Le Cocu Part 50

Thereupon Eugenie looked about in every direction. Still holding her daughter in her arms, she walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out upon the road. I heard her say to her daughter:

"It wasn't you who cried when you fell, was it?"

"No, mamma."

"Who was it then?"

"I don't know, mamma."

"Is your nurse in the garden?"

"I don't know."

"But no; it wasn't the nurse who cried out in that way."

Her eyes were still searching; she looked in every direction, and I dared not stir; I was afraid to move a leaf; but in a moment she said:

"Let us go in, Henriette."

"I'd rather stay in the garden."

"But if you should fall again----"

"No, I won't run any more; I will play quietly."

She walked away, and my daughter remained behind. I wondered if I might take advantage of that moment. But the wall was rather high; how could I get to her? Ah! by mounting my horse, I could do it perhaps.

I climbed down from my tree, and ran back to Pettermann, who was still in the saddle; I mounted my horse and motioned to my companion to follow me. In a moment I was beside the garden wall again. I stood on my horse, reached the top of the wall, jumped, and in a moment was on the terrace, leaving Pettermann staring at me with amazement, but without uttering a word.

I walked a few steps into the garden; I saw my daughter, I ran to her, took her in my arms and covered her with kisses before she had time to recognize me; at last she was able to look at me and she cried joyfully:

"It is papa! my little papa! you have come back, haven't you? I keep asking mamma every day if you are coming back."

"Hush, hush, my child; come this way, on the terrace; I don't want to be seen from the house."

"Wait; I will go and call mamma."

"No, no; don't go; stay with me, don't leave me; it is so long since I have kissed you, dear child! Do you think of me sometimes?"

"Oh! yes, papa, I longed so for you."

"You longed to see me? And your mother, what does she say when you ask her about me?"

"She doesn't say anything; she just says: 'That will do; don't mention your papa.'"

"She doesn't want you to think of me, she wants you to forget me!"

"And yet she talks about you all day."

"Your mother?"

"Let me go and tell mamma that you are here."

"No, my dear love, I haven't time to speak to her now. I must leave you too, for a very long time perhaps."

"What? are you going away again? Oh! stay with us, papa, don't go away!"

Poor child! I should have been so glad to stay with her. I sat down on the bench where her mother had sat just before, I took her in my lap and threw my arms about her. For a moment I had an idea of taking her with me, of stealing her from Eugenie; but the dear child could not travel with me, and perhaps she would cry for her mother every day in my arms; for a child can do without her father much better than without her who gave birth to her. No, I must leave her with her mother; it was much better that I should be the one to suffer and to be unhappy.

These reflections made my heart ache; I sighed as I held my little Henriette in my arms; she gazed at me, and, seeing that I was sad, she dared not smile. Poor child! and I had thought of taking you with me!

No, in my arms you would too often lose that lightness of heart which is the only treasure of your age.

Suddenly I heard a voice calling:

"Henriette, Henriette, aren't you coming?"

"Here I am, mamma," cried the child. I sprang to my feet, placed her on the ground, kissed her several times, and ran away.

"Why, papa, wait, here comes mamma."

Those words gave me wings; I reached the wall, I dropped on the other side, then I ran to Pettermann, leaped on my horse, and shouted:

"Gallop! gallop!"

We both urged our horses and were already far away from Aubonne before I dared to turn, for fear of seeing her on the terrace.

XIX

MONT-D'OR

Two years had pa.s.sed since I left Paris. Accompanied by my faithful Pettermann, I had travelled all over Spain; the memory of Gil Blas made my sojourn there more delightful; I looked for him at the inns, and on the public promenades; and more than once, when a beggar threw his hat at my feet, I looked to see if he were not taking aim at me with a carbine. The scullery maids and the mule drivers reminded me also of Don Quixote and his facetious squire; I would have liked to meet them riding in search of adventures. All honor to the poets who depict their heroes so vividly that one becomes convinced that they have really existed. Gil Blas and Don Quixote are only imaginary characters, and yet we sometimes fancy that we recognize them; we look for them in the country where the author has placed them. They must be very lifelike therefore, those pages of the novelist, since we attribute life to them, and they become engraved in our memories. For my own part, I know that it would be impossible for me to visit the mountains of Scotland without recalling Rob Roy; to visit Mauritius, without talking of Paul and Virginia; and to visit Italy without thinking of Corinne.

I crossed the Pyrenees, but the idea of seeing Switzerland occurred to me, and we left France again. My depression had vanished, I was no longer morose and taciturn as when I left home; Pettermann too had resumed his habit of singing. We had travelled on horseback for some time; then I sold our steeds and we went through a large part of Andalusia on foot; after that, public conveyances or hired post-chaises carried us to other places. It was by diversifying thus our random journeyings, that I triumphed over the trouble that was consuming me; and it was not an easy matter. In truth, there was still a tinge of bitterness in my smile, and I concluded that that was something of which I could never rid myself.

In the different countries I had visited, I had seen many husbands who were in my position and who worried little about it. Some, jealous through self-esteem, were themselves unfaithful and tyrannized over their wives; others, pretending to be philosophical, treated very badly in private the wives whom in society they seemed to leave entirely at liberty. Many of them closed their eyes, and the great majority believed themselves too shrewd to be betrayed. But I had seen very few who really loved their wives, and who deserved by their attentions and their conduct that those ladies should be true to them.

I had had some love-affairs, but I had not lost my heart. I believed it to be no longer susceptible to love; it had been too cruelly lacerated.

My heart was like an invalid with whom I was travelling; it was still weak, and it dreaded violent emotions.

Pettermann gave little thought to the other s.e.x, and I was very glad of it for his sake; but he did not forget the promise I had given him, and he got completely drunk once every month. The rest of the time he drank moderately. I had had no reason to complain of him since he had entered my service. His disposition was equable and cheerful; he sang when he saw that I was in good humor, he held his peace when I was pensive. But never a question, never an inquisitive word; he did not once mention Aubonne, where he had seen me scale the wall. I had every reason to think that he believed me a bachelor.

During the first year of my absence, I received letters from Ernest quite frequently, and I wrote to him whenever I sojourned for any length of time in one place. Faithful to the promise he had given me, he had abstained from mentioning her whom I hoped to forget entirely. He wrote me about my daughter and little Eugene; he said that my Henriette was as fascinating as ever; he had seen her several times. Did that mean that he had been to her mother's house? That was something that I did not know. Ah! how I longed to see my daughter again, and to embrace her! It was for her that I had determined to return to Paris; I would hold her in my arms just once, and then I would set out on my travels again; I should have laid in a store of happiness which would last for some time.

As for my--as for little Eugene, I could not think of that child without reviving all my suffering. I should have taken such pleasure in loving my son, in dividing my affection between him and his sister! and that happiness I was destined never to enjoy! Poor Eugene! what a melancholy future for him!