Chapter 22
It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival
at eleven.
Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one
answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had
occurred to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met
me with a light. I went to Marguerite's room.
"Where is madame?"
"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine.
"To Paris!"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"An hour after you."
"She left no word for me?"
"Nothing."
Nanine left me.
Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to
Paris to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse
for a day off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something
important. I said to myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence;
she said nothing to make me suppose that she had written to
Marguerite.
All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she
coming to-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I
remembered at the same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared
when I looked at her after this remark, which seemed to indicate
an appointment. I remembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day
long, which my father's kind reception had rather put out of my
mind. From this moment all the incidents grouped themselves about
my first suspicion, and fixed it so firmly in my mind that
everything served to confirm it, even my father's kindness.
Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had
pretended to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had
I fallen into some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she
counted on being back in time for me not to perceive her absence,
and had she been detained by chance? Why had she said nothing to
Nanine, or why had she not written? What was the meaning of those
tears, this absence, this mystery?
That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant
room, gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed
to say to me that it was too late to hope for my mistress's
return. Yet, after all the arrangements we had just made, after
the sacrifices that had been offered and accepted, was it likely
that she was deceiving me? No. I tried to get rid of my first
supposition.
Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had
gone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell
me beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it,
the sale, so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to
me, and she feared to wound my self-respect in speaking to me
about it. She would rather not see me till the whole thing was
done, and that was evidently why Prudence was expecting her when
she let out the secret. Marguerite could not finish the whole
business to-day, and was staying the night with Prudence, or
perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow anxious I
should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. But,
if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the
poor girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in
which she had lived until now, and for which she had been so
envied, without crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her
for such regrets. I waited for her impatiently, that I might say
to her, as I covered her with kisses, that I had guessed the
reason of her mysterious absence.
Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return.
My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to
oppress my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her.
Perhaps she was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would
arrive with the news of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the
daylight would find me with the same uncertainty and with the
same fears.
The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very
moment when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not
return to my mind. There must be some cause, independent of her
will, to keep her away from me, and the more I thought, the more
convinced I was that this cause could only be some mishap or
other. O vanity of man, coming back to us in every form!
One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another
hour, but that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I
would set out for Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for
I dared not think. Manon Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed
to me that here and there the pages were wet as if with tears. I
turned the leaves over and then closed the book, for the letters
seemed to me void of meaning through the veil of my doubts.
Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain
lashed the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the
aspect of a tomb. I was afraid.
I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of
the wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road.
The half hour sounded sadly from the church tower.
I began to fear lest some one should enter. It seemed to me that
only a disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre
sky.
Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of
the bell troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical
stroke.
At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that
melancholy aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives
to all its surroundings.
In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the
sound of the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come
in.
"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I
had to go to Paris."
"At this hour?"
"Yes.
"But how? You won't find a carriage."
"I will walk."
"But it is raining."
"No matter."
"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will
be time enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her.
You will be murdered on the way."
"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow."
The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders,
and offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be
obtained; but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I
should lose, in a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I
should take to cover half the road. Besides, I felt the need of
air and physical fatigue in order to cool down the over-
excitement which possessed me.
I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying
good-bye to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set
out.
At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I
fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged
to stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and
went on. The night was so dark that at every step I feared to
dash myself against one of the trees on the roadside, which rose
up sharply before me like great phantoms rushing upon me.
I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A
carriage was going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed
me the hope came to me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and
cried out, "Marguerite! Marguerite!" But no one answered and the
carriage continued its course. I watched it fade away in the
distance, and then started on my way again. I took two hours to
reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of Paris restored my
strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I had so often
walked.
That night no one was passing; it was like going through the
midst of a dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the
Rue d'Antin the great city stirred a little before quite
awakening. Five o'clock struck at the church of Saint Roch at the
moment when I entered Marguerite's house. I called out my name to
the porter, who had had from me enough twenty-franc pieces to
know that I had the right to call on Mlle. Gautier at five in the
morning. I passed without difficulty. I might have asked if
Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," and I
preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as
I doubted, there was still hope.
I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement.
Nothing. The silence of the country seemed to be continued here.
I opened the door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically
closed. I drew those of the dining-room and went toward the
bed-room and pushed open the door. I sprang at the curtain cord
and drew it violently. The curtain opened, a faint light made its
way in. I rushed to the bed. It was empty.
I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No
one. It was enough to drive one mad.
I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called
Prudence several times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed.
I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier
had come home during the day.
"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy."
"She left no word for me?"
"No."
"Do you know what they did afterward?"
"They went away in a carriage."
"What sort of a carriage?"
"A private carriage."
What could it all mean?
I rang at the next door.
"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened
to me.
"To Mme. Duvernoy's."
"She has not come back."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last
night and which I have not yet given her."
And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at
mechanically. I recognised Marguerite's writing. I took the
letter. It was addressed, "To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M.
Duval."
"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him
the address.
"You are M. Duval?" he replied.
"Yes.
"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy."
When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a
thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less
startled than I was by what I read.
"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the
mistress of another man. All is over between us.
"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and
there, by the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our
miseries, you will soon forget what you would have suffered
through that lost creature who is called Marguerite Gautier, whom
you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy
moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now."
When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad.
For a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A
cloud passed before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At
last I came to myself a little. I looked about me, and was
astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at
my distress.
I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I
remembered that my father was in the same city, that I might be
with him in ten minutes, and that, whatever might be the cause of
my sorrow, he would share it.
I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found
the key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was
reading. He showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it
was as if he was expecting me. I flung myself into his arms
without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite's letter, and,
falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears.
