I walked a long time; thoroughly tired out, I stopped at last. I was in the country, in a lane bordered by hedges. I saw no houses; I had no idea where I was; but what did it matter? I sat down on the ground at the foot of a leafless tree; for nature was still dead, and there was no greenery about me.
I was alone; I rested my head on my hands and abandoned myself to my grief, to my despair. Why not confess? I shed tears, yes, I wept; but no one could see me, and it seemed to me that weeping afforded me some relief.
It was not her love alone that I regretted; it was the destruction of all my happiness, of all my future. My happiness! for some time past, it had ceased to exist; but I still flattered myself that it might live again; I still hoped for those pleasant days of confidence and love which had followed our wedding. But all was lost, and it was impossible that happiness should ever be born again for me. Impossible! ah! that is a cruel word; I could not believe that Eugénie had meant to condemn me to everlasting sorrow.
And yet there are many husbands who forgive or close their eyes to the infidelity of their wives. They themselves deceive their wives, and they think it quite natural that they should do likewise.
Ah! even if I had deceived Eugénie a thousand times, I could never have borne the thought of being deceived. If only, on yielding to their weakness, they did not cease to love us! But the new sentiment kills the old one. In proportion as they grow to love another, we become less lovable in their eyes, and ere long their hearts are entirely absorbed by their new passion.
I was resolved never to see her again; we must part, but without scandal, without noise. I had children, and it was for their sake that I determined to dissemble my unhappiness; it was for their sake that I had controlled myself that morning.
I might have struck Dulac, and a duel would have followed; but, after the remarks that had already been made, everybody would have divined the cause, the motive of the duel. I determined to find some other way of satisfying my thirst for vengeance, without publishing my dishonor before the eyes of the world.
I rose. There were moments when the rush of my thoughts distracted me from my misfortune and gave me new courage; but the next moment the arguments lost their force and I remembered all that I had lost. I saw myself alone on earth, when I had thought that the woman whom I adored loved me; I saw all my plans destroyed, all my dreams unfulfilled. Thereupon my heart broke, and my eyes filled with tears. I was like a person trying to climb out of an abyss, but constantly falling back to the bottom after every effort.
I walked on. I saw houses before me and a servant told me that I was at Montreuil. I looked at my watch: it was only noon. Great heaven! how the time would drag now!
I went into a sort of restaurant; I was not hungry, but I wanted to find some way of shortening the day; I did not wish to return to Paris so early. It seemed to me that everybody would read my misfortune in my face; but I dreaded especially the returning to my house. I hoped, however, that I should not find her there. Her property would enable her to live comfortably; let her go, but let her leave me my children; I must have them; I believed that I had the right to take them away from their mother. In any event, it would be no great deprivation to her; she did not know how to love her children; in truth, she did not deserve that I should regret her.
I tried to eat, but it was impossible for me to swallow. I paid, and left the inn. I walked on, and then looked at my watch again; the time stood still. However, it was necessary for me to return to Paris sooner or later. I arrived there at three o’clock.
If she were still at my house, I felt that I could not endure her presence; I therefore determined to ascertain before going in.
It gave me a pang to see those boulevards again, and a still greater pang to see my home. I looked up at our windows. She used to sit there sometimes, watching for me, and smiling at me. Why was she not there now? Oh! if it only might all prove to be a dream, how happy I should be, what a relief it would be to me! but no, it was only too true, I no longer had a wife! there was no Eugénie for me! What had I done to her that she should make me so wretched?
Fool that I was! I was weeping again, although I was in the midst of Paris, amid that throng of people who would laugh at me if they knew the cause of my grief.
I must be a man, at least in the presence of other people.
I entered the house and accosted my concierge.
“Is madame at home?”
“No, monsieur, madame went away about ten o’clock, in a cab, with bundles and boxes, and with mademoiselle her daughter.”
“My daughter? She took my daughter?”
“Yes, monsieur; it looked to me as if madame were going into the country. Didn’t monsieur know it?”
I was no longer listening to the concierge. I went upstairs and rang violently. The maid admitted me; the poor girl began to tremble when she saw me.
“Your mistress has gone away?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame said that she was going into the country. In fact, when madame returned from the bath she looked very ill.”
“From the bath?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame went out very early to go to the bath.”
“Does she go often to the bath?”
“Why, yes, monsieur, quite often lately.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“Madame—told me not to.”
“Oho! Well?”
“At first, madame shut herself up in her bedroom for a long time; then she called me and told me to pack up, and to make haste; then she told me to go and call a cab; she had the bundles taken down, and then she went away with her daughter, saying: ‘Give this letter to monsieur.’”
“A letter! where is it?”
“I put it on your desk, monsieur.”
I rushed to my study. There was the letter. What could she have to write to me? I broke the seal and looked for the marks of tears upon it, but there were none. She had left me, left me forever, without even shedding a tear! My heart sickened. Ah! if heaven were just, I thought, the day would come when I should make her shed as bitter tears as I had shed. I read the letter.
“Monsieur, I have deceived you. I might perhaps deny it still, but I prefer to be more honest than you were with me. I am guilty, I know it; but except for your example, I never should have been. And, although in the eyes of the law, I am a greater culprit than you, I do not consider myself so. I realize that we can no longer live together. Indeed, I think that it will be a blessing to us both to part. I shall keep my daughter, and you your son. My fortune will suffice for me, and I shall never need to have recourse to yours. Adieu, monsieur, pray believe that I sincerely wish you happiness.
“EUGÉNIE.”
What a letter! not a word of regret, not a syllable of repentance! Well, so much the better; that gave me courage. But my daughter, my Henriette; so I must live without seeing and embracing her every day! What inhumanity! Eugénie knew how dearly I loved my daughter, and she had taken her away. It was not from maternal affection; no, she did not know what it was to love her children. So that it was simply to make me more unhappy. Henriette, dear child, you would no longer come and climb on my knees every morning; I could no longer pass my hand through your fair hair and hold your head against my breast; and, ceasing to see me, perhaps you will cease to love me.
I threw myself into a chair, and laid my head on my desk; I do not know how long I stayed in that position.
I heard the maid; the poor girl was standing behind my chair and had been talking to me for a long time, for all that I knew.
“What do you want?”
“Will not monsieur dine? It is after six o’clock; that is why I ventured—I was afraid that monsieur was ill.”
“No, thanks, I will not dine. But what did my daughter say when she went away? What did she do, poor child?”
“Oh! she wanted to carry her doll, monsieur, but her mother would not let her; she told her that she would buy her another one.”
“Is that all?”
“Then Mamzelle Henriette said: ‘Why don’t we wait for papa before we go to ride?’”
“Dear child, she thought of me!”
Those words did me good. I came to my senses. Eugénie had not said where she was going, but I could learn through her banker. I simply must know, and then we would see if she would refuse to give me back my daughter. I cast my weakness behind me and thought only of avenging myself on Dulac. I knew where he would be that evening. I was to take madame there. But suppose that she had written to him, suppose she had informed him of what had taken place? But no, her first thought had been to fly.
I asked the maid if madame had written any other letters; she did not know. Ah! if Dulac should escape me that evening! It was nearly seven o’clock, so I dressed to go out. To go into society! to pretend to be calm, to smile, when my heart was torn! But it would not be for long, I hoped.
I put a large sum of money in my pocket. It was still too early to go to an evening party, so I walked about my apartment. “Accursed apartment,” I said to myself, “where I began by being unhappy, you will not see me much longer!”
At last the clock struck eight; I left the house. The reception was at the house of the lady where the magic lantern had been exhibited. It was there that I had first had any enlightenment concerning my misfortune; it was just that I should be revenged there.
Some guests had arrived; but very few, and he was not among them. People asked me about madame; I said that she was not feeling well, and I took my place at a card table.
Whenever the door of the salon opened, I turned with an involuntary shudder. He did not come.
Bélan and Giraud arrived, and came to me to say good-evening; I pretended to be very intent upon the game, in order not to have to enter into conversation with them; but Bélan succeeded in coming close enough to me to whisper in my ear:
“My friend, I am not; everything has been explained to my perfect satisfaction. I will come some morning and tell you about it.”
I contented myself with shaking his hand; a little convulsively, no doubt, for he withdrew his, saying:
“I am deeply touched by the pleasure which it gives you.”
At last he appeared! he entered the salon and looked about; I divined whom he was looking for. He came toward me. Good! he knew nothing! He had the assurance to inquire for my wife’s health, and why she had not come. I restrained myself, I said a few vague words in reply, and I walked away from him.
I waited until he took his place at the écarté table, which he did at last. I bet against him. At the second deal, when we lost two points, I declared that our adversary had not cut the cards; I spoke as if I thought the cards had been stacked. The others looked at one another in amazement, and said nothing. Monsieur Dulac became thoughtful and distraught; he proposed to throw the hand out, but I refused.
We lost. I instantly took the vacant seat. I trebled my stake, so that the bettors should not bet on me; then I held my cards so that nobody could see them. I discarded my aces in order to lose. I demanded my revenge, and although it is customary to leave the table when one loses, I did not rise, and I doubled my stake again, indulging in more epigrams on my adversary’s good luck.
Monsieur Dulac showed great patience; he seemed ill at ease, but he said nothing. I lost again; I assumed the air of a determined gambler and increased my stake again. Again I lost; thereupon I rose and threw my cards in my adversary’s face.
It was impossible to take that peacefully. Dulac rose in his turn and asked me if I had intended to insult him. I laughed in his face and made no reply. Others tried to adjust the affair by representing to him that I was a bad loser and that my losses had irritated me. I saw plainly that everybody thought me in the wrong. Dulac said nothing, nor did I. I had done enough in public amply to explain a subsequent duel.
After a few moments I walked up to Dulac and said to him in an undertone:
“I shall await you to-morrow, at seven o’clock, with a friend, at the entrance to the forest of Vincennes; do not fail to be there, and be sure that this affair cannot be adjusted.”
He bowed in assent; I walked about the salon once or twice, then disappeared.
I required a second; my choice was already made; our real friends are never so numerous as to cause us embarrassment.
I went to see Ernest at his new home. They had gone out, they were at the theatre with their children. But they kept a servant now. I decided to wait for them, for I felt that I must see Ernest that evening.
The certainty of vengeance near at hand, or of an end of my troubles, calmed my passions a little. I reflected on my situation. I was going to fight. If I killed my opponent, that would not give me back my happiness. If he killed me, my children would be delivered over to the tender mercies of a mother who did not love them; so that even that duel could not have a satisfactory result. Was it really necessary? Yes, because I abhorred Dulac now. And yet he had only played the part of a young man, he had done only what I myself had done when I had been a bachelor. My wife was much the guiltier, and her I could not punish.
I had nothing to write, in case I should be killed; for my children would inherit all my property. I prayed that they might always remain in ignorance of their mother’s sin.
How much misery may result from an instant’s weakness! If a woman could ever calculate it, would she be guilty? But did I myself calculate it before my marriage? No; we must have passions and torments and excitement. A pure and tranquil happiness would bore us, and yet there are some people who know that happiness; there are privileged beings; and there are some too who have no passions, who love as they eat, or drink, or sleep. Having no knowledge of veritable love, they do not suffer its torments; perhaps they are the happier for it.
After five years and a few months of married life, and a love marriage, too! She seemed to love me so dearly! was it not real love at that time? If not, what constrained her to tell me so and to marry me? Her mother did only as she wished. The woman who is forced to give her hand to a man whom she does not love is much less guilty when she betrays her faith. But to manifest so much love for me, and—But no, I must forget all that.
Ernest and his wife returned from the play, and were told that a gentleman was waiting for them in their salon. They came in and exclaimed in surprise when they saw me:
“Why, it is Blémont!”
“It is Monsieur Henri! How long it is since we have seen you! how do you happen to come so late?”
“I wanted to see you; I have a favor to ask of Ernest.”
They both looked at me and both came toward me simultaneously.
“What’s the matter, pray? What has happened to you?”
“How pale he is, and how distressed!”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Oh! yes, my friend, something is wrong; is your wife sick? or your children?”
“I no longer have a wife, I have no children with me; I am alone now.”
“What do you say?” cried Marguerite; “your wife?”
“She has deceived me, betrayed me; she is no longer with me.”
They did not say a word; they seemed thunderstruck. I rose and continued in a firmer voice:
“Yes, she has deceived me, that same Eugénie, whom I loved so dearly; you know how dearly, you who were the confidants of my love. It was only this morning that I obtained proofs of her perfidy. I am not used to suffering as yet; I shall get used to it perhaps; but I swear, I will do my utmost to forget a woman who is not worthy of me. I have been unfortunate in love; I shall at least find some relief in friendship.”
Ernest and Marguerite threw themselves into my arms; Marguerite wept and Ernest pressed my hand affectionately. At last I released myself from their embrace.
“It is late, my friends; forgive me for coming thus to disturb your happiness. Good-night, my little neighbor.—Ernest, a word with you, please.”
He followed me to a window.
“I am to fight to-morrow; you can guess with whom and for what reason. I need not tell you that there is no possible adjustment, although we are supposed to be fighting because of a dispute at cards. Will you be my second?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I shall expect you to-morrow morning, promptly at seven o’clock.”
“I will be on time.”
Marguerite had gone into another room. She returned at that moment and said:
“Don’t you wish to kiss our children before you go?”
At that suggestion, tears came to my eyes; for I reflected that I could not kiss my daughter before going to bed that night.
Marguerite evidently divined my thought.
“Oh! pray forgive me,” she said; “I have pained you. Oh dear! I didn’t mean to.”
I pressed her hand, nodded to Ernest, and hurried from the room.
Once more I was compelled to return to that apartment. It was torture to me. How empty it seemed! and in fact it was empty; no wife, no child about me. It was not Eugénie whom my eyes sought; she had avoided and shunned my presence for a long while. It was my daughter, my little Henriette—she did not avoid me! What a miserable night I passed! not a moment’s sleep. I wondered if she who made me so unhappy was sleeping quietly.
At last the day came, and at six o’clock Ernest was at my house. I took my pistols; a cab was below, and I told the driver to go to Vincennes.
I did not say a word during the drive. Just as we arrived, Ernest said to me:
“If you should fall, my friend, have you nothing to say, no orders to give?”
“No, my dear Ernest, for except you and your wife, no one really cares for me. My son is not old enough to understand the loss he would sustain. My daughter—she would cry perhaps, and that is why nothing must be said to her. Poor child! I do not want to make her shed a tear.”
We arrived, and I saw two men walking to and fro a few gun shots from the château; they were Dulac and his second. We hurried toward them and joined them; they bowed to us; I did not respond to the salute, but strode on toward the woods.
I did not know Dulac’s second; he was not one of our circle; so much the better. I do not know what Dulac had said to him, but I am convinced that he was not deceived as to the motive which had caused me to pick a quarrel with him the night before.
We stopped; the seconds gave us the weapons after examining them; then they measured off the distance.
“Fire, monsieur,” I said to Dulac; “I am the aggressor.”
“No, monsieur,” he replied coldly; “it is for you to fire first, you are the insulted party.”
I did not wait for him to say it again; I fired and missed him. It was his turn; he hesitated.
“Fire,” I said to him; “remember, monsieur, that this affair cannot end thus.”
He fired. I was not hit. Ernest handed me another pistol. I aimed at Dulac again, I pulled the trigger, and he fell.
I am not naturally cruel, but I wished that I had killed him.