Chapter 23
When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not
believe that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those
which had preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that
some circumstance, which I could not recollect, had obliged me to
spend the night away from Marguerite, but that, if I returned to
Bougival, I should find her again as anxious as I had been, and
that she would ask me what had detained me away from her so long.
When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this
love, it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without
at the same time breaking all the other springs of life. I was
forced from time to time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order
to convince myself that I had not been dreaming.
My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of
movement. Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had
prostrated me. My father profited by this total prostration of
all my faculties to demand of me a formal promise to accompany
him. I promised all that he asked, for I was incapable of
sustaining a discussion, and I needed some affection to help me
to live, after what had happened. I was too thankful that my
father was willing to console me under such a calamity.
All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he
took me with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had
had my luggage packed and put up behind the chaise with his own,
and so he carried me off. I did not realize what I was doing
until the town had disappeared and the solitude of the road
recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. Then my tears again
began to flow.
My father had realized that words, even from him, would do
nothing to console me, and he let me weep without saying a word,
only sometimes pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a
friend at my side.
At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite.
I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage.
Then the truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my
breast. I dared not say anything to my father. I was afraid he
would say, "You see I was right when I declared that this woman
did not love you." But he did not use his advantage, and we
reached C. without his having said anything to me except to speak
of matters quite apart from the event which had occasioned my
leaving Paris.
When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said
about her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister,
good as she was, would be able to make me forget my mistress.
Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a
distraction for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and
neighbours. I went without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with
that sort of apathy into which I had sunk since my departure.
We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put
down my unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the
clouds pass. I let my thought wander over the solitary plains,
and from time to time I heard some one call to me and point to a
hare not ten paces off. None of these details escaped my father,
and he was not deceived by my exterior calm. He was well aware
that, broken as I now was, I should some day experience a
terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without seeming
to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract
my thoughts.
My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she
could not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so
lighthearted, had suddenly become so sad and dreamy.
Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's
anxious scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to
forgive me for the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving
him.
Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure
it no longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I
had loved, I still loved this woman so much that I could not
suddenly become indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her.
Above all, whatever I felt for her, I had to see her again, and
at once. This desire possessed my mind, and with all the violence
of a will which had begun to reassert itself in a body so long
inert.
It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I
had to see her the very next day after the day when the thought
had occurred to me; and I went to my father and told him that I
had been called to Paris on business, but that I should return
promptly. No doubt he guessed the reason of my departure, for he
insisted that I should stay, but, seeing that if I did not carry
out my intention the consequences, in the state in which I was,
might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost, with
tears, to return without delay.
I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going
to do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something
connected with Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my
clothes, and, as the weather was fine and it was still early, I
made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At the end of half an hour I
saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance, coming from the
Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had repurchased her
horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed to see it,
but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when
looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a
woman whom I had never seen.
As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened
about her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my
breast; but I succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face,
as I bowed coldly to my former mistress, who just then reached
her carriage, into which she got with her friend.
I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have
upset her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had
thus been reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but,
seeing me again in Paris, finding herself face to face with me,
pale as I was, she must have realized that I had not returned
without purpose, and she must have asked herself what that
purpose was.
If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon
her, I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven
her, and certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an
injury. But I found her apparently happy, some one else had
restored to her the luxury which I could not give her; her
breaking with me seemed to assume a character of the basest
self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as in my
love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered.
I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what
would hurt her the most would be my indifference; it was,
therefore, this sentiment which I must affect, not only in her
eyes, but in the eyes of others.
I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on
Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes
in the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me
into her boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room
door open, a light footstep made the floor creak and the front
door was closed violently.
"I am disturbing you," I said to Prudence.
"Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you
announced, she made her escape; it was she who has just gone
out."
"Is she afraid of me now?"
"No. but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her."
"But why?" I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was
choked with emotion. "The poor girl left me for her carriage, her
furniture, and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don't
bear her any grudge. I met her to-day," I continued carelessly.
"Where?" asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself
if this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love.
"In the Champs-Elysees. She was with another woman, very pretty.
Who is she?"
"What was she like?"
"Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant."
"Ali! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty."
"Whom does she live with?"
"With nobody; with anybody."
"Where does she live?"
"Rue Troncliet, No.--. Do you want to make love to her?"
"One never knows."
"And Marguerite?"
"I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more
about her; but I am one of those with whom everything depends on
the way in which one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with
me so lightly that I realize I was a great fool to have been as
much in love with her as I was, for I was really very much in
love with that girl."
You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out
on my forehead.
"She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof
is, that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me
about it. When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought
she was going to faint."
"Well, what did she say?"
"She said, 'He is sure to come here,' and she begged me to ask
you to forgive her."
"I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but,
after all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what
happened. I am even grateful to her, for I see now what would
have happened if I had lived with her altogether. It was
ridiculous."
"She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was
quite time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent
to whom she had offered to sell her furniture went around to her
creditors to find out how much she owed; they took fright, and in
two days she would have been sold up."
"And now it is all paid?"
"More or less."
"And who has supplied the money?"
"The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on
purpose for such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her
twenty thousand francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows
quite well that Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is
very nice with her all the same. As you have seen, he has
repurchased her horses, he has taken her jewels out of pawn, and
he gives her as much money as the duke used to give her; if she
likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long time."
"And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?"
"She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go
myself and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a
package of them and you can send here for them. You will find
everything, except a little case with your initials. Marguerite
wanted to keep it. If you really want it, I will ask her for it."
"Let her keep it," I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my
heart to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had
been so happy, and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep
something which had belonged to me and would recall me to her. If
she had entered at that moment my thoughts of vengeance would
have disappeared, and I should have fallen at her feet.
"For the rest," continued Prudence, "I never saw her as she is
now; she hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she
goes to suppers, she even drinks. The other day, after a supper,
she had to stay in bed for a week; and when the doctor let her
get up, she began again at the risk of her life. Shall you go and
see her?"
"What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always
been charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew
Marguerite. I owe it to you that I have been her lover, and also,
don't I, that I am her lover no longer?"
"Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe
you will be thankful to me later on."
I owe you a double gratitude," I added, rising, for I was
disgusted with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to
her as if it were serious.
"You are going?"
"Yes."
I had learned enough.
"When shall I be seeing you?"
"Soon. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with
tears of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart.
So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast
love that she had had for me could not resist the desire of
returning to her former life, and the need of having a carriage
and plunging into dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay
awake at night though if I had reflected as calmly as I professed
to I should have seen in this new and turbulent life of
Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant thought, a ceaseless
memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper hand, and I
only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor
creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one
of his narrow passions!
This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite,
at all events the woman with whom she was most often seen since
her return to Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took
it for granted that Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an
invitation and succeeded.
When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it
was already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and
in one of the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the
Comte de N., who seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said
to everybody: "This woman is mine."
I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and
watched her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight
of me. I saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a
wave of the hand.
When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with
me but with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow
their return, the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of
doing something to trouble their relations.
After the contredanse I went up to the mistress of the house, who
displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and
magnificent shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of
view of figure, more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this
fact still more clearly from certain glances which Marguerite
bestowed upon her while I was talking with her. The man who was
the lover of such a woman might well be as proud as M. de N., and
she was beautiful enough to inspire a passion not less great than
that which Marguerite had inspired in me. At that moment she had
no lover. It would not be difficult to become so; it depended
only on showing enough money to attract her attention.
I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by
dancing with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as
death, put on her pelisse and left the ball.
