Chapter XXIII

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 someone 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-Elysées. 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, someone 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-Elysées. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is

she?”

“What was she like?”

“Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant.”

“Ah! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty.”

“Whom does she live with?”

“With nobody; with anybody.”

“Where does she live?”

“Rue Tronchet, 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.