Volume 11 — XXVI WHERE WILL IT END?

After the adventure of the thicket, it was impossible for me to go again to Madame de Marsan’s house, or to see her in public. So that we were obliged to cover our liaison with a veil of mystery. With many women that fact would have simply added to the charm; but I was afraid that with Madame de Marsan, who loved to be surrounded by adorers and by admiring homage, the impossibility of gratifying her vanity by her conquest of me would speedily abate her love. If we no longer met at her house, it was solely out of respect for the proprieties; for, as Raymond had witnessed the catastrophe, I had no doubt that it was known to everybody.

What surprised me most was that I had not seen him since that memorable evening: a week had passed, and I had not even met him on the stairs; doubtless he dreaded my wrath. He evidently kept out of sight when he heard me coming; for as we lived on the same landing and both went in and out several times during the day, we did not usually pass two days without meeting.

Madame de Marsan and I were in regular correspondence; we made appointments, we went into the country together, and sat in closed boxes at the theatre. I enjoyed her society more, seeing her only en tête-à-tête. There was no longer between us that swarm of young dandies who were constantly fluttering about her, and whose presence was far from agreeable to me; when we were alone, she could not play the coquette so successfully and amuse herself by tormenting me. So that, for my part, I was not at all sorry that we met as we did, but I was very much afraid that it was not the same with her. Already our correspondence was beginning to drag, our assignations were becoming less frequent; she constantly found something to prevent her meeting me: a reception, a ball, some festivity which she could not possibly avoid attending. I had no faith in her excuses, because I knew that her husband left her entirely at liberty to do as she chose. If she refused to keep an appointment with me, it was because she preferred to create a sensation at a ball or a concert; in a word, to make conquests, to surround herself with admirers and attentions, rather than to be alone with me. The conclusion to be drawn from that state of affairs was very simple: Madame de Marsan did not love me, had never loved me. She had smiled upon me solely from caprice; had given me hopes from coquetry; had yielded by chance; and would leave me because she was bored.

One morning, opening my door suddenly, I saw Raymond going downstairs and caught him by his coat tail.

“Great heaven! I thought you were dead, Monsieur Raymond!” said I.

“Good-morning, my dear neighbor! It’s a fact—I haven’t seen you since the Barbier de Séville.”

“That is true; and I counted upon you to tell me how the festivities came to an end.”

“Oh! you must have heard all about it from——”

“From whom?”

“You know whom I mean. To tell the truth, I was afraid you were angry with me.”

“Why so?”

“Because I took her husband to the thicket.”

“Aha! so it was you who brought him there, was it?”

“That is to say, it was I and it wasn’t. He was looking for his wife, and I was looking for the Cupids, who were giving themselves indigestion in the attic; the little rascals nearly burst, and their mother declared it was my fault and wanted to tear my eyes out! I was in hard luck at that party!—But to return to your adventure—if you had let me into the secret of your liaison with Madame de Marsan, it wouldn’t have happened; on the contrary, I would have induced the husband to abandon the idea of looking for his wife! But there, as I am always saying to you, you won’t ever tell me anything! your reticence leads to surprises! in fact, you are responsible for my having to give up going to Monsieur de Marsan’s.”

“Why so?”

“Why so! it’s easy enough to see: the wife, knowing what—what I saw, receives me very coldly; and the husband’s another oddity. I wished to try to arrange matters; it was no easy task, but still, as it was night, and moonlight—and then, with a shrewd wit one can make anything look all right.”

“Well?”

“Well, when you had gone, I tried first to help Madame de Marsan, who had fainted, as I thought; but the moment I put my salts to her nose, she got up without help, threw the salts into my face, and ran off and locked herself in her room. When I saw that, I said to myself: ‘I must go to the husband and throw dust in his eyes.’—I went to the salon, and motioned to Monsieur de Marsan to step out to speak to me; at first he was unwilling to leave the écarté table, but he finally made up his mind to it. I led him into a corner and said: ‘Monsieur, you mustn’t believe all you see, especially by moonlight, because the moon changes the aspect of things, and you may be misled. The scene they were rehearsing in the thicket was of my invention, and was to be played after the Barbier: it was a love scene, and in love scenes the actors sit very near together, on each other’s knees sometimes, take hold of hands, embrace—in fact, the more things they do, the more complete the illusion.’—That was rather clever, eh?”

“Very clever; and what reply did Monsieur de Marsan make?”

“He hardly let me finish; then he said in a very sharp tone: ‘Be good enough not to weary me with any more of your nonsense, and never to open your mouth again on that subject!’—And, with that, he turned on his heel. Faith! I confess that I call that very ill-mannered! I try to give a husband the matrimonial prism, and he receives me like a dog in a game of tenpins! you must agree that it was not very pleasant. To cap the climax, a moment later up comes the dairywoman with her two brats, who were purple in the face; they had just been found in an attic; and the impudent peasant began to abuse me, and promised me that, if they burst, her husband would summon me before the magistrate! As if it was my fault! Why, I told them to act the part of Cupid, not to stuff themselves with food!—Faith! when it came to that, I took my hat, and taking advantage of Figaro’s cabriolet—he was driving back to Paris—I turned my back on the fête, vowing that I would never again compose anacreontic scenes for peasants.”

My neighbor left me when he had finished his story. Despite the assurance that I had given him that I harbored no resentment against him on account of that incident, he seemed to me to retain in my presence a constrained, embarrassed air which was not usual with him. He had left me, whereas ordinarily I had hard work to get rid of him. I sought in vain a reason for this behavior, which was not natural in Raymond. However, it mattered little to me what maggot he had in his brain; it surprised me more than it interested me.

There was something that surprised and troubled me much more: for a long time I had received no bouquets from Nicette. At first, I thought that her mother’s death might have kept her busy for some days; but that had taken place more than six weeks before, and still I found nothing at my door! I had become so accustomed to those tokens of remembrance, that every evening, when I went home, I hastily put my hand to the doorknob; but I found nothing, and I said to myself sadly:

“She too has forgotten me! I might reproach her, but I do not want her to do from a sense of duty what I had thought was a pleasure to her.”

It was a long time since I had seen her; I woke too late in the morning; in the evening, I was either with Madame de Marsan, or some friend would drag me away to one of the parties which began to be more numerous with the approach of winter. Besides, I knew how dangerous it was to go to see her in the evening!—Meanwhile, my meetings with Madame de Marsan were daily becoming less frequent and more depressing; she was simply waiting for an excuse to break with me altogether; and I, from a spirit of contradiction, refused to furnish her with one.

For several days we had not met; but we had arranged to dine together on a certain day; it was almost like granting me a favor. We dined at the Cadran-Bleu; the sight of the Méridien, just opposite, reminded me of the much livelier repast of which I had partaken with Mademoiselle Agathe; and I said to myself that the grisette, who deceives one openly, is a hundred times preferable to the petite-maîtresse who clings to us when she does not love us. The dinner was a gloomy affair, despite my efforts to prolong it; at seven o’clock we had nothing more to say to each other. I suggested the theatre, but there was no play that attracted her; it was not the season for walking, and I did not know what to suggest, or how to amuse her. At last she began to complain of pain in the stomach and head, of the vapors, in short. She decided to go home and to bed early, and I applauded the idea, which was a great relief to us both. We left the restaurant; I was going to take her home in a cab, as usual, but she preferred to go on foot, thinking that the walk in the fresh air would do her good. It was dark, and we had no fear of unpleasant meetings. We walked along like a husband and wife of twenty years’ standing, exchanging a word every five minutes. We reached Rue Saint-Honoré and should soon pass Nicette’s little shop; but it would surely be closed, and I was very glad of it. As we drew near I saw that the shop was still open; the shrubs had not been taken inside. It was too late to turn back. Indeed, why should I turn back? Was I not at liberty to give my arm to whomever I chose? Yes; but still I hoped that she would not see me.

We reached the shop; Nicette was at her door; she saw me, and by some inexplicable whim Madame de Marsan chose to stop to examine her flowers.

“Here’s a lovely orange tree,” she said; “for a long time I have wanted one in my boudoir; I like this one very much; don’t you think it pretty?”

“Yes, madame, very pretty.”

I was embarrassed; I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding Nicette’s.

“I am afraid it’s too large, though,” continued Madame de Marsan. “Have you any others, my girl?—Well! why don’t you answer?”

Nicette did not hear her; she had her eyes fixed on me, and doubtless her expression was very eloquent, for Madame de Marsan, greatly surprised, scrutinized her closely; her pretty face, her confusion, my emotion, my embarrassed manner, aroused in Madame de Marsan’s mind suspicions, which undoubtedly went beyond the truth. Women divine very swiftly, and their imagination travels fast. Madame de Marsan no longer loved me, but she had the curiosity which no woman ever loses on that subject, and, in pure deviltry, she pretended to be very fond of me.

She entered the shop, leaning nonchalantly on my arm; she bestowed an amorous glance on me and addressed me in the familiar second person, which she had not done twenty times at the very outset of our liaison.

“What do you think of these trees, my dear fellow? tell me which you like, my dear Dorsan; I want to choose the one you like best.”

Vexation and anger were suffocating me; I was hardly able to stammer a few disjointed words. I glanced at Nicette; I saw her turn pale and stagger; her eyes filled with tears; they seemed to say to me:

“She loves you! do you love her?”

Madame de Marsan saw it all; she smiled maliciously and watched Nicette closely.

“What’s the matter with you, child?” she asked, in a contemptuous tone; “you seem very much excited.”

“Nothing, madame, nothing’s the matter,” the poor girl replied, in a trembling voice, looking at Madame de Marsan and at me in turn.

“What’s the price of this orange tree?”

“It’s—it’s—whatever you choose to give, madame; I don’t care.”

“What’s that? you don’t care? That’s a strange answer!—What do you think, my dear Dorsan? Come, answer; I don’t know what’s the matter with you to-night, really!”

“When you are ready, madame, we will go.”

“Ah! I see, monsieur; you have reasons for not wanting to stay in this place with me; my presence embarrasses you—and seems to grieve mademoiselle! Ha! ha! this is too good! to grieve this poor child!—that would be cruel beyond words! Come, monsieur, when you choose. But, I beg you, don’t leave her in despair.—Adieu, my girl!”

She left the shop at last, and I followed her after glancing at Nicette. But she was crying and did not look at me.

When we were in the street, Madame de Marsan laughed as if she would die, and joked me about my amours and about the innocent flower girl. I made no reply, although I might have made some very mortifying remarks; we must be indulgent to the woman who has been weak for our sake. I left her at her door. I was in great haste to see Nicette again; I was determined now to tell her all my thoughts, all my sentiments; I proposed to conceal from her no longer the genuine passion which she had inspired, and which I had fought against to no purpose. She shared it; I could not doubt that. We would be happy together; yes, I would abandon myself thenceforth to the dictates of my heart, which told me that I must possess Nicette. The friendship between us was simply a pretext to conceal our love; we could not misunderstand each other! Why those fruitless efforts to overcome the sentiment that drew us toward each other? Why should cold prudence deprive us of happiness? Is love a crime, pray? and can that which makes us so happy make us guilty?

I ran, I flew—at last I stood before her shop; it was closed, and I could see no light within. I knocked: there was no reply. Was she asleep? No, no; I was sure that she would not be able to sleep. I knocked again—no reply! Where could she be? I passed an hour in front of her shop. I knocked again, but to no purpose. I was convinced that she was inside, but that she was determined not to admit me, that she was weeping and did not wish me to see her tears. Perhaps she feared that I would reproach her for her conduct before Madame de Marsan. Dear Nicette! Far be it from me to reprove your love.

“I will see her to-morrow,” I thought; “I will console her, and I shall easily triumph over the resolutions of the night! Since it must be, I will wait till to-morrow.”