Le Cocu Part 44

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.

XVII

A NEW CAUSE FOR UNHAPPINESS.--AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

I left the wood at once; Ernest followed me, after telling Dulac's second that he would send somebody to him.

At last, fate had been just; my thirst for vengeance had been satisfied.

I should have felt a little relieved, but I did not; it was because I was not avenged on her who had injured me most. I thanked Ernest and left him, promising him to go often to his house. He insisted that I should come that very day to dine with them; but I felt that I must be alone a little longer. I would go when I had learned to endure, or at least to conceal, my sorrow.

I looked for an apartment in Ernest's neighborhood, far away from that in which I had lived. I hired the first vacant one that I found, then returned home. I went to my landlord and paid what he demanded to allow me to move at once. At last I was free. I ordered my furniture to be moved instantly.

I dismissed my servant. I had no reason to complain of her, far from it; but she had been in my service during the time that I was determined to forget; I did not want to see her again. At last I was free. I gave her enough to enable her to wait patiently for other employment.

My furniture was taken to my new apartment on Rue Saint-Louis. I installed myself there. I felt better at once, for I breathed more freely there. There is nothing like change, for diseases of the heart as well as for those of the body.

I would have liked to go to see my son, but it was too late to start for Livry that day. I went to Eugenie's banker to try to find out where she was. I wanted to write to her, I wanted her to give me back my daughter.

Two children would be none too many to take the place of all that I had lost.

The banker was a most excellent man. I was careful not to tell him the real cause of my separation from my wife. I gave him to understand that our dispositions and our tastes had changed, and we had both thought it best to adopt that course, which was irrevocable. So that it was not for the purpose of running after my wife that I wanted to know where she was, but simply to write to her on the subject of some business matters which we had not been able to adjust.

He did not know where Eugenie was; she had not written to him; but he promised to send me her address as soon as he knew it.

So I was forced to wait before seeing my daughter. If I had had her with me, it seemed to me that I might recover all my courage and be happy again. Yes, I believed that I could be happy again, embracing that sweet child. If only I had her portrait. I had often had an idea of painting her, but business or quarrels with her mother had prevented me from beginning the work. "I will wait a few days," I thought; "then the original will return to me, and I will not part from her again."

My regret at not having painted her portrait reminded me of that other which I always carried with me. I determined to shatter it as she had shattered mine long ago.

Eugenie's portrait was set inside a locket. I took it out, opened it, and in spite of myself, my eyes rested upon that miniature, which reproduced her features so exactly. I do not know how it happened, but my rage faded away. I felt moved, melted. Ah! that was not the woman who had betrayed and abandoned me! that was the woman who had loved me, who had responded so heartily to my pa.s.sion, whose eyes were always seeking mine! That Eugenie of the old days was a different person from the Eugenie of to-day; why then should I destroy her portrait? I looked about me; I was alone. My lips were once more pressed upon that face. It was a shameful weakness; but I persuaded myself that I saw her once more as she was five years before; and that delusion afforded me a moment's happiness.

Early the next morning I started for Livry. That road recalled many memories. My son was only eleven months old; but I determined that as soon as it could be done without injuring his health, I would take him away from his nurse, and not go to that place any more.

I reached the peasants' house. They asked me about my wife as before. I cut their questions short by telling them that she had gone on a long journey. Then I asked for my son. They brought little Eugene to me. I took him in my arms and was about to cover him with kisses, when suddenly a new idea, a heartrending thought pa.s.sed through my mind; my features altered, I put aside the child, who was holding out his arms to me, and replaced him in his nurse's arms.

That worthy woman utterly failed to understand the change which had taken place in me. She gazed at me and cried:

"Well! what's the matter? You give me back your son without kissing him!

Why, he is a pretty little fellow, poor child!"

"My son!" I said to myself, "my son! he is only eleven months old, and Dulac began coming to the house before Eugenie was enceinte."

A new suspicion had come to aggravate my suffering. Who could a.s.sure me that that was my child? that I was not on the point of embracing the fruit of their guilty intercourse?

At that thought I sprang to my feet.

"Are you sick, monsieur?" the nurse asked me.

I did not answer her, but left the house. I walked about for some time in the fields. I realized that thenceforth I should not be able to think of my son without being haunted by that cruel thought; when I embraced the child, that suspicion would poison my happiness, and would diminish the affection that I should otherwise have had for him. And these women claim that they are no more guilty than we are! Ah! they are always sure when they are mothers; they are not afraid lest they may lavish their caresses on a stranger's child. That is one great advantage that they have over us. But nature does not do everything; one becomes a father by adopting an innocent little creature; and he who neglects and abandons his children ceases to be a father.

I returned to the nurse's house, somewhat calmer.

The poor woman was sitting in a corner with the child in her arms; she dared not bring him to me again.

I went to her and kissed the child on the forehead, heaving a profound sigh. I commended him to the peasants' care, I gave them money, and I returned to Paris more depressed than ever.

I found Ernest at my rooms waiting for me. He had been to my former home, had learned my new address, and had been looking for me everywhere since the morning, to divert me and comfort me.

"What do people say in society?"

That was my first question when I saw him; for I confess that my greatest dread was that people should know that my wife had deceived me, and it was much less on my own account than on hers that I dreaded it.

I did not wish that she should be held guilty in the eyes of society; it was quite enough that she should be guilty to my knowledge; so I begged Ernest to conceal nothing from me.

"Your duel is known," he said, "but it is attributed to the quarrel you had at the card table. You are generally blamed, and people are sorry for your adversary. Dulac is not dead; indeed, it is thought that he will recover; but he is seriously wounded, and he will be in bed for a long while. I do not know how it happened that Giraud knew of your change of abode, and that you have moved here without your wife. He questioned the concierges, no doubt. He has been about everywhere, telling of it. People are talking; and everyone makes up his own story; the majority think that you made your wife so unhappy that she was obliged to leave you."

"So much the better; let people think that, and let them put all the blame on me; that is what I want. Only you and your wife know the truth, my dear Ernest; and I am very sure that you will not betray my confidence."

"No, of course not; although it makes me angry to hear people accuse you and pity your wife. If I were in your place, I am not sure that I should be so generous."

"But my children, my friend, my daughter!"

"That is so; I didn't think of them."

"What do I care for the blame of society? it will see little of me at present!"

"I trust, however, that you are not going to become a misanthrope, but that you will try to amuse yourself, and try to forget a woman who does not deserve your regrets; to act otherwise would be inexcusable weakness."

"I promise to try to follow your advice."

"To begin with, you must come home to dinner with me."

I could not refuse Ernest, although solitude was all that I now desired.

I went home with him. His companion overwhelmed me with attentions and friendliness; their children came to caress and to play with me. During dinner they did all that they could to divert my thoughts. I was touched by their friends.h.i.+p, but the sight of their domestic happiness, of that happy family, was not adapted to alleviate my pain; on the contrary, it increased it twofold. For I too had a wife and children! Ah! such pictures were not what I wanted to see; they broke my heart. What I wanted was a crowd, uproar, noisy amus.e.m.e.nts; I needed to be bewildered, not moved.