Chapter XXI

“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 anyone 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!”