Le Cocu Part 62

Ernest's two children had left their play and had drawn near to look at me. A little boy, about three years old, alone had remained on the gra.s.s; he looked at us with a timid air. Suddenly my daughter left my knee and ran to the little boy, took his hand, and led him to me, saying:

"Come, Eugene, and kiss papa."

I had guessed that it was he. I examined him closely: he had pretty chestnut hair, lovely eyes, a pink and white complexion, and a gentle expression; he looked very much like Eugenie; that was all that I could discover in his features.

Doubtless my face had grown stern, for the child seemed to be afraid to come forward. I could not help smiling, however, when he said to me with a comical gravity:

"Good-morning, papa."

I kissed him on the cheek, but sighed as I did so, with a heavy weight at my heart. Then I put him down and he returned at once to the gra.s.s.

It seemed that the poor little fellow noticed that I had kissed him against my will.

I took my daughter on my knee again; she jumped about and clapped her hands for joy, saying:

"Now, when mamma comes back, I shall be happy; she will come soon, won't she, papa? Why didn't you bring her back? She told me that she was going to get you."

I turned my eyes away and made no reply. Ernest said to me in an undertone:

"My friend, you forbade us to mention your wife to you; but you must expect now that Henriette will mention her very often. You certainly would not want your daughter to cease to think of her mother?"

"No, of course not; besides, I am more reasonable now than I used to be.

I am now curious to learn--Henriette, go and play with your little friends."

My daughter went back to her brother and Ernest's children. I sat between Marguerite and Ernest and said to them:

"Tell me what has occurred since I went away, and how it happened that my daughter was placed in your charge."

"Yes, we will tell you all about it," said Marguerite. "But first--I say, Ernest, have you told him?"

Ernest smiled but said nothing.

"What is it?" I inquired.

"We are married!" cried Marguerite, jumping up and down on the bench.

"It is all settled--three months ago. Ah! I am not afraid of his leaving me now; I am his wife."

She ran to Ernest, took his head in her hands, and kissed him; he extricated himself, saying:

"Stop! you are rumpling my s.h.i.+rt."

"You see, Monsieur Henri, he is less agreeable already!--Oh! I only said that in fun."

"My dear friends, you have done well to be married, since that was your wish. I do not think that you will be any happier than you were, but I hope that you will be as happy. You have pledges of happiness."

I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest, who said:

"That is enough about ourselves, now let us come to your matters.--When you had gone, I determined to ascertain how Madame Blemont was behaving.

But she appeared in society very little; and yet--for you know how just the world is--people pitied her, praised her highly, and blamed you for deserting her. One night she came to a large party where I was. Her costume was as elaborate as ever; but I thought that she had lost color, that she had greatly changed. I fancied that her gayety was forced, and I noticed that she relapsed constantly into a gloomy reverie, from which she emerged with difficulty. You know what sentiments Madame Blemont aroused in my breast. I was the only person in the world who looked at her with a more than severe expression, and I am convinced that she felt that I was the only one to whom you had confided your misfortunes; so that my presence always produced a magical effect upon her; she ceased to talk, and it seemed to me that in my presence she dared not even pretend to be light-hearted.

"Belan came to that same party with his wife and his mother-in-law. I do not know whether it was from malice or from stupidity, but on seeing me, he said to me:

"'Well! so poor Blemont was nearly killed! He was knocked down in the Bois de Boulogne by some people riding. I heard about it from a young man who helped to pick him up.'

"Your wife happened to be standing behind us. I glanced at her and found that her eyes were fastened upon mine with an expression which I could not interpret. They seemed to implore me to listen to her. At once I turned my back and left the party. The next morning, at seven o'clock, your wife was at my house."

"At your house?"

"Imagine my surprise when she entered my study, trembling and hardly able to stand.--'Monsieur,' she said, 'I am convinced that you know of all my wrongdoing toward Monsieur Blemont; I have read in your eyes the contempt which you feel for me, and it has required much courage for me to venture to call upon you; but what I heard last night has made it impossible for me to enjoy a moment's rest. Monsieur Blemont was hurt in the Bois de Boulogne by some people on horseback. I remember very well that I pa.s.sed him; can it be that I was unconsciously the cause of that accident? Have I that crime also to reproach myself with? Can it be that Monsieur Blemont has not recovered? For heaven's sake, take pity on my anxiety and conceal nothing from me.'

"I told your wife how the accident happened. She could not doubt that she was the original cause of it. She listened to me without a word; she seemed utterly crushed. I felt bound to take advantage of that opportunity to tell her of the repulsion that you felt for your son, of your intention not to see him; and I concluded by handing her the memorandum book which you had left with me and which contained her portrait. When she saw it, a cry of despair escaped her, and she fell unconscious to the floor. Marguerite came and I placed her in her care.

She will finish the story now."

"Mon Dieu! I have little to add," said Marguerite. "I found the poor woman unconscious; I did what I could for her, but when she came to herself she was in the most horrible state of despair. She desired to die, she tried to end her own life. She called upon you and her children, and gave herself the most odious names. Ah! I am sure that if you had seen her then, you would have had pity on her; for my own part, as I saw that she had an attack of fever, and that her mind wandered at times, I would not let her go home alone, but I went with her; then I sent and asked my husband's permission to stay with her until she was better, and he consented."

"Oh! what a kind heart you have, madame! you forgot the way that she treated you."

"Oh! I forgot that long ago, I promise you. In this world we must forget much, I think, and forgive often. Madame Blemont, in her lucid intervals, looked at me and pressed my hand without speaking. When she was really better, she thanked me for taking care of her, as if what I had done was not the most natural thing in the world; she asked me to forgive her for the evil opinion she had had of me. Oh! I forgave her with all my heart. She confessed that I had always made her very jealous, and I scolded her for suspecting you; I told her that you used to come to my little room solely to talk to us about her, and she wept as she listened to me. But she wept much harder when she told me about her wrongdoing; and I too shed tears while she was telling her story, for I saw that she had always loved you, and that, except for her insane jealousy, her anger, and the bad advice she received----"

"Well, madame?"

"Well, she told me that she regretted having refused you your daughter, and, notwithstanding the grief it would cause her to part with her, she had decided to comply with your slightest wish. She begged me to take charge of little Henriette until she returned. You can imagine that I consented. She also recommended your son to me--yes, your son, and she repeated the words several times. She told me that she was going to live in retirement, and to turn her back on society forever."

"And in fact," said Ernest, "she did abandon altogether the sort of life she had been leading formerly; she lived in the most complete solitude.

But I learned a few days ago that she had gone to Mont-d'Or to take the waters, because her physician had prescribed that journey, her health being much impaired.--That is what has happened, my dear Henri. In telling you this story, we have not tried to move you by dwelling upon your wife's repentance, although we believe it to be sincere. We know that her fault is not one a husband can forget, especially when he loved his wife as you did yours; but, even without forgetting, one sometimes forgives; and there are many guiltier women in the world. We cannot help pitying Madame Blemont, and sighing over the future of your children."

"My dear friends," I said, taking a hand of each, "when I went away two years ago, your only wish was that I should forget a guilty wife; you had witnessed my despair, the tortures of my heart, and then you were perhaps more angry than I with the author of all my woes. To-day, the sight of Eugenie in tears, of her remorse, which I am quite willing to believe is sincere, has moved you, has touched you to the heart. You would like to induce me to forgive her; but do not hope for it. Although two years of absence have partly cicatrized the wounds in my heart, do not believe that it can ever forget the blow which was dealt it. Even if I should forgive her who destroyed my happiness, that happiness would not be revived, her presence would always be painful to me, I could never hold her in my arms without remembering that another also had enjoyed her caresses; such an existence would be a constant torment; I will not condemn myself to it. I cannot give my daughter a mother at that price; I think that I have done enough by maintaining her honor.

Let us never return to this subject. As for little Eugene, I will do my duty. If I have not a father's heart for him, it is because I must have some enlightenment to banish from my heart the suspicions which have found their way thither. Ah! I am greatly to be pitied for not daring to love the child whom I called my son."

Ernest and Marguerite looked at each other sadly, but could find nothing to reply. I rose, thinking of Pettermann, whom I had left in the cab.

"Your house strikes me as a charming place; can you give me a room here?" I asked Ernest.

"It is all ready, and it has been waiting for you a fortnight."

"Very good; but I don't need Pettermann here; have I my apartment in Paris still?"

"Yes, I would not give it up on the last rent day, because I expected you."

"In that case Pettermann can go there; and I, as you consent, will board with you; I shall go to Paris as little as possible."

Pettermann was still sitting in the cab which was waiting in front of the house. I told him that he was to return to my apartment in Paris, to take up his quarters there, and to be always ready to bring what I needed to Saint-Mande. Pettermann bowed, and drove away, saying:

"I am very glad that I didn't have to get out of the carriage."

Ernest and Marguerite showed me to the room which they had set apart for me. It looked on the garden, and I found it very much to my liking, especially when they pointed out to me, opposite my room, the room in which Henriette and her brother slept; I was very glad to be able to kiss my daughter as soon as I woke, and without disturbing anyone.

It only remained to show me the property. That was a joy for a landed proprietor, and Ernest and his wife were enchanted to do it. The house was not large, but it was pleasant and convenient. Moreover, Ernest was a genuine poet; he had no ambition; he would have been bored to death in a palace, and he agreed with Socrates. As for Marguerite, she fancied herself in a chateau, and she was never tired of saying, "our property."

But she would add at once: "When I used to live in my little room under the eaves, I hardly expected that I should have a house of my own some day."