Volume 11 — XXVII MY STAR PURSUES ME

I did not sleep; my mind was too disturbed, my heart too agitated for me to obtain any rest. All night long I formed plans, prudent, extravagant, and delicious. Nicette was always included in those charming visions of the future, which my imagination conceived so readily; I transformed her into a shepherdess, a great lady, a demoiselle; she and I were together in a palace, in a village, in a desert; but, wherever we were, we were happy. Ah! how sweet it is to dream waking dreams when one loves and believes one’s self to be loved in return!

I rose at daybreak; I had twenty schemes in my head, and, as usual, I could not decide upon any one. First of all, I must see Nicette; that was the most important thing. My toilet was soon completed; I was sure that I always looked well to her.

I left my room; everybody was still asleep in the house, unless there was somebody who was very much in love. Madame Dupont, who had ceased to be amorous, kept me waiting a century before she pulled the cord of the porte cochère; at last she heard me knocking and shouting at her window, and I was free.

In less than five minutes I was in front of the shop; it was still closed. I was surprised; Nicette was usually such an early bird.

Should I wait? should I knock? I stood hesitating in the street, when a messenger passed. It was the same one I had questioned some time before; he recognized me, touched his hat as he passed, and took his seat some twenty yards away. I walked toward him, with no definite idea what I was going to do. The messenger, who was pleased with my conduct on the former occasion, hastened to offer me his services.

“I have nothing for you to do, my friend,” I said, in a decidedly dismal tone, mechanically putting a five-franc piece in his hand.

He stared at me in amazement, and waited for me to speak before he ventured to put the coin in his pocket. I looked toward Nicette’s shop and pointed at it.

“That flower girl is rather late about opening, it seems to me,” I said.

“Oh! it’s early yet; but still, she’s been a bit lazylike for some time. Well, well! it isn’t surprising!”

“Why so?”

“When a woman gets love into her head!”

“How do you know? Who told you she was in love?”

“Oh! a man don’t have to be very sharp to see that kind of thing! you see, I’ve been on this square twenty year, so I ought to know pretty well what’s going on in the quarter.”

“What do you know about this girl? What have you seen? Answer, and keep nothing back. Here, take this.”

I felt in my pocket again and put more silver in the messenger’s hand, whereat his amazement redoubled and he looked into my face for symptoms of insanity.

“You told me that this girl was virtuous and honest, and that she did not speak to anybody, because she preferred not to.”

“That’s true, monsieur, that’s true. She’s honest enough still; but when a girl’s young, she may take a liking for someone, and——”

“Explain yourself more clearly! What makes you think that?”

“Pardi, monsieur! because I see the fellow come to see her.”

So Nicette had deceived me! Nicette did not love me! No, I could not believe it. I determined to question the man further. I leaned against the post that adjoined his stone bench; I needed support, for I trembled at the thought of finding my misery confirmed.

“You say that you see someone come to her shop?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Since when?”

“Why, it was about three weeks ago that the man came prowling around here; at first he came in the morning, to buy flowers; then he came at night, just at dusk, and talked a little; then he stayed longer; and it’s got so now that he comes almost every night and talks an hour or two with the pretty little flower girl. But I think everything’s all straight as yet; the shop door’s always open, and unless they meet somewhere else, which is possible enough, for women are sly, and it ain’t safe to trust to virtuous airs!—--”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he ain’t exactly a young man, perhaps about forty years old; nor he ain’t very handsome, either; but as to his get-up, he’s one of your sort, a man who looks as if he was somebody! And you can see that the little flower girl, who put on airs with us poor folks, might have been flattered to make the conquest of a swell; that’s probably what caught her!”

“And he comes every night?”

“Yes, monsieur, pretty near; he don’t hardly ever miss a night now.”

“That’s enough.”

I strode away from the messenger; the poor fellow had unsuspectingly torn my heart; at the very moment that I proposed to abandon myself without reserve to my love for Nicette; to turn my back on society of which I was weary, so that I might live with her and for her—at that moment, I lost her thus! She loved another, and I believed myself to be sure of her love! With that sweet delusion vanished the blissful future of my waking dreams that morning.

I was still in the street; I could not go away. At last the shop opened; Nicette appeared; she was pale and downcast; but I had never seen her when she was so pretty, I had never been so deeply in love with her.

The little traitor—with that innocent air! Alas! had I the right to complain? had she given me her troth? had I told her that I loved her?—But was it necessary to tell her so? It seemed to me that we understood each other so perfectly. We had both been deceived!

Should I speak to her? Of what use was it now? what could I say to her that would interest her? No; I would not see her or speak to her again; I would forget her!

I do not know how it happened; but, with the firm intention to avoid her, I had walked toward her; and I found myself in front of her shop, where I stopped, in spite of myself.

She came to meet me with an air of constraint; her eyes were red, as if she had wept much; what could be the cause of her distress? I did not know what to say, and I stood mute in front of her; she too was thoughtful.—And this was the interview in which the confidence and unreserve of love were to reign supreme!—Poor mortals! our plans are drawn on the sand.

“I came last night,” I said at last, in a tone which I strove to render cold.

“Last night—yes, I saw you, with—with that lady.”

“No, I mean a few minutes later—I came back and knocked.”

“I was not here.”

“I thought you never went out.”

“I went out last night.”

“You might have been at home, and have preferred not to let me in.”

“Why so, monsieur?”

“Sometimes a person doesn’t like to be disturbed when she has company.”

“Company!”

“Yes, you understand me perfectly well; will you tell me again that you have no visitors? For the last three weeks, hasn’t a gentleman come to see you—almost every evening?”

She was embarrassed, she blushed. The messenger had not deceived me.

“Well, mademoiselle, you don’t answer. Is it the truth?”

“Yes, monsieur, it’s the truth.”

She admitted it! ah! I would have liked to have her deny it, I should have been so happy to believe her!—Further doubt was impossible! there was no more hope for me! I must go. I cast a last glance at her and left the shop abruptly, for I did not choose to let her see the suffering she caused me. She made a movement to detain me, then paused in her doorway, contenting herself with looking after me.

I resolved to think no more of her; she was no better than the rest!—In truth, I was unlucky in love! I had never yet fallen in with a faithful woman; they had all deceived me, betrayed me, played fast and loose with me; but all their perfidies had caused me less pain than I suffered because of Nicette’s inconstancy! She saw that I loved her; all women see that at a glance! She did everything to attract me! To think that one so young should be so skilled in feigning love and sensibility and gratitude! I could never again believe in anything or anybody.

But, before forgetting her entirely, I proposed to see the man who had replaced me in her heart, the man who had beguiled her, whom she loved! What a lucky dog he was! At that moment I would have given all that I possessed to be loved by Nicette.

I had been told that he went to see her every evening; I would see him that very day. There was a café almost opposite the shop, where I could wait unobserved, for I did not choose that the ungrateful girl should witness all the torments of my feeble heart.

I passed the day as best I could, and at five o’clock I betook myself to Rue Saint-Honoré. When I came in sight of her shop, I looked to see if she was in the doorway. She was not there, and I slipped into the café unseen by her. I took my seat at a table that touched the window, and ordered a half-bowl of punch, because it would naturally take me some time to drink it. The waiter made me repeat my order; no doubt he took me for an Englishman or a Fleming; but I cared little. I took up a newspaper to keep myself in countenance, and kept my eyes fixed on the flower shop.

The time seems very long when one anticipates a pleasure, and still longer when one is suffering and in dread. Would the darkness never come! It was October, and should have been dark at six o’clock. Could it be that it was not yet six? I looked at the clock; it marked only half-past five; it was probably slow. I looked at my watch; twenty-five minutes past five! It was cruel! I tried to drink the punch that was before me, but it was impossible for me to swallow; I had not dined, but I had been suffocating since the morning.

At last the daylight faded. How was I to see what happened inside the shop? how was I to distinguish that man’s features? I hoped that she would have a light. Sure enough, she came out with a light and began to carry in her flowers. What sadness, what depression in her whole aspect! She seated herself in the shop, beside the table, but she did not write! She sighed and glanced often into the street. She was expecting someone—and it was not I!

It was almost seven o’clock, and no one had appeared. Suppose he should not come? Should I be any happier then? Had she not agreed that morning that I knew the truth? And had her blush, her embarrassment, told me nothing?

A man appeared and entered the shop; he sat down beside her. Great God! did not my eyes deceive me? It was Raymond! Raymond with Nicette! Raymond her lover! No, no; that was impossible!

I rushed out of the café to make sure of the truth. Someone ran after me and stopped me. It was the waiter; I had forgotten to pay. I did not understand very well what he said, but I put three francs in his hand and he left me. The darkness allowed me to remain in the street unseen by Nicette, while I could see her plainly. It was in very truth Raymond whom I had seen, whom I saw. He was talking to her very earnestly, and she listened with attention. I read in her eyes the interest she took in what he was saying; she seemed more distressed than ever, she wept. He took her hand and squeezed it tenderly! She did not withdraw it! That lovely hand abandoned to Raymond! Ah! it was all over, I could no longer doubt my misfortune. I felt that I must fly while I still had strength to do so, and must never see her again! If only I could at the same time banish her image from my thoughts! But the idea that she loved Raymond crushed me, haunted me incessantly! So it was for Raymond’s benefit that I had preserved intact that flower which it would have been so sweet to me to pluck! I respected her innocence, and this was my reward!

If some respectable young man, of obscure station like herself, had won her heart while seeking her hand, I might perhaps have consoled myself; at all events, I should have been proud of having kept her pure and worthy of his vows. But that such a fellow as Raymond should triumph over Nicette! By what spell could he have fascinated her? He was neither young nor handsome; he was a stupid, vain, chattering bore! If there was anything lovable about him, I had never discovered it! And that was the man she preferred to me! Oh! these women!

I was no longer surprised at the embarrassment I had observed in Raymond’s manner when we last met. The traitor! so that was why he avoided me. The fellow was my evil genius, in very truth! He knew that I knew Nicette; he knew, perhaps, that I loved her. If I had listened to nothing but my rage, I should have gone to him and insulted him. But how can one obtain satisfaction from a dastard? and would his death make Nicette what I formerly believed her to be? I would despise one and forget the other; that was the only course for me to pursue.

Once more I sought in repose oblivion of my suffering. What a different night from the last! Last night, forming delightful plans based upon love and constancy; to-night, cursing that sentiment and the woman who had inspired it! If the weariness caused by such tempests of emotion made me doze for a moment, my first thought, on reopening my eyes, was of all my blasted hopes.

When I was dressed, I could not resist the longing to talk with Raymond. I promised myself to retain my self-control, to hold myself in check, and to conceal the state of my heart. I hastened across the landing and knocked and rang at his door. The concierge knew that he was at home; he was not in the habit of rising early; still he did not open the door. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. I heard sounds at last; I recognized his heavy tread, and soon his nasal tones greeted my ears.

“Who is it making such a row at my door before seven o’clock? It’s outrageous to wake a man up like this!”

“It’s I, neighbor; it’s I, Dorsan; I want to talk with you.”

For some seconds he did not reply, and when he did I knew by his voice that he was not gratified by my call.

“What! is it you, my dear neighbor?”

“Yes, it’s I.”

“What brings you here so early?”

“You shall learn; but first let me in; I don’t like to talk through a door.”

“I beg your pardon—you see, I’m in my nightshirt.”

“Bah! what difference does it make to me, whether you’re in your nightshirt, or naked, or fully dressed? I have no desire to examine your person. Open the door! then you can go back to bed; that won’t interfere with my talking to you.”

“You see, I passed most of the night writing birthday rhymes; and I am still sleepy.”

“Oh! morbleu! Monsieur Raymond, open the door, or I’ll break it down!”

The tone in which I uttered the last words indicated a purpose to carry out my threat. He did not wait for me to repeat it, but opened the door, and, running back through his little reception room, jumped into bed, where he wrapped himself up in the bedclothes, leaving nothing exposed but his nose and his great eyes, which he turned from side to side with an air of uneasiness, not venturing to look at me. I followed; the first thing I saw on entering his bedroom was a dozen or more bunches of orange blossoms, like those Nicette used to leave at my door; they were symmetrically arranged on my neighbor’s dressing table. That sight tore my heart, but I had promised myself to be philosophical, so I sat down beside Raymond’s bed and tried to speak very calmly.

“How are you this morning, Monsieur Raymond?”

He gazed at me in amazement.

“Was it to inquire about my health that you broke my bellrope and threatened to break down my door?”

“Oh! you must know that that was a joke! I had a question I wanted to ask you.—You have some very pretty bouquets there; it seems that you too are fond of orange blossoms?”

“Yes, yes; I like their odor very much; it’s good for the nerves, and I am very nervous, you know.”

“There’s a bond of sympathy between us, for these bouquets bear a surprising resemblance to those that adorn my bedroom—and for which you once expressed your admiration.”

“Yes, that’s true; indeed, I remember now that that was what gave me the idea of having some myself.”

“And are your flower dealer and mine the same?”

He did not know what to say, and his head disappeared for a moment under the bedclothes.

“Well, neighbor?”

“Oh! I haven’t any regular flower dealer; I go sometimes to one, sometimes to another.”

“Come, come, Monsieur Raymond, why fence with me; is this the confidence of which you claim to set me an example? Are you afraid of making me angry? Don’t be afraid; I ceased to think about little Nicette a long while ago.”

At that, he took his whole head out from beneath the bedclothes, and looked at me with a surprised and pleased expression.

“What! do you mean it? you have ceased to think about the little flower girl?”

“I never thought about her!”

“Well! do you know, I almost suspected as much! Besides, we have Madame de Marsan, who must occupy a good deal of our attention!”

“Never mind Madame de Marsan; tell me about your intrigue with Nicette.”

“Oh! it isn’t a long story! I confess that I am madly in love with her! You know how pretty she is!”

“A saucy face!”

“The deuce! saucy! you call her saucy! you are hard to please.”

“Well?”

“I go to make love to her almost every night. At first she was a little inclined to be wild; but I was so skilful at wheedling her, that now she can’t get along without me, and I am sure that she adores me.”

“Has she told you so?”

“Almost; besides, those things don’t need to be told; they can be seen. I know women so well!”

“You are more fortunate than I. So you have triumphed?”

“Not altogether as yet; but it won’t be long, I am getting ahead very fast. Look you, with women, just be assiduous, persistent, and agreeable, and you can be sure of victory! Oh! I’m a crafty dog, I am, a finished roué! A man must be that, to please the women. Sentiment, sighs, tender words, those were all right once; nowadays, at the first meeting, you inflame; at the second, you toy; at the third, you take a kiss—pinch the knee, squeeze her, and she is yours.”

I could not restrain an angry movement.

“And this is the man she loves!” I said, rising abruptly.

Raymond, terrified by my action, had buried himself anew under the bedclothes.

“Do you still have nervous paroxysms?” he cried, without showing his face.

“No, no, I’m all right. Adieu, Monsieur Raymond! be happy; and, above all things, make Nicette happy.”

With that, I left him, returned to my own room, and locked the door. There I could at least give free vent to the passions which agitated me, and which I had had the strength to restrain in Raymond’s presence. My heart was torn by love, jealousy, anger, and the most profound melancholy in turn. I tried to regain my self-control and to overcome a weakness at which I blushed; then I went out. For a week I courted the distractions of society and abandoned myself to what men call pleasure. But those things that once attracted me no longer had the slightest charm for me. I went to the theatre, to balls, concerts, the most brilliant parties; everywhere I was bored and discontented; wherever I went, I carried in the depths of my heart a melancholy, a depression which I could not overcome.

I was always delighted to go home; I was happier there; I sought new suffering in my memories; but that very suffering had a charm for me which I failed to find in society. But if I wished to forget her, I must needs leave those lodgings. How could I fail to think of her in that room, on that bed where she had slept! everything there reminded me of her and fed my love for her. I felt that I must go away; that I must leave Paris, where life had become unendurable to me. Distance, change of scene, and time, which, they say, triumphs over everything,—those were the remedies with which I must treat the insane passion that held sway in my heart. I would go to see my sister; she had ceased to expect me, but she would be none the less glad to see me; at all events, I should find there people who loved me. It seemed to me that that would do me good. My preparations were soon made. I locked the door of my lodgings, which I retained, although I was resolved never to occupy them again. I forbade Madame Dupont to let anyone enter except herself; she was to take care of them. I paid two quarters’ rent in advance, and started for my sister’s.