Ernest and his wife very soon noticed the change that had taken place in my manner toward my son, and they seemed overjoyed. I told them what Henriette had done, and that the change was due to her. They lavished caresses upon her, and I did the same, for I owed it to her that I was much happier. Arriving one day from Paris, with books for me and toys for the children, Pettermann remained standing in front of me; it was his custom when he wished to say something to me to wait for me to question him; I had become used to that peculiarity.
“What is there new, Pettermann?”
“Nothing, monsieur, except that I met someone on my way here this morning.”
“Met someone? Does that interest me?”
“Yes, it was some acquaintances of monsieur, some people who were at Mont-d’Or at the same time that we were; that pretty young lady with such a fine figure and the thin, lively, good-natured little man.”
“Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you see them?”
“On the boulevard, as I was on my way to Faubourg-Saint-Antoine.”
“You did not speak first to them, I fancy?”
“Prout! as if I would ever have thought of such a thing! I didn’t even see them! All of a sudden I felt someone tap me lightly on the shoulder; I turned; it was the uncle. He was all out of breath; his niece was some distance behind. He said to me first of all: ‘You walk terribly fast, my friend! Ouf! you made me run.’—I answered: ‘Bless my soul, monsieur, I didn’t know that you were following me.’—Just then his niece joined us. She seems to be as inquisitive as ever, the young woman; you remember, don’t you, monsieur, that she asked me a lot of questions at Mont-d’Or?”
“Well, what did she ask you to-day?”
“First of all, how monsieur was; then as I had a package under my arm, she said: ‘Where are you going with that?’—‘To Saint-Mandé, mademoiselle.’—‘Does Monsieur Dalbreuse live at Saint-Mandé?’—‘Yes, mademoiselle.’—‘And is that bundle for him?’—‘Yes, mademoiselle.’—At that she began to laugh, with a queer expression, and I noticed that the head of a jack-in-the-box was sticking out of the bundle. The uncle asked me: ‘Is Monsieur Dalbreuse running a marionette theatre?’—‘No, monsieur; there are some books in the bundle for my master, but the toys are for the children.’—‘What! has he children with him?’ cried the young woman.—‘Prout!’ I said to myself at that; ‘there seems to be no end to these questions.’—So I took off my hat and saluted them, and told them that I was in a hurry.”
“Is that all, Pettermann?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
So Caroline had not forgotten me, although we had not parted on very good terms. But that was no reason why we should cease to think of each other; so many people part on most excellent terms and forget each other at once! That reminder of Mademoiselle Derbin caused me a pleasant emotion; she had such a strange temperament, a way of thinking that was not like other people’s; and in spite of that, she had all the charm of affability of her sex.
If Pettermann had still been there, I would have asked him whether Mademoiselle Derbin had changed, whether she seemed as bright and cheerful as formerly. I would have asked him—I don’t know what else. But he had gone. He had done well too. What occasion was there for me to think of Caroline? I had determined thenceforth not to love anybody except my children. It was a pity, however, for love is such a pleasant occupation!
It was three days after Pettermann had told me of that meeting. I was walking in Vincennes forest with my children. Eugène had become less timid with me; he smiled at me and kissed me, although he was not yet so unreserved as his sister, who made me do whatever she wished. I held a hand of each of them. I was listening to the chatter of Henriette and her brother’s lisping replies, when my daughter mentioned her mother, and my brow darkened.
“Papa, why doesn’t mamma come back?”
“She is ever so far away, my child. It may be that you won’t see her for a very long time.”
“But I don’t like that. Why don’t we go to fetch her?”
“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know where she is now.”
“Oh dear! suppose she was lost!”
Henriette’s eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugénie had returned, I felt sure that she would have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugénie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had.
Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last:
“Why, papa, what are you thinking about?”
“About you, my child.”
“I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn’t say anything. And Monsieur Eugène never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He’s a hardhearted little wretch!”
Eugène looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses:
“Papa, tell me about mamma, please.”
I kissed Eugène, and he was content with that reply; but my daughter caused me more and more embarrassment every day. However, she was capable of listening to reason, for her intelligence was in advance of her age. I stopped and sat down at the foot of a tree; then I drew my children to my side, and I said to Henriette:
“My dear love, you are no longer a child; I can talk reasonably to you.”
“Oh, yes, papa, I am more than seven years old, and I know how to read!”
“Listen to me: your mamma has gone away, to a very distant country; I do not know myself when she will come back; you must see that it makes me feel grieved not to see her, and whenever you mention her to me you increase my grief. Do you understand, my dear love?”
“Yes, papa. So I must never speak to you about mamma, eh?”
“At all events, do not ask me questions that I can’t answer.”
“But I can still think about mamma, can’t I?”
“Yes, my dear Henriette; and be very sure that as soon as she returns to Paris, her first thought will be to come to embrace you.”
My daughter said no more. That conversation seemed to have saddened both the poor children. They said nothing more, and I myself sat beside them, lost in thought.
A few moments later a gentleman and lady came toward us. I had not raised my eyes to look at them, but I had heard my own name. It was Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.
They stopped in front of us.
“Yes, my niece was right, it is our dear friend Monsieur Dalbreuse!”
I rose and bowed to the uncle and niece. Caroline’s manner was cold but polite.
I did not recognize that animated and playful countenance which attached so many people to her chariot at Mont-d’Or; she had assumed a much more serious expression. Her glance was almost melancholy; but how well that new manner became her! How great a charm that change gave her in my eyes!
“My niece said a long way off: ‘There is Monsieur Dalbreuse;’ but I admit that I didn’t recognize you; and yet my sight is very good, I have never used spectacles. But who are these lovely children?”
“They are mine.”
“Yours? Oh yes! I remember now—my niece told me that you were married. They are charming; the little girl has magnificent eyes, and quite a little manner of her own. We shall make many conquests with those eyes.—And you, my fine fellow. Oh! you will play the handsome Leander with great success some day; you would be amazing with a club-wig.”
While Monsieur Roquencourt was looking at my children, his niece drew near to me and said in an undertone:
“So you have your children with you now?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Then she stooped over Henriette and said:
“Will you give me a kiss, my dear love?”
My daughter made a dignified curtsy, then allowed herself to be embraced. Mademoiselle next took Eugène in her arms and kissed him. I do not know why I took pleasure in watching her do it.
“So you live at Saint-Mandé? We learned that from your servant, whom we happened to meet.”
“Yes, monsieur, I am passing the summer here; I am staying with a friend who was kind enough, with his wife, to take charge of my children while I was travelling.”
“There is one thing that you don’t know, and that is that we have been neighbors of yours since yesterday.”
“What?”
“Yes, I mean it. We have hired a little house, all furnished, at Saint-Mandé and we have installed ourselves there for the rest of the summer. It was an idea that came into my niece’s head. After we met your servant, she said to me: ‘I am not feeling very well, uncle.’—It is true that she has been out of sorts ever since we returned from Mont-d’Or.”
“Dear me, uncle! all this has very little interest for monsieur. What is the use of giving him all these details?”
“Anything that concerns you, mademoiselle, cannot fail to interest me.”
Caroline turned her face away. Her uncle continued:
“Yes, my dear girl, you are not well; it is of no use for you to try to conceal it, for anybody can see it; and this solemn, melancholy expression which has taken the place of your former gayety—for you have lost all your gayety and——”
“Why, you are mistaken, uncle; I am just the same as always.”
“Well, you insisted on coming here for your health—at all events you told me so; and when you insist upon a thing—you know, my dear Dalbreuse, it’s just as it was when she made us go to drive at Mont-d’Or—it has to be done on the instant. And so, inside of twenty-four hours, we came, we saw, and we hired a house! And we must needs take possession of it at once.”
“It was because I was bored to death in Paris; and then I—I did not know this neighborhood——”
“Well, I know it; but I am very fond of it. Dugazon had a country house at Saint-Mandé! I will show it to you when we return. We used to come here to have little supper parties and theatricals, and to enjoy ourselves. I played L’Avocat Patelin, and Petit-Jean in Les Plaideurs; and by the way, in Les Plaideurs, I played a wicked trick! You know, when——”
“But we are detaining monsieur, uncle; we are taking his time, perhaps!”
“Oh! by no means, mademoiselle; I was just going back to Saint-Mandé.”
“We are going back there too; we will go together. As I was saying, it was in Les Plaideurs. In the third act, you know, some little dogs are brought on. Dugazon had said to me: ‘Will you undertake to provide some little dogs?’ I already had my plan in my head, so I said: ‘Yes, I will.’ Very good. The performance began and the moment came when the unfortunate orphans are called for. I brought on a large open basket. Guess what came out of it: a dozen mice, which I had concealed inside and which instantly ran about all over the stage, and jumped down into the orchestra; and the men laughed and the women shrieked, for everyone of them thought that she had a mouse under her skirt! I held my sides with laughter! After the play, those ladies said that I was a monster! That affair was worth three conquests to me!”
Monsieur Roquencourt chattered on, and in due time we reached the village. Caroline had held Eugène’s hand all the way, and had talked frequently with my daughter.
“Here is our hermitage,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, stopping in front of a pretty house within two gun shots of Ernest’s. “I trust that you will come to see us, Monsieur Dalbreuse. In the country one must be neighborly,—isn’t that so, niece?”
“If monsieur chooses to give us that pleasure, if he would bring his children to see us, I should be delighted to see them again.—Would you like to come, my dear love?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And you, my little man? you must like sweeties and I always have some.”
Eugène replied with great solemnity that he would like to come to see the sweeties. I thanked her for the children and took my leave, promising to bring them the next day.
So Caroline wished to see me again; her fiery wrath against me was allayed; doubtless it was because the sentiment that had given birth to that wrath had also vanished. But why had she lost her former playful humor? Upon my word, I was very conceited to think that it had anything to do with me. Might not Mademoiselle Derbin have some heartache, or some secret, with which I was absolutely unconnected? I would have been glad to know if she had seen Madame Blémont again before leaving Mont-d’Or. However, I was not sorry for the meeting. When Ernest was at work, it was impossible to talk with him; and his wife was constantly busy with her children and with her household cares. So I thought that it would be pleasant to go sometimes to Monsieur Roquencourt’s for a chat.
At dinner I informed my hosts of our meeting.
“If they are pleasant people, ask them to come to see us,” said Ernest.
I noticed that his wife did not second that invitation. I had said that Caroline was lovely, and wives sometimes dread the visit of a lovely person; Marguerite was a wife now.
“My friend,” she said, “if they are people with twenty-five thousand francs a year and a carriage, I shall never dare to receive them.”
“Why not, pray, my dear love? I am an author, and genius goes before wealth. Isn’t that so, Henri?”
“It ought to be so, at all events.”
“But, my dear, I am not an author, I have no genius——”
“That doesn’t follow, my dear love; one is often found without the other.”
“At all events, I shall not dare, or I shall not be able—you yourself say that we must not make acquaintances which will entail expense.”
It seemed to me that Marguerite was getting mixed up; I fancied that I could see her making signals to her husband; but he was trying to compose the concluding lines of a quatrain, and was not listening to Marguerite. I comforted the little woman by telling her that she was under no obligation to receive Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece.
“But you will go to see them?” she asked.
“Yes, I don’t see what should prevent me.”
“No, of course not. But you see, according to what I have heard of this young lady, who does not choose to marry, I have an idea that she is a flirt.”
“Even if that were so, so long as her company is agreeable, I do not see that I have anything to fear.”
Madame Ernest said no more; I saw plainly that she was not pleased with her new neighbor, and I could not imagine the reason; I did not propose that that should prevent me from going to see the new arrivals.
The next day I took my children to Monsieur Roquencourt’s house. I found the uncle walking in his garden, with several people from the neighborhood. Rich folk soon become popular; the neighbors vie with one another in becoming intimate with people who own a carriage. Monsieur Roquencourt was telling his new acquaintances about a scene from Monsieur de Crac; he took my son and daughter by the hand, and offered to show them his garden and to let them taste his peaches. I let them go and went into the house to pay my respects to Caroline. I heard the notes of a piano. A piano! how many things that instrument recalled to my mind! Those chords caused me a sharp pang now. I remembered that Mademoiselle Derbin had told me that she played the piano. I strove to overcome my emotions, and I entered the salon where Caroline was. I listened to her for some time without speaking; I cannot describe my sensations. She stopped at last and I approached her.
“Were you there?” she asked me.
“Yes, I have been listening to you.”
“Didn’t you bring your children?”
“I beg pardon, they are with your uncle.”
“Your children are lovely, and I congratulate you, monsieur, upon having them with you. It is a proof that your wife has forgiven your wrongdoing, since she entrusts to you her dearest treasures. That leads me to think that before long she herself——”
“Did you see her again before leaving Mont-d’Or, mademoiselle?”
“No, monsieur; she left the hotel where we were staying, on the day after you. Don’t you know where she is now?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, I utterly fail to understand your conduct. You seem to love, to be devoted to your children, and you abandon their suffering, unhappy mother! If I had never seen you, and anybody had told me about you, I should have imagined you as hideous physically as morally; but when one knows you, one cannot think that.”
Caroline smiled and I held my peace; that was the best course that I could pursue when that subject was broached. Henriette and Eugène came in from the garden. Caroline ran to them and embraced them and lavished toys and bonbons upon them; then, as I still remained silent, she sat down at the piano again and allowed her fingers to run over the keys for a few moments. Eugène was sitting in a corner, engrossed by his bonbons; Henriette was gazing in admiration at a lovely doll which had just been given her; but I noticed that, at the first sound from the piano, she stopped playing and listened. I listened too, for it seemed to me that it was Eugénie to whom I was listening; there were the same talent and the same expression. Soon my illusion was intensified, for Mademoiselle Derbin, after a brilliant prelude, began a tune which I recognized: it was Eugénie’s favorite. I was convinced that it was Eugénie who was playing, as in the early days of our married life. I was roused from that illusion by sobs; I looked up and saw that my daughter was sobbing bitterly and that the doll had fallen from her hands. I ran to Henriette, and Caroline did the same.
“What is the matter with you, my dear child?” I asked, taking her in my arms. “Why are you crying?”
“Oh! papa, it was because—because I thought that it was mamma playing!”
Poor child! I pressed her to my heart and I hid in her hair the tears which fell from my eyes.
Caroline was still standing before us, and I heard her say in an undertone:
“You see this child’s tears, and still you do not give her back her mother!”
I came to my senses and comforted my daughter; Caroline overwhelmed her with caresses; but, despite her efforts to detain me, I went away with the children; for I heard Monsieur Roquencourt coming, and at that moment it would have been impossible for me to endure a stranger’s presence.
I paid several visits to my neighbors, but Caroline did not play the piano again when I was there. She lavished caresses and presents upon my children, which they could not refuse; with me she was sad and silent, but she always declared that I went away too soon.
I saw that at Ernest’s house the new neighbors were not liked; that seemed to me very unjust, because they did not know them. They cast disdainful glances upon the toys that my daughter and Eugène received from Caroline; was it from jealousy, because her own children had not so many, that Madame Ernest cried down the presents that were given to my children? No, I knew Marguerite’s warm heart; it was not susceptible of envy. Why was it then that she showed so much prejudice against Monsieur Roquencourt’s niece?
On going one day to call upon Caroline, I was greatly surprised to meet Monsieur Giraud there. But I soon learned that he had been presented by a neighbor with whom he was passing the day. In the country one friend brings another to call, and Giraud was one of those people who ask nothing better than to be brought. He seemed delighted to see me; one always likes to find acquaintances in a house to which one goes for the first time; it puts one more at ease. When he discovered that I was a welcome guest in the house, that the uncle and niece manifested much regard for me, Giraud redoubled his cordiality toward me. I guessed his motive; he had not come there without a purpose; he must have heard that Mademoiselle Derbin was a marriageable person. A lovely and rich young woman—what a fine chance to negotiate a marriage! He desired to establish friendly communications in the house. He overwhelmed Caroline with compliments, which, I thought, did not touch her at all; but he listened with imperturbable patience while Monsieur Roquencourt recited the rôle of Mascarille; that might obtain him an invitation to come again.
But the neighbor who had brought him expressed a wish to go home. Giraud took his leave regretfully, asking permission to pay his respects to the uncle and niece when he happened to be driving at Saint-Mandé. They made a courteous reply, and he went away enchanted. I went at the same time, for I saw that he wished to speak to me. In fact, we were no sooner outside the house, than he put his arm through mine, slackened his pace, calling to his friend to go ahead, and plunged at once into conversation with me.
“My dear fellow, it seems to me that you are very intimate, received on very friendly terms at Monsieur Roquencourt’s?”
“Why, Monsieur Giraud, I flatter myself that I am well received wherever I go. If it were otherwise——”
“That isn’t what I mean. Bless my soul! I know your merit, my friend, although you no longer live with your wife; but that doesn’t prove anything. Look you, this young Derbin woman is a magnificent match, if what they tell me is true. But I shall make inquiries. Twenty-five thousand francs a year, unencumbered, and expectations from her uncle! and with all the rest, a pretty face, a fine figure, and talents! She plays the piano; does she play anything else?”
“I never asked her.”
“Never mind! she is a most excellent match, and I have just the man that she wants.”
“Indeed! you have——”
“Yes, you know very well that I always have husbands to offer. And so when Dupont, who is ahead of us there, spoke to me about this young lady, I said to him at once: ‘You must take me there.’—He has brought me, and I shall come again. Are they always at home?”
“Except when they go out.”
“But I mean, are they going back to Paris?”
“I have no idea.”
“In that case, I shall come again soon; it is too good a chance not to make haste; somebody else will get ahead of me. Luckily Saint-Mandé isn’t far away, and there are the omnibuses. But you must help me a little, my dear fellow. Sound the uncle and niece and mention my young man to them.”
“What young man?”
“The one whom I shall propose as a husband; a fine young fellow of twenty-two, an only son, with some money, who wants to buy a drug shop. However, if he doesn’t suit, I have others. The important thing is to find out whether the girl has any previous attachment.—Do you know whether she has?”
“By what right, Monsieur Giraud, should I ask that young lady such a question?”
“Bah! one can always find that out, without asking; however, never mind, help me a little inside the house; and I will try to have Dupont help too. I must overtake him now. My friend, sound the young lady, I beg you. You can offer a very good-looking fellow, with a hundred thousand francs, and two handsome inheritances in prospect. By the way, if she doesn’t like the idea of a drug shop, which is very likely when she has twenty-five thousand francs a year, he will buy a solicitor’s practice—that will suit her better; or, if necessary, he won’t buy anything at all.—Hallo! I say, Dupont, here I am!—The deuce! he is quite capable of dining without me.”
Giraud left me. I could not help laughing at his mania for marrying everybody; I had an idea that it was his only business, and that in addition to ordering the wedding banquet, he obtained a commission from the husband.
If he relied upon me to speak to Mademoiselle Derbin, he would be disappointed in his expectations. Fancy my speaking in favor of a person whom I did not know! Indeed, I did not see that it was so necessary for people to marry at all.
Three days had passed since that meeting. I had forgotten Giraud, and I am inclined to think that they thought little about him at Monsieur Roquencourt’s.
I had gone out for a moment without my children; I did not intend to see Caroline, but she was at the window when I passed; she saw me and beckoned to me to come in. Her uncle was in the garden and she was alone in the salon. Since our parting at Mont-d’Or, for some reason or other I was always embarrassed when I was alone with her.
For some time we did not speak. That is what often happens when two people have a great many things to say to each other. Caroline was sitting at her piano, but she did not play.
“Why do I never hear you play now?” I asked.
“Because it depresses you, and I do not see the sense of causing you pain.”
“There are memories which are painful and sweet at the same time. I would like to hear once more that tune which you played the last time.”
“And which made your daughter cry? Poor child! how dearly I love her!”
Caroline turned to the piano and played Eugénie’s favorite piece. I abandoned myself to the charm of listening and to the illusion of my memories. My heart was swollen with tears, and yet I enjoyed it. Caroline turned often to look at me, but I did not see her.
Suddenly a great uproar roused us from that situation, which had much charm for us both. The doorbell rang violently. Soon we heard several voices and the barking of a dog.
“What a nuisance!” cried Caroline; “one cannot be left in peace here a moment; my uncle receives all his neighbors! I absolutely must lose my temper with him.”
The noise kept increasing, and it seemed to me that I heard familiar voices. At last they came toward the salon, and lo! Giraud entered, with his wife, his daughter, one of his sons, and a tall young man dressed as if for a ball, who dared not move for fear of disarranging the knot of his cravat or rumpling his shirt collar.
Caroline watched the entrance of all those people with wide-open eyes. Giraud came forward with an offhand air and introduced his wife, saying:
“Mademoiselle, I have the honor to offer my respects, and to introduce my wife. Wife, this is mademoiselle, the niece of Monsieur Roquencourt, from whom I received such a cordial welcome last Sunday, and who urged me to call again when I was driving in this direction. These are my eldest son and my daughter. Bow to the lady, my children. Monsieur is one of our intimate friends; he was in our party and I took the liberty of introducing him.—Good-day, my dear Blémont; delighted to find you here again!”
Caroline bestowed a decidedly cool salutation upon the party; she contented herself with pointing to chairs. The Giraud family seated themselves; the young dandy took his seat on the edge of a couch, and Giraud at once continued:
“But where is our dear uncle, the amiable Monsieur Roquencourt? Bless my soul! how I did enjoy hearing him recite the part of Mascarille in L’Etourdi! and Monsieur de Crac! Ah! how good he was! I made my wife laugh heartily by telling her about it.—Didn’t I, my love?”
“Yes, my dear.—But, mon Dieu! what does Azor mean by searching under all the chairs like that? Come here, Azor.—Monsieur Mouillé, just give him a kick, if you please, to make him keep still.”
Monsieur Mouillé—that was the dandified young man’s name—rose and tried to catch the dog. Being unable to do it, he gave him a kick, which made Azor fly from the salon yelping just as Monsieur Roquencourt entered. Everybody rose once more. Once more Monsieur Giraud introduced his family and his young man, adding:
“Monsieur Mouillé does not come to the country often; he has so much business to attend to since he inherited from his uncle the merchant, who left him a hundred and fifty thousand francs and a buggy.—Was it a buggy or a tilbury that your uncle had?”
“It was a jolting affair,” replied Monsieur Mouillé, without turning his neck.
Giraud made a wry face and continued;
“Yes—in short, a carriage. That is very well for a young man of twenty-three. But when I told him that we were going to pay a visit to such agreeable people, he no longer hesitated to accompany us. Wife, this is Monsieur Roquencourt, who, as I was saying just now, used to act so well! Dieu! how you did make me laugh when you recited Mascarille!”
Monsieur Roquencourt seemed at first rather surprised to find so large a party, brought by a man whom he had seen but once; but the instant that the subject of acting was mentioned, his features dilated, his eyes gleamed, and he exclaimed:
“Yes, pardieu! I should say that I have acted! and before Dugazon, Larive and many others!”
“That is what I told my wife and Monsieur Mouillé, that you acted before Dugazon. My dear, monsieur acted before Dugazon!”
“Mascarille is a fine part, very long; but, although I was very good in it, especially when I said: ‘Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator——’”
“Ah! charming! delightful! isn’t it, wife? What did I tell you? Fourbum imperator!—Stop your noise, children!”
“I had other parts that I preferred. First of all, Figaro. Ah! Figaro! the costume is so pretty, and it was so becoming to me!”
“Yes, the costume must have been very becoming to you. Monsieur Mouillé, didn’t you disguise yourself as Figaro once, to go to a magnificent ball given by a contractor?”
“No, monsieur, I went as Pinçon, in Je fais mes Farces.”
“Oh! that is different.”
“To return to my costume,” said Monsieur Roquencourt, “it was white and cherry, and made of silk throughout. I believe I have it yet.”
“White and cherry; and you have it yet! Ah! if you would put it on, how kind it would be of you!”
Caroline, who had not uttered a word during this whole conversation, now leaned over to me and whispered:
“Have these people come here with the purpose of making fun of my uncle?”
“No, there is another motive, which I will tell you.”
Monsieur Roquencourt looked at Giraud a moment, but replied good-naturedly:
“Oh, no! I can’t wear that costume again. It was twenty-five years ago when I wore it, and since that time I have taken on flesh, a great deal of flesh!”
“Yes, it is true, in twenty-five years one does change, one does grow fat.—Monsieur Mouillé, it seems to me that you have grown since last year.”
“Three lines,” replied Monsieur Mouillé with a bow.
“Three lines! the deuce! You will make a fine man! Mademoiselle has a fine figure too, one of those graceful and slender figures which make it impossible for a small man to offer her his arm.”
It was Caroline to whom this complimentary speech was addressed. She glanced at me with an impatient gesture, but Giraud, who thought that he had done the most graceful thing in the world in praising fine figures, had not thought of Monsieur Roquencourt, who was very short. The uncle stepped forward into the centre of the circle and said:
“Monsieur, you are greatly mistaken when you say that a man of medium height should not offer his arm to a tall woman; Mademoiselle Contat was by no means short, and she certainly found me a most satisfactory escort.”
“Oh, Monsieur Roquencourt! Why, that is not what I said, or what I meant to say! The devil! let us understand each other. Little man! deuce take it! why, everybody knows that the heroes, the Alexanders, the Fredericks, the Napoléons, were all men of short stature. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Mouillé?—Wife, for heaven’s sake, make your daughter stop her noise.”
“And on the stage, monsieur, it is much better to be short than tall, for the stage makes everyone appear taller.”
“That is what I have said twenty times to my wife,—the stage makes people taller; and you know something about it, Monsieur Roquencourt.”
“Yes, indeed I do. A tall man cannot play Figaro, or Mascarille, or Scapin.—Ah! how quick and active I was as Scapin! I had my portrait painted in the character.”
“Your portrait as Scapin! Was it exhibited in the Salon?”
“They wanted to paint me as Monsieur de Crac too.”
“Monsieur de Crac! My wife is still laughing because I repeated some scenes to her, after you. Ah! Monsieur Roquencourt! if you would only be good enough—Monsieur Mouillé has never seen Monsieur de Crac,—Have you, Monsieur Mouillé?”
“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man, “I think that I have seen it acted at Bobino’s.”
“Ha! ha! at Bobino’s, eh?” cried Monsieur Roquencourt. “Pardieu! that must have been fine! A difficult rôle like that! In the first place, you must be careful about the accent:[2]
“Dé façon qué dé loin sur lé pauvre animalLé perdreau, sans mentir, semblait être à chéval,
Et fût resté longtemps dans la même posture,
Si mon chien n’avait pris cavalier et monture.
Eh donc, que dites-vous?”
[2] That is, the Gascon accent.
During this declamation, Giraud stamped on the floor and pretended to writhe with pleasure on his chair; Madame Giraud was occupied solely in keeping her children quiet, and Monsieur Mouillé did not stir.
“Ah! bravo! bravo!” cried Giraud. “I say, wife, you never heard such acting as that, did you?—Monsieur Mouillé, you should consider yourself very fortunate to have come to Saint-Mandé with us! very fortunate in every respect, indeed, for there is everything here that can seduce and fascinate!—Oh! Monsieur Roquencourt, something else—just a fragment or two.”
“I wonder if this sort of thing is going to last long,” Caroline whispered to me. I smiled but said nothing. Monsieur Roquencourt did not wait to be asked twice. He stepped forward again to the centre of the salon:
“Here is a passage from the scene in which he is asked about his son; and it is his son himself who questions him, unrecognized by him.”
“Ah, yes! I see.—Wife, somebody asks him about his son. Attention, Monsieur Mouillé! And it is his son himself. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand at all,” replied the young man.
“Yes, you do; yes, you do.—Hush! be quiet, children!”
“.... Il sert contré lé Russe;Mais il sert tout dé bon. Ah! lé feu roi dé Prusse,
Savait l’apprécier; et lé grand Frédéric,
En fait d’opinion, valait tout un public.
Il admirait mon fils—J’en ai——”
Monsieur Roquencourt was interrupted in his declamation by the cook, who rushed into the room, exclaiming:
“Mon Dieu! what on earth is this dog that’s just come here, mademoiselle? He came into my kitchen and jumped at everything there is there; he ate at one gulp the remains of the chicken that was on the table, and he’s just carried off the leg of mutton that was for your dinner.”
“Oh! it’s because he’s thirsty!” cried Giraud; “give him some water; he was very hot, give him some water, if you please, and then he will fawn all over you.”
“Monsieur,” said Caroline, rising and walking forward, with a very decided air, toward Giraud, “I am very sorry, but you really must give your dog water somewhere else; my uncle should remember that we have to go out this morning, we have very little time, and we cannot have the pleasure of detaining you any longer.”
As she said this, Caroline gave her uncle a glance which he understood very clearly, and he faltered:
“Yes—yes, I believe that we have to go out.”
Giraud seemed thunderstruck; he looked at his wife, who looked at Monsieur Mouillé, who looked at his trousers to see if they were creased.
However, the family rose; the dandified young man followed their example, and Giraud bowed low, saying:
“As you have an engagement, of course we do not desire to detain you; another time I trust that we shall be more fortunate, and that we may form a connection of which the fortunate result—Monsieur Mouillé, present your respects to mademoiselle. Bow, children.—Monsieur Roquencourt, we shall not forget your great amiability.—Azor! here, Azor! Azor! Oh! he will certainly come.—Au revoir, my dear Blémont.”
The family backed out of the room, bowing, and Giraud whispered in my ear:
“Has she a previous attachment? If this young man doesn’t suit her, I have others to offer. Write me what she has said to you.”
They left the salon at last, and they succeeded in finding Azor, who rushed out of the house with a mutton bone in his teeth.
When the visitors had gone, Caroline said to the maid and the gardener:
“If those people ever show their faces here again, don’t forget to say that we are not at home. Really, their impertinence is beyond bounds.”
“Never fear, mademoiselle,” said the cook; “I don’t want to see the masters again any more than the dog. I’ve got my dinner to prepare all over again now.”
“It’s my uncle’s fault; he invites everybody he sees; so long as they talk of the theatre and acting to him, that’s enough for him; he would declaim before chimney sweeps!”
“You go too far, niece; did I go in search of this gentleman, and tell him to bring his wife and children and dog? He thinks that I act well, and I see nothing extraordinary in that; many other people besides him have thought the same. But as to declaiming before chimney sweeps! However, chimney sweeps may have a very keen perception; the common people aren’t such bad judges as you seem to think, and Dugazon told me several times that at free performances the applause never came except when it was deserved. But you have no appreciation of acting, and before you it would be useless to have talent.”
Monsieur Roquencourt was offended; he left us and went to his room. I also attempted to leave, but Caroline detained me, saying:
“Just a moment, if you please. You know this Monsieur Giraud, who seemed determined to plant himself here with his whole family and his friends too. He spoke to you in an undertone. You told me that you would tell me the purpose of his visit; will you be kind enough to do so, monsieur?”
I sat down again beside Caroline, and I could not help smiling as I said to her:
“Mademoiselle, this Monsieur Giraud has a mania, or a vocation for arranging marriages. When he learned that you were still unattached, he at once conceived the plan of finding a husband for you.”
“The impertinent fellow! Why should he mix himself up in the matter?”
“As he is convinced that everybody must always come to that at last, he displays the most incredible perseverance in his schemes. He had already requested me to speak to you in favor of the young man whom he brought here to-day.”
“What! that great booby?”
“He was an aspirant for your hand, yes, mademoiselle; and, despite the unflattering welcome that you bestowed upon Giraud and his protégé, I should not be at all surprised if he returned to the charge again soon, with a new parti.”
“I assure you, monsieur, that I shall not receive him again. What you have told me makes the man more intolerable to me. The idea of attempting to arrange a marriage for me! Can one imagine such a thing?”
Caroline’s face had become serious. She lowered her eyes and seemed to be lost in thought; after a moment she continued:
“Marry! oh, no! I shall never marry. For a moment I thought that it was possible. It was a delightful dream that I had, but it was only a dream. I deceived myself cruelly!”
Those words distressed me greatly, and yet, could I be sure that they were addressed to me? I could not try to ascertain; but in spite of myself, I moved nearer to Caroline, who had dropped her head sadly upon her breast, and I took her hand, which I had never done before; but she seemed so depressed that I longed to comfort her. I did not know what to say to her. I dared not ask her the reason of her determination. We sat a long while thus without speaking; my hand gently pressed hers, but that did not comfort her, for tears poured from her eyes. Then I put my arm about her waist; I felt her heart beat beneath my fingers. I almost breathed her breath.
Suddenly she pushed me away, moved her chair away from mine and exclaimed:
“Ah! I did not believe that I was so weak; but at all events I will not be wicked; no, I will not add to the grief of a woman whom I pity, whose happiness I would like to restore. And since I am unable to conceal my feelings from you, we must meet henceforth only in company, only before strangers; yes, I swear to you that this is the last tête-à-tête that we shall have.”
Having said this, she hurried from the salon, and I left the house, realizing that we should in truth do well to avoid each other.