Chapter 8
However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to
be still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part
of my desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her
see that I was stronger than she.
How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it
invent for itself, in order to arrive at what it wants!
I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in
the stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in.
She was in a ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I
have told you, and no longer wore an indifferent smile on her
lips. She had suffered; she was still suffering. Though it was
April, she was still wearing a winter costume, all wrapped up in
furs.
I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked
at me for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better,
and seemed to think she recognised me, without being quite sure
who I was, for when she put down her glasses, a smile, that
charming, feminine salutation, flitted across her lips, as if to
answer the bow which she seemed to expect; but I did not respond,
so as to have an advantage over her, as if I had forgotten, while
she remembered. Supposing herself mistaken,, she looked away.
The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre.
I never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being
acted. As for me, the performance interested me equally little,
and I paid no attention to anything but her, though doing my
utmost to keep her from noticing it.
Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the
opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite
familiar. She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on
the stage, had failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with
fashionable people in Paris, had gone into business and taken a
milliner's shop. I saw in her a means of meeting with Marguerite,
and profited by a moment in which she looked my way to wave my
hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned to me to come to her
box.
Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner's auspicious name) was
one of those fat women of forty with whom one requires very
little diplomacy to make them understand what one wants to know,
especially when what one wants to know is as simple as what I had
to ask of her.
I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at
Marguerite to ask her, "Whom are you looking at?"
"Marguerite Gautier."
"You know her?"
"Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine."
"Do you live in the Rue d'Antin?"
"No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of
mine."
"They say she is a charming girl."
"Don't you know her?"
"No, but I should like to."
"Shall I ask her to come over to our box?"
"No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her."
"At her own house?"
"Yes.
"That is more difficult."
"Why?"
"Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke."
"'Protection' is charming."
"Yes, protection," replied Prudence. "Poor old man, he would be
greatly embarrassed to offer her anything else."
Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of
the duke at Bagneres.
"That, then," I continued, "is why she is alone here?"
"Precisely."
"But who will see her home?"
"He will."
"He will come for her?"
"In a moment."
"And you, who is seeing you home?"
"No one."
"May I offer myself?"
"But you are with a friend, are you not?"
"May we offer, then?"
"Who is your friend?"
"A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make
your acquaintance."
"Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know
the last piece."
"With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend."
"Go, then. Ah," added Prudence, as I was going, "there is the
duke just coming into Marguerite's box."
I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her,
and was giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at
once, smiling. Then she held it out toward Prudence, with a
gesture which seemed to say, "Will you have some?"
"No," signalled Prudence.
Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with
the duke.
It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but
everything relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I
can not help recalling them now.
I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made
for him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round
to Mme. Duvernoy's box. We had scarcely opened the door leading
into the stalls when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite
and the duke to pass. I would have given ten years of my life to
have been in the old man's place.
When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which
he drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb
horses.
We returned to Prudence's box, and when the play was over we took
a cab and drove to 7, Rue d'Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us
to come up and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of
which she seemed very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I
accepted. It seemed to me as if I was coming nearer and nearer to
Marguerite. I soon turned the conversation in her direction.
"The old duke is at your neighbours," I said to Prudence.
"Oh, no; she is probably alone."
"But she must be dreadfully bored," said Gaston.
"We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when
she comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning.
She can't sleep before that."
"Why?"
"Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always
feverish."
"Hasn't she any lovers?" I asked.
"I never see any one remain after I leave; I don't say no one
ever comes when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a
certain Comte de N., who thinks he is making some headway by
calling on her at eleven in the evening, and by sending her
jewels to any extent; but she can't stand him. She makes a
mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to her from
time to time, 'My dear child, there's the man for you.' She, who
generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is
too stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for
her, while this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists;
his family are always reproaching him for his affection for
Marguerite; there are two reasons why he is likely to leave her
nothing. I give her good advice, and she only says it will be
plenty of time to take on the count when the duke is dead. It
isn't all fun," continued Prudence, "to live like that. I know
very well it wouldn't suit me, and I should soon send the old man
about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter;
looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am sure
at this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the
street to see who comes out, and especially who goes in."
"Ah, poor Marguerite!" said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and
playing a waltz. "I hadn't a notion of it, but I did notice she
hasn't been looking so gay lately."
"Hush," said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped.
"She is calling me, I think."
We listened. A voice was calling, "Prudence!"
"Come, now, you must go," said Mme. Duvernoy.
"Ah, that is your idea of hospitality," said Gaston, laughing;
"we won't go till we please."
"Why should we go?"
"I am going over to Marguerite's."
"We will wait here."
"You can't."
"Then we will go with you."
"That still less."
"I know Marguerite," said Gaston; I can very well pay her a
call."
"But Armand doesn't know her."
"I will introduce him."
"Impossible."
We again heard Marguerite's voice calling to Prudence, who rushed
to her dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened
the window. We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside.
"I have been calling you for ten minutes," said Marguerite from
her window, in almost an imperious tone of voice.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to come over at once."
"Why?"
"Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to
death."
"I can't now."
"What is hindering you?"
"There are two young fellows here who won't go."
"Tell them that you must go out."
"I have told them."
"Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they
see you have gone."
"They will turn everything upside down."
"But what do they want?"
"They want to see you."
"What are they called?"
"You know one, M. Gaston R."
"Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?"
"M. Armand Duval; and you don't know him."
"No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I
expect you. Come at once."
Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who
had remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I
would rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus
forgotten.
"I knew," said Gaston, "that she would be delighted to see us."
"Delighted isn't the word," replied Prudence, as she put on her
hat and shawl. "She will see you in order to get rid of the
count. Try to be more agreeable than he is, or (I know
Marguerite) she will put it all down to me."
We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that
this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still
more agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the
box at the Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know,
my heart beat so violently that I was hardly able to think.
We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was
silent. A woman who looked more like a companion than a servant
opened the door. We went into the drawing-room, and from that to
the boudoir, which was then just as you have seen it since. A
young man was leaning against the mantel-piece. Marguerite,
seated at the piano, let her fingers wander over the notes,
beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The whole scene
breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness of his
nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of
Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of
gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said:
"Come in, and welcome."
