speak?"

"No; I am inclined to think that he was strongly tempted to speak to me; he hovered about me in the wood, and he was on the point of speaking to me, I believe, when some people came up; they surrounded me, took me away, and I lost sight of him. He must have gone away, for I didn't see him again during the evening."

"And that is all?"

"Yes, all."

"Well, madame, I too have seen Brevanne, and not very long ago."

"Is it possible? Did you meet him?"

"No, he came to the house in which I was living, expressly to see me; he had learned my address by chance."

"He came to see you--for what purpose?"

"Why, for the same purpose that led him to seek me everywhere twenty years ago--to fight me."

"To fight you! nonsense! it's impossible!"

"Why impossible, I pray to know?"

"Because men don't fight after so long a time for things--which have no present existence."

"Ah! very prettily put; I am sorry that your husband didn't hear it! But although in fact the motive for fighting is lacking now--the present existence--De Brevanne is still bent upon it--oh! obstinately bent upon it. Probably he has been looking for me constantly, for twenty years; and he had no sooner learned where I was--was perched, than he rushed to the spot, the same as ever, waving his sword, to demand satisfaction. But as I was suffering then from a violent attack of the gout, the sight of my agony convinced him that I was not in condition to stand up to him; so he granted me a respite."

"Then it is only postponed; you will end by fighting, I see."

"I admire the stoicism of your nature; you say that as if you were talking about your husband and myself going to the Opera ball!"

"Mon Dieu! you have become very censorious, very severe! Should I weep when I say it?"

"No; indeed that is not your nature; you were never very tearful. To make you shed tears it would be necessary that your hair should be unbecomingly dressed at a large party; and that is an accident to which you were never likely to be exposed."

"You are still satirical, caustic, as always, Monsieur de Roncherolle!"

"If you find anything about me that has not changed, I am delighted beyond measure."

"A truce to jesting, monsieur; when is this duel to take place? I beg you to believe that I am deeply interested."

"Don't be alarmed, madame, the duel will not take place. I am as obstinate as De Brevanne. I have sworn not to afford him the chagrin of killing me, and I shall keep my oath."

"The chagrin! so you think that the count would regret it if he should kill you?"

"I am sure of it; and it would be even worse now than if he had killed me long ago."

"You are a surprising creature, on my word! A man who has been seeking you for so many years so persistently! You must see that he is as furious as ever against you; consequently, I fancy that he would not grieve very bitterly over your death!"

"You are wrong, madame; the count is no longer furious with me; rage doesn't last twenty years; it dies long before that time. It is nothing but the sentiment of honor that impels your husband now; and that sentiment would not stifle the regret that he would feel if he should kill a man whom he once loved with the most sincere affection."

"But whom he now holds in the greatest possible detestation!"

"No, madame, I assure you that he no longer detests me. When a man grows old, he remembers the happy days of his youth much more vividly than the troubles of his maturer years; the latter are effaced in the jolting and hurly-burly of life; the first remain and rise to the surface, to divert our thoughts, to charm our memories--and that is why I believe that De Brevanne no longer detests me.--What I say surprises you--you do not agree with me; but women do not understand friendship!"

"You have an amusing way of practising it! However, how do you propose to prevent this duel?"

"As I have prevented it for twenty years; I propose to elude the count's search. I have moved already; I no longer live in furnished lodgings, and I should be very much astonished if he should find me where I am now."

Madame de Grangeville said nothing more; Roncherolle seemed to reflect; and the ex-lovers were silent for a considerable time. At last the gouty gentleman put out his hand toward his hat, and seemed about to go, when his former friend detained him, saying with some hesitation:

"Monsieur de Roncherolle, I have something to say to you on another subject of--of deep interest to us both."

"A subject of interest to us both?" repeated Roncherolle, replacing his hat on the table; "you surprise me; I thought that we no longer had anything of interest to say to each other. What is it all about?"

"You must have a very short memory, monsieur, since it is necessary for me to remind you of that--that result of our liaison--of our wrong-doing, alas!"

"Ah, yes! thrice alas!"

"Well, monsieur, that child, that little girl--for it was a girl--tell me, monsieur, what became of her? Formerly, when I questioned you on that subject, you always answered: 'Don't be disturbed, I know where she is, we shall find her again.'--But that was more than twelve years ago, monsieur, and it seems to me that it is high time that I should know what became of that child!"

Roncherolle moved about on the _causeuse_ as he replied:

"Yes, yes, that is very true; there is the subject of the little girl; I had forgotten about her entirely, and you will understand in a moment why I had forgotten her; it was because it would have done no good to think of her, for I have no idea what became of her after I put her out to nurse."

"You don't know what became of her! why, that is abominable, monsieur, it is frightful; you break my heart!"

"No fine words, my dear friend. I beg you; with me, as you must know, they will miss their effect; I break nothing at all of yours; for if you had chosen to be a mother, to know and to enjoy the happiness which that title affords, you would not have begun by begging me to rid you of your child as soon as possible the instant that it came into the world."

"Monsieur, that is not true; you insult me, you slander me!"

"You are beginning again. Come, Lucienne, stop acting and listen to me. When you were in an interesting condition and on the point of emerging from it, we were journeying through the fertile pastures of Normandie; suddenly the fancy seized you to visit Ermenonville, the village that became so famous because a so-called philosopher--for I consider that that Monsieur Jean-Jacques had little claim as such, and that a man can hardly call himself the friend of mankind when he constantly inflicts injury on those who have conferred benefits on him--but no matter, he made the village of Ermenonville famous by living there, and especially by being buried there. I remarked to you that it was imprudent to approach Paris, where your husband might be, especially in your condition; but you were always obstinate in your whims, and I have never been able to thwart a lady. We reached Ermenonville in horrible weather; very good. The next day you felt ill and insisted on returning to Paris, to be sure of having all the necessary assistance in your condition; that was another imprudence. But no matter--I yielded. We reached Paris; we had hardly arrived, when whom should we see on the street but your husband! Very good; he didn't see us; you wanted to go away again, but it was too late; you brought a daughter into the world.--- In the confusion and embarrassment into which that event, anticipated though it was, cast us, you began by saying to me: 'Take the child away at once! find a nurse instantly, and let her go back to her home in the country this very day,'--I continued to do your will; I carried the little one--who was a sweet little thing, on my word!--to a room above yours, which I was occupying temporarily; and I said to my servant--I had Comtois then, a most intelligent fellow, whom I could never replace--I told him to find me a stout, healthy nurse. Comtois went away and very soon returned with the desired object: she was a peasant woman of excellent appearance--a Picard. I remember distinctly that she was a Picard. I gave her the child, and she raved over her; then she asked me for the _layette_; I confess that that embarrassed me sadly; you ought to have thought of that, madame, but you never considered it. I gave her all that I found at my hand: trousers, dressing-gown, shirts, cravats; I remember too that I gave her a handkerchief that belonged to you, and that I happened to have in my pocket. The nurse laughed heartily when I gave her all those things. I handed her a hundred francs in addition. She made a price for nursing the child, and it wasn't exorbitant. She asked me the little girl's names, but you and I had not fixed upon any. I said to the Picard: 'You may call the child Evelina de Paulausky'--yes, those are the names I gave her; I had just read a novel the heroine of which bore that name.--I then asked the nurse for her name and address, so that I might send her money and have news of the child. She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling. It was all arranged very quickly, as you see."

"Certainly, monsieur, I have nothing to reproach you for, up to that point--except the _layette_, which you might have bought."

"That is to say, which you should have bought beforehand."

"Oh! monsieur, when one is travelling all the time, has one any opportunity to make purchases?"

"In that case, madame, when could I have bought it, as I was travelling with you?--Besides, is that sort of thing a man's business?"

"Well, monsieur, let us drop that and return to the nurse. You heard from the child through her? you sent her money?"

"I never heard from the nurse, madame, for the very simple reason that I did not give her my address; I refrained, from prudential motives; and then too we were always in flying camp at that time, and I really don't know what address I could have given her."

"Then, monsieur, you must have written to her?"

"Mon Dieu! that is what I expected to do, and to send her some money; and then I would have given her an address, _poste restante_, so that she might answer me. But at that point difficulties arose. Imagine, if you please, that, when that woman gave me her name and address, I did not take the precaution to write them down at once; we were in such a hurry, so completely upset! What with giving my clothes for the _layette_, and the child's crying, and your sending to ask what was going on--in short, I didn't write down the confounded address at the time, feeling sure that I should remember it. The nurse went away. We had a thousand things to do: I had to obtain money to resume our travels, and we were constantly beset by the fear of being discovered by your husband.--As you will remember, we started for the Pyrenees as soon as you were in a condition to endure the journey."

"I know all that--well?"

"At last, one fine day, you asked me about the child. I answered: 'She is well; she must be all right.' But that reminded me that I had neglected to send the nurse any money since the little one came into the world, six months before. I said to myself: 'Pardieu! I must repair that neglect.'--I instantly wrote a few lines in haste, but when it came to writing the woman's name and address, I could not possibly remember them! She was from Picardie, and her first name was Marguerite; but Marguerite what? there are Marguerites everywhere! And the name of that wretched village--I could not remember that either!--I said to myself: 'A little patience and it will come back to me.'--Six more months passed and I thought again of the child; I tried once more to remember the nurse's address; but I could not recall it!"

"And you kept telling me that the child was well!"

"What would you have had me tell you? I couldn't say that she was ill, because I didn't know.--In short, for nineteen years I have tried very often to think of that address, but it hasn't come back to me yet."

"And so, monsieur, by your fault, I am deprived of my daughter forever, and the poor child is without a family! It is shocking!"

"Pardon me, madame, pardon me; on mature reflection--in the little one's behalf first of all--I am not sure that it is a great calamity that she has never known the secret of her birth; she would still have been in a false position; and then life in Paris wouldn't have been as good for her health as the fresh country air--especially in Picardie. That's an excellent region; they drink cider there, which is very healthy. If she is still alive, I am sure that she must be in good health. She lives in the fields and woods--bless my soul! she is happier, no doubt, than she would be here; especially as I could never give her an establishment with the remains of my fortune."

"But what of me, monsieur?--do you make no account of my regrets? I am deprived of my daughter's caresses!"

"I beg pardon, madame, but the longing for those caresses takes you rather tardily."

"Why, monsieur, it is twelve years since I last saw you."

"But for seven years we were almost never apart, and you were perfectly willing to leave the child at nurse; you asked me about her sometimes--at long intervals; but you never said: 'Do send for her.'--You thought that the attention you would have to give the child would disturb your pleasures; and for my part, I believe that her presence would embarrass you even more now; for the girl is nineteen years old; and a daughter of nineteen would be terribly repugnant to you; she might rob you of conquests!"

"Monsieur, you do not mean to insult me, I trust?"

"By no means, my dear friend! We have had an explanation, and I have confessed the truth. 'I had to do it!' as Bilboquet says; and now I will take my cane and my hat and return to my Marais."

"Do you live in the Marais? What a horrible neighborhood!"

"Oh, no! however, one lives where one can! I have not, as you have, anonymous admirers who make me an allowance; but I congratulate you; you can still gratify your taste for pleasure, for fine clothes. I consider you very rich now--compared with myself."

"No, indeed! no, indeed!" Madame de Grangeville replied eagerly, with an embarrassed air. "I have only what I need to live; a woman requires so many things, you know; it would be impossible for me to accommodate anybody."

Roncherolle put on his hat, leaned on his cane and exclaimed with a savage glance at the baroness:

"Did you suppose by any chance, madame, that I intended to ask you for anything, or to borrow anything of you? I hoped that you had lived with me long enough to know me. I have spent a devilish lot of money on women; they have led me into all sorts of folly, but nothing base. I have ruined myself for them, and I had a right to do it. I have made love to them much, loved them sometimes, deceived them often; but thank God! I have never accepted anything from them; I am entitled to say to them just what I think, and I avail myself of that right on occasion.--My respects, my affectionate friend!"

With these words, Roncherolle bowed to Madame de Grangeville with a mocking expression, and left her apartment, saying to himself:

"Ah! these women whose lives have been nothing but coquetry--when you search their hearts, what a barren soil you find! Sow benefactions there and you never reap anything but ingratitude."

As for Madame de Grangeville, as soon as her former lover had left her, she called her maid and said:

"If by any chance that gentleman should come again to see me, Lizida, I shall not be at home to him! The idea! a ruined man, who dresses shabbily, who drags one leg, and who has nothing but disagreeable things to say!"

"Madame is quite right. That is a good sort of man to keep out."