Chapter 21
"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my
neck. "But how pale you are!"
I told her of the scene with my father.
"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell
you of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news
of some misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your
distress. You will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do
not quarrel with your father on my account. He knows that you are
sure to have a mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is
I, since I love you and do not want more of you than your
position allows. Did you tell him how we had arranged our
future?"
"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we
really love one another."
"What are we to do, then?"
"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over."
"Will it pass?"
"It will have to."
"But your father will not stop there."
"What do you suppose he can do?"
"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son
obey him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do
me the honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give
me up."
"You know that I love you."
"Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will
have to obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing
him."
"No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of
his friends have been telling him tales which have made him
angry; but he is good and just, he will change his first
impression; and then, after all, what does it matter to me?"
"Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen
than that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after
to-day, and to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will
have thought it over on his side, and perhaps you will both come
to a better understanding. Do not go against his principles,
pretend to make some concessions to what he wants; seem not to
care so very much about me, and he will let things remain as they
are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, that whatever
happens, Marguerite will always be yours."
"You swear it?"
"Do I need to swear it?"
How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one
loves! Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our
projects for the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them
as quickly as possible. At every moment we awaited some event,
but the day passed without bringing us any new tidings.
Next day I left at ten o'clock, and reached the hotel about
twelve. My father had gone out.
I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No
one had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I
went back to the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not
return, and I went back to Bougival.
I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day
before, but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made
necessary. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close
to her chair without her hearing me. When I put my lips to her
forehead she started as if the kiss had suddenly awakened her.
"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?"
"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at
his hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding
him."
"Well, you must try again to-morrow."
"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I
have done all that can be expected of me."
"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father
again, and you must call to-morrow."
"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?"
"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed
slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the
more keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner."
For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied.
I had to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an
answer. She ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard
to the events which had happened during the last two days. I
spent the night in reassuring her, and she sent me away in the
morning with an insistent disquietude that I could not explain to
myself.
Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me:
"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in
by four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you."
I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I
returned to Bougival.
The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found
her feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms
around my neck, but she cried for a long time in my arms. I
questioned her as to this sudden distress, which alarmed me by
its violence. She gave me no positive reason, but put me off with
those evasions which a woman resorts to when she will not tell
the truth.
When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my
visit, and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said,
we might augur well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my
comment, her tears began to flow so copiously that I feared an
attack of nerves, and, calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where
she wept without a word, but held my hands and kissed them every
moment.
I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received
any letter or visit which could account for the state in which I
found her, but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing
had been sent.
Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something
which troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from
me.
In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at
the foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved
me. She smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself
her eyes were veiled with tears.
I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her
distress, but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague
reasons, as I have told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms,
but it was the sleep which tires rather than rests the body. From
time to time she uttered a cry, started up, and, after assuring
herself that I was beside her, made me swear that I would always
love her.
I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress,
which went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of
stupor. She had not slept for two nights.
Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and,
seeing that I was up, she looked about her, crying:
"Are you going already?"
"No," said I, holding her hands; "but I wanted to let you sleep
on. It is still early."
"What time are you going to Paris?"
"At four."
"So soon? But you will stay with me till then?"
"Of course. Do I not always?"
"I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?" she went on absentmindedly.
"If you like."
"And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?"
"Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can."
"You will come back?" she said, looking at me with haggard eyes.
"Naturally."
"Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I
always do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we
have been ever since we have known each other."
All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed
to hide so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled
every moment lest Marguerite should become delirious.
"Listen," I said. "You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I
will write and tell my father not to expect me."
"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't do that. Your father will
accuse me of hindering you again from going to see him when he
wants to see you; no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am
not ill. I am quite well. I had a bad dream and am not yet fully
awake."
From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There
were no more tears.
When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if
she would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk
would distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted
especially to be with her as long as possible.
She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not
to return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going.
But the hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my
father still more, sustained me, and I took my place in the
train.
"Till this evening!" I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did
not reply.
Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte
de G., you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that
time was so far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my
memory, and if I had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite
being unfaithful to me. Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see
Prudence, intending to ask her to go and keep Marguerite company,
in the hope that her mirth and liveliness would distract her. I
entered without being announced, and found Prudence at her
toilet.
"Ah!" she said, anxiously; "is Marguerite with you?"
"No."
"How is she?"
"She is not well."
"Is she not coming?"
"Did you expect her?"
Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint:
"I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to
join you?"
"No."
I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her
face the fear of seeing my visit prolonged.
"I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to
do this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company
for her, and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was
to-day, and I am afraid she is going to be ill."
"I am dining in town," replied Prudence, "and I can't go and see
Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow."
I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied
as Marguerite, and went on to my father's; his first glance
seemed to study me attentively. He held out his hand.
"Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand," he said; "they
make me hope that you have thought over things on your side as I
have on mine."
"May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?"
"The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the
importance of the reports that had been made to me, and that I
have made up my mind to be less severe with you."
"What are you saying, father?" I cried joyously.
"I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his
mistress, and that, from the fresh information I have had, I
would rather see you the lover of Mlle. Gautier than of any one
else."
"My dear father, how happy you make me!"
We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to
table. My father was charming all dinner time.
I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about
this fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment.
"You are watching the time," said my father, "and you are
impatient to leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice
sincere to doubtful affections!"
"Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it."
My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no.
He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with
him and not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well
when I left her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to
go back to her early, promising to come again on the morrow.
The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station.
Never had I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long
desired to see it. I had never loved my father as I loved him at
that moment.
Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I
refused.
"You are really very much in love with her?" he asked.
"Madly."
"Go, then," and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to
chase a thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something;
but he only pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying:
"Till to-morrow, then!"
