Le Cocu Part 51

The last letters which I had received from Ernest had seemed to me different from the first ones; the style was no longer the same, and I detected embarra.s.sment and reticence in them. In the last of all, I had noticed this sentence:

"There has been a great change here of late, my friend; you would not recognize the person from whom you fled. I dare not say more for fear of breaking my promise and being scolded. But come back soon, my dear Henri; your children long to see you and your friends to embrace you."

My children--he persisted in saying my children. But I had only one. As for the change that he mentioned, what did it matter to me? Did he want to arouse my interest in that woman? No, I could not believe that. I did not mention the subject in my reply.

I was anxious, before returning to Paris, to see Auvergne, that mountainous and picturesque province, the Scotland of France, which those Frenchmen who rave over cliffs and glaciers and precipices would visit oftener if it were not so near them. We admire only what is at a distance; our only ambition is to see Scotland and Italy, and we do not give a thought to Auvergne, Bretagne, and Touraine.

I had visited Talende, with its lovely streams, La Roche Blanche, and the Puy-de-Dome. Sometimes, when I was enchanted by a beautiful spot, I would turn to Pettermann and say:

"What do you think of this?"

But Pettermann was no painter; I never detected any enthusiasm on his face; he would shake his head and reply coldly:

"It is very pretty; but prout! it doesn't come up to the views in Munich."

Munich was his home. There was one man at least who honored his own country.

As we pa.s.sed near Mont-d'Or, I determined to go there to taste the waters, and to see the little town to which so many invalids and sightseers resort, and, generally speaking, those people who do not know what to do with their time.

I took rooms at the best hotel in the place. I found a large number of guests there; many foreigners, especially Englishmen, but many Frenchmen too, notably those _chevaliers d'industrie_, men with refined manners, who are seen in Paris at routs and large receptions, and who go to Mont-d'Or solely to gamble; for there is much gambling at those watering places; and often a traveller who arrives in a handsome carriage with liveried servants, goes away on foot and unattended, as a result of yielding to the pa.s.sion for play.

I did not play cards; but there were also dancing and musical parties.

Music no longer had any attractions for me, and the sound of a piano made me ill; I did not dance, either; so that I must needs try to pa.s.s my time in conversation. Among the visitors with whom I was thrown every day, I could not help noticing a young lady from Paris who seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She was pretty, and was too well aware of the fact, perhaps; but there was in her coquetry a flavor of frankness and amiability which seemed to say: "I am a flirt but I can't help it; you must overlook my faults and take me as I am, for I shall never change."

Her name was Caroline Derbin. At first I thought that she was married or a widow, for her manner and her decided tone did not suggest a _demoiselle_; she was unmarried, however; she was said to be rich and already in control of her property. Rich, pretty and still unmarried,--it was probable that it was her own choice.

She was with her uncle, one Monsieur Roquencourt; he was a little, thin man, about sixty years of age, but alert and jovial. His little eyes gleamed when he was ogling a lady. He was well-bred, gallant, and attentive to the fair s.e.x; a little inclined to loquacity; but we may well leave liberty of speech to those who have nothing else. Moreover, he was most devoted to his niece, whose lightest wish was law to him.

Although Caroline was coquettish and tried to attract, at all events she had neither the peevishness nor the affectation of a _pet.i.te-maitresse_.

One became acquainted with her very quickly, and was soon on most friendly terms with her. Did that unreserve speak in favor of her virtue and her principles? That was a question that I could not answer. I had determined not to judge by appearances again. Of what account to me were her coquetry and her heedlessness? I did not propose to marry her or to make love to her. Her company pleased and amused me, and that was enough.

Monsieur Roquencourt liked to talk, and I was a good listener; a talent, or patience, which is more rare than one would think. I soon became his favorite companion.

"Monsieur Dalbreuse," he said to me on the day after my arrival at Mont-d'Or, "just fancy that I had no idea of coming here to take the waters. In the first place, I am not sick; but it occurred to my niece that she would like to see Mont-d'Or, and crac! we had to start. I remember being at Plombieres thirty-five years ago, with the famous Lekain. Did you know Lekain?"

"No, monsieur."

"Of course not, you were too young. I acted in Lekain's presence the part of Crispin, in _Les Folies Amoureuses_."

"Ah! you have acted, have you?"

"Because I enjoyed it,--with amateurs. Oh! I was mad over acting. I had a complete wardrobe. I still have several costumes in Paris; I used to play the upper servants."

"And your niece?"

"My niece? oh, no! she declares that she could not act well. As I was saying, I played before Lekain; it was a party hastily arranged at a contractor's country house. We had a pretty little theatre, on my word, and Mademoiselle Contat was there and acted with us. Did you know Mademoiselle Contat?"

"No, monsieur."

"Ah! you haven't seen anything, monsieur! Such talent! such soul! and such a face! One day--I forget what play it was in; wait, I believe that it was _Tartufe_. No, it wasn't _Tartufe_."

Monsieur Roquencourt's niece joined us at that moment, which fact I in no wise regretted. She took her uncle's arm and said:

"This is the time for our drive; the weather is superb. Come, uncle, you can talk of plays another time. Are you coming with us, Monsieur Dalbreuse?"

She asked me that as if we had known each other for years. I admit that I liked her manner; I have always been susceptible to anything which resembles sincerity or frankness; moreover, it mattered little to me then whether I was mistaken or not.

I went to drive with Monsieur Roquencourt and his niece. A pretty caleche was awaiting them at the door. I noticed that the male visitors, as they bowed to Caroline, gazed at me with an envious eye as I took my seat opposite her in the carriage. I could understand that a charming woman of twenty-five, who had her own carriage, was likely to make numerous conquests everywhere. Some were in love with the woman, and others with the carriage. But I, who coveted neither, took my seat with the utmost tranquillity opposite Mademoiselle Derbin, and enjoyed the drive at leisure, because I was not occupied in making eyes at my vis-a-vis.

At times, Mademoiselle Derbin raved over the landscape; then, all of a sudden, she would begin to laugh at the costume of a water-drinker who pa.s.sed us. While laughing at her remarks, I pretended to be listening attentively to her uncle, who described the effect he had produced playing Mascarille before Mole.

The drive seemed short to me. We returned to the hotel, and in the evening we met again in the salon. I amused myself watching Mademoiselle Derbin. In company she was more coquettish and therefore less agreeable than in private. As I was not paying court to her, I discreetly walked away when I saw a number of adorers coming her way. So that, as a result of that eccentricity which is not uncommon in women, Mademoiselle Derbin seemed to seek my company, and often came to my side.

"You do not dance?" she asked me toward the end of the evening.

"No, I no longer care for dancing."

"And you do not play cards?"

"They play for very high stakes here. I have an income which is sufficient for my needs; I do not care to endanger it with men who would consider it the most natural thing in the world to rob me of it."

"You are a wise man!"

"Oh, no!"

"And you have no love-affairs here?"

"Do you think then that one must absolutely have love-affairs when one goes to a watering-place?"

"I don't say that, but I think you are a most original person."

"Original? no, I a.s.sure you that there are many men like me."

She left me, after glancing at me with a singular expression. Did she desire to number me among her numerous conquests? It was possible; what she had just said to me might give me a poor idea of her virtue. An unmarried woman who considers it strange that a man has no love-affairs! And yet, I preferred to think that that was simply due to her original character.

I had been a fortnight at Mont-d'Or, and I had intended to pa.s.s only one week there. But I was enjoying myself; the company was agreeable; however, if Caroline and her uncle had not been there, I should have gone away; I was becoming accustomed to their society. There was nothing to do there but converse, so that we were together almost all day. I was not making love to Caroline, but she was very pretty; her black eyes alternated in expression between gentleness and mischief. Although one be not in love, there is always a charm attached to the presence of a pretty woman; it was probably that charm which detained me.

There was not a ball or a concert in the a.s.sembly room every day; when there was none, we remained at the hotel, and those guests who were congenial met in the salon in the evening. Some played cards, but the greater number conversed. There were some t.i.tled persons, and they were not the most agreeable; but we left them to bore one another in their corner, and we chatted with the clever artist, who always had a store of amusing anecdotes in reserve, or with the lady's man, who told us of his latest adventures. In that circle, Monsieur Roquencourt was not among those who talked least. If anyone mentioned a city, he had acted there; if anyone mentioned a famous personage, he had known an actor who had mimicked him to perfection, and he would proceed to give us a specimen.

I enjoyed listening; but I talked very little, and in what I did say, I did not mention myself. Caroline, who, for all her frivolous and coquettish air, observed very closely everything that took place in the salon, said to me one day:

"Monsieur Dalbreuse, everybody here tells us his or her own experiences; you alone have kept silent thus far. Why is it?"

"Presumably, I have none to relate, mademoiselle."

"Or that you don't choose to relate them. However, you are your own master. For my part, I tell everything that concerns me, because hitherto I have had nothing to keep secret. I am an orphan; my father, who was an army contractor, left me twenty-five thousand francs a year.

I live with Monsieur Roquencourt, my mother's brother and my guardian; and he lets me do just as I choose, because he knows that I have been accustomed to that from my childhood. That is my whole history, and you know me as well now as if we had been brought up together."

She thought perhaps that her confidence would provoke mine; but I replied simply: