第 十五 章 · Chapter XV

On going to bed, that night, the count was less enchanted than ever with

the devotion of his friend Sauvresy. There is not a diamond on which a

spot cannot be found with a microscope.

"Here he is," thought he, "abusing his privileges as the saver of my

life. Can't a man do you a service, without continually making you feel

it? It seems as though because he prevented me from blowing my brains

out, I had somehow become something that belongs to him! He came very

near upbraiding me for Jenny's extravagance. Where will he stop?"

The next day at breakfast he feigned indisposition so as not to eat, and

suggested to Sauvresy that he would lose the train.

Bertha, as on the evening before, crouched at the window to see them go

away. Her troubles during the past eight-and-forty hours had been so

great that she hardly recognized herself. She scarcely dared to reflect

or to descend to the depths of her heart. What mysterious power did this

man possess, to so violently affect her life? She wished that he would

go, never to return, while at the same time she avowed to herself that

in going he would carry with him all her thoughts. She struggled under

the charm, not knowing whether she ought to rejoice or grieve at the

inexpressible emotions which agitated her, being irritated to submit to

an influence stronger than her own will.

She decided that to-day she would go down to the drawing-room. He would

not fail--were it only for politeness--to go in there; and then, she

thought, by seeing him nearer, talking with him, knowing him better, his

influence over her would vanish. Doubtless he would return, and so she

watched for him, ready to go down as soon as she saw him approaching.

She waited with feverish shudderings, anxiously believing that this

first tete-a-tete in her husband's absence would be decisive. Time

passed; it was more than two hours since he had gone out with Sauvresy,

and he had not reappeared. Where could he be?

At this moment, Hector was awaiting Jenny at the Corbeil station. The

train arrived, and Jenny soon appeared. Her grief, joy, emotion had not

made her forget her toilet, and never had she been so rollickingly

elegant and pretty. She wore a green dress with a train, a velvet

mantle, and the jauntiest little hat in the world. As soon as she saw

Hector standing near the door, she uttered a cry, pushed the people

aside, and rushed into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

She spoke quite loud, with wild gestures, so that everyone could hear

what she said.

"You didn't kill yourself, after all," said she. "Oh, how I have

suffered; but what happiness I feel to-day!"

Tremorel struggled with her as he could, trying to calm her enthusiastic

exclamations, softly repelling her, charmed and irritated at once, and

exasperated at all these eyes rudely fixed on him. For none of the

passengers had gone out. They were all there, staring and gazing. Hector

and Jenny were surrounded by a circle of curious folks.

"Come along," said Hector, his patience exhausted. He drew her out of

the door, hoping to escape this prying curiosity; but he did not

succeed. They were persistently followed. Some of the Corbeil people who

were on the top of the omnibus begged the conductor to walk his horses,

that this singular couple might not be lost to view, and the horses did

not get into a trot until they had disappeared in the hotel.

Sauvresy's foresight in recommending the place of meeting had thus been

disconcerted by Jenny's sensational arrival. Questions were asked; the

hostess was adroitly interrogated, and it was soon known that this

person, who waited for eccentric young ladies at the Corbeil station,

was an intimate friend of the owner of Valfeuillu. Neither Hector nor

Jenny doubted that they formed the general topic of conversation. They

breakfasted gayly in the best room at the Belle Image, during which

Tremorel recounted a very pretty story about his restoration to life, in

which he played a part, the heroism of which was well calculated to

redouble the little lady's admiration. Then Jenny in her turn unfolded

her plans for the future, which were, to do her justice, most

reasonable. She had resolved more than ever to remain faithful to Hector

now that he was ruined, to give up her elegant rooms, sell her

furniture, and undertake some honest trade. She had found one of her old

friends, who was now an accomplished dressmaker, and who was anxious to

obtain a partner who had some money, while she herself furnished the

experience. They would purchase an establishment in the Breda quarter,

and between them could scarcely fail to prosper. Jenny talked with a

pretty, knowing, business-like air, which made Hector laugh. These

projects seemed very comic to him; yet he was touched by this

unselfishness on the part of a young and pretty woman, who was willing

to work in order to please him.

But, unhappily, they were forced to part. Jenny had gone to Corbeil

intending to stay a week; but the count told her this was absolutely

impossible. She cried bitterly at first, then got angry, and finally

consoled herself with a plan to return on the following Tuesday.

"Good-by," said she, embracing Hector, "think of me." She smilingly

added, "I ought to be jealous; for they say your friend's wife is

perhaps the handsomest woman in France. Is it true?"

"Upon my word, I don't know. I've forgotten to look at her."

Hector told the truth. Although he did not betray it, he was still under

the surprise of his chagrin at the failure of his attempt at suicide. He

felt the dizziness which follows great moral crises as well as a heavy

blow on the head, and which distracts the attention from exterior

things. But Jenny's words, "the handsomest woman in France," attracted

his notice, and he could, that very evening, repair his forgetfulness.

When he returned to Valfeuillu, his friend had not returned; Mme.

Sauvresy was alone reading, in the brilliantly lighted drawing-room.

Hector seated himself opposite her, a little aside, and was thus able to

observe her at his ease, while engaging her in conversation. His first

impression was an unfavorable one. He found her beauty too sculptural

and polished. He sought for imperfections, and finding none, was almost

terrified by this lovely, motionless face, these clear, cold eyes.

Little by little, however, he accustomed himself to pass the greater

part of the afternoon with Bertha, while Sauvresy was away arranging his

affairs--selling, negotiating, using his time in cutting down interests

and discussing with agents and attorneys. He soon perceived that she

listened to him with pleasure, and he judged from this that she was a

decidedly superior woman, much better than her husband. He had no wit,

but possessed an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and adventures. He had

seen so many things and known so many people that he was as interesting

as a chronicle. He had a sort of frothy fervor, not wanting in

brilliancy, and a polite cynicism which, at first, surprised one. Had

Bertha been unimpassioned, she might have judged him at his value; but

she had lost her power of insight. She heard him, plunged in a foolish

ecstasy, as one hears a traveller who has returned from far and

dangerous countries, who has visited peoples of whose language the

hearer is ignorant, and lived in the midst of manners and customs

incomprehensible to ourselves.

Days, weeks, months passed on, and the Count de Tremorel did not find

life at Valfeuillu as dull as he had thought. He insensibly slipped

along the gentle slope of material well-being, which leads directly to

brutishness. A physical and moral torpor had succeeded the fever of the

first days, free from disagreeable sensations, though wanting in

excitement. He ate and drank much, and slept twelve round hours. The

rest of the time, when he did not talk with Bertha, he wandered in the

park, lounged in a rocking-chair, or took a jaunt in the saddle. He even

went fishing under the willows at the foot of the garden; and grew fat.

His best days were those which he spent at Corbeil with Jenny. He found

in her something of his past, and she always quarrelled with him, which

woke him up. Besides, she brought him the gossip of Paris and the small

talk of the boulevards. She came regularly every week, and her love for

Hector, far from diminishing, seemed to grow with each interview. The

poor girl's affairs were in a troubled condition. She had bought her

establishment at too high a price, and her partner at the end of the

first month decamped, carrying off three thousand francs. She knew

nothing about the trade which she had undertaken, and she was robbed

without mercy on all sides. She said nothing of these troubles to

Hector, but she intended to ask him to come to her assistance. It was

the least that he could do.

At first, the visitors to Valfeuillu were somewhat astonished at the

constant presence there of a young man of leisure; but they got

accustomed to him. Hector assumed a melancholy expression of

countenance, such as a man ought to have who had undergone unheard-of

misfortunes, and whose life had failed of its promise. He appeared

inoffensive; people said:

"The count has a charming simplicity."

But sometimes, when alone, he had sudden and terrible relapses. "This

life cannot last," thought he; and he was overcome with childish rage

when he contrasted the past with the present. How could he shake off

this dull existence, and rid himself of these stiffly good people who

surrounded him, these friends of Sauvresy? Where should he take refuge?

He was not tempted to return to Paris; what could he do there? His house

had been sold to an old leather merchant; and he had no money except

that which he borrowed of Sauvresy. Yet Sauvresy, to Hector's mind, was

a most uncomfortable, wearisome, implacable friend; he did not

understand half-way measures in desperate situations.

"Your boat is foundering," he said to Hector; "let us begin by throwing

all that is superfluous into the sea. Let us keep nothing of the past;

that is dead; we will bury it, and nothing shall recall it. When your

situation is relieved, we will see."

The settlement of Hector's affairs was very laborious. Creditors sprung

up at every step, on every side, and the list of them seemed never to be

finished. Some had even come from foreign lands. Several of them had

been already paid, but their receipts could not be found, and they were

clamorous. Others, whose demands had been refused as exorbitant,

threatened to go to law, hoping to frighten Sauvresy into paying.

Sauvresy wearied his friend by his incessant activity. Every two or

three days he went to Paris, and he attended the sales of the property

in Burgundy and Orleans. The count at last detested and hated him;

Sauvresy's happy, cheerful air annoyed him; jealousy stung him. One

thought--that a wretched one--consoled him a little. "Sauvresy's

happiness," said he to himself, "is owing to his imbecility. He thinks

his wife dead in love with him, whereas she can't bear him."

Bertha had, indeed, permitted Hector to perceive her aversion to her

husband. She no longer studied the emotions of her heart; she loved

Tremorel, and confessed it to herself. In her eyes he realized the ideal

of her dreams. At the same time she was exasperated to see in him no

signs of love for her. Her beauty was not, then, irresistible, as she

had often been told. He was gallant and courteous to her--nothing more.

"If he loved me," thought she, "he would tell me so, for he is bold with

women and fears no one."

Then she began to hate the girl, her rival, whom Hector went to meet at

Corbeil every week. She wished to see her, to know her. Who could she

be? Was she handsome? Hector had been very reticent about Jenny. He

evaded all questions about her, not sorry to let Bertha's imagination

work on his mysterious visits.

The day at last came when she could no longer resist the intensity of

her curiosity. She put on the simplest of her toilets, in black, threw a

thick veil over her head, and hastened to the Corbeil station at the

hour that she thought the unknown girl would present herself there. She

took a seat on a bench in the rear of the waiting-room. She had not long

to wait. She soon perceived the count and a young girl coming along the

avenue, which she could see from where she sat. They were arm in arm,

and seemed to be in a very happy mood. They passed within a few steps of

her, and as they walked very slowly, she was able to scrutinize Jenny at

her ease. She saw that she was pretty, but that was all. Having seen

that which she wished, and become satisfied that Jenny was not to be

feared (which showed her inexperience) Bertha directed her steps

homeward. But she chose her time of departure awkwardly; for as she was

passing along behind the cabs, which concealed her, Hector came out of

the station. They crossed each other's paths at the gate, and their eyes

met. Did he recognize her? His face expressed great surprise, yet he did

not bow to her. "Yes, he recognized me," thought Bertha, as she returned

home by the river-road; and surprised, almost terrified by her boldness,

she asked herself whether she ought to rejoice or mourn over this

meeting. What would be its result? Hector cautiously followed her at a

little distance. He was greatly astonished. His vanity, always on the

watch, had already apprised him of what was passing in Bertha's heart,

but, though modesty was no fault of his, he was far from guessing that

she was so much enamoured of him as to take such a step.

"She loves me!" he repeated to himself, as he went along. "She loves

me!"

He did not yet know what to do. Should he fly? Should he still appear

the same in his conduct toward her, pretending not to have seen her? He

ought to fly that very evening, without hesitation, without turning his

head; to fly as if the house were about to tumble about his head. This

was his first thought. It was quickly stifled under the explosion of the

base passions which fermented in him. Ah, Sauvresy had saved him when he

was dying! Sauvresy, after saving him, had welcomed him, opened to him

his heart, purse, house; at this very moment he was making untiring

efforts to restore his fortunes. Men like Tremorel can only receive such

services as outrages. Had not his sojourn at Valfeuillu been a continual

suffering? Was not his self-conceit tortured from morning till night? He

might count the days by their humiliations. What! Must he always submit

to--if he was not grateful for--the superiority of a man whom he had

always been wont to treat as his inferior?

"Besides," thought he, judging his friend by himself, "he only acts thus

from pride and ostentation. What am I at his house, but a living witness

of his generosity and devotion? He seems to live for me--it's Tremorel

here and Tremorel there! He triumphs over my misfortunes, and makes his

conduct a glory and title to the public admiration."

He could not forgive his friend for being so rich, so happy, so highly

respected, for having known how to regulate his life, while he had

exhausted his own fortune at thirty. And should he not seize so good an

opportunity to avenge himself for the favors which overwhelmed him?

"Have I run after his wife?" said he to himself, trying to impose

silence on his conscience. "She comes to me of her own will, herself,

without the least temptation from me. I should be a fool if I repelled

her."

Conceit has irresistible arguments. Hector, when he entered the house,

had made up his mind. He did not fly. Yet he had the excuse neither of

passion nor of temptation; he did not love her, and his infamy was

deliberate, coldly premeditated. Between her and him a chain more solid

than mutual attraction was riveted; their common hatred of Sauvresy.

They owed too much to him. His hand had held both from degradation.

The first hours of their mutual understanding were spent in angry words,

rather than the cooings of love. They perceived too clearly the disgrace

of their conduct not to try to reassure each other against their

remorse. They tried to prove to each other that Sauvresy was ridiculous

and odious; as if they were absolved by his deficiencies, if

deficiencies he had. If indeed trustfulness is foolishness, Sauvresy was

indeed a fool, because he could be deceived under his own eyes, in his

own house, because he had perfect faith in his wife and his friend. He

suspected nothing, and every day he rejoiced that he had been able to

keep Tremorel by him. He often repeated to his wife:

"I am too happy."

Bertha employed all her art to encourage these joyous illusions. She who

had before been so capricious, so nervous, wilful, became little by

little submissive to the degree of an angelic softness. The future of

her love depended on her husband, and she spared no pains to prevent the

slightest suspicion from ruffling his calm confidence. Such was their

prudence that no one in the house suspected their state. And yet Bertha

was not happy. Her love did not yield her the joys she had expected. She

hoped to be transported to the clouds, and she remained on the earth,

hampered by all the miserable ties of a life of lies and deceit.

Perhaps she perceived that she was Hector's revenge on her husband, and

that he only loved in her the dishonored wife of an envied friend. And

to crown all, she was jealous. For several months she tried to persuade

Tremorel to break with Jenny. He always had the same reply, which,

though it might be prudent, was irritating.

"Jenny is our security--you must think of that."

The fact was, however, that he was trying to devise some means of

getting rid of Jenny. It was a difficult matter. The poor girl, having

fallen into comparative poverty, became more and more tenacious of

Hector's affection. She often gave him trouble by telling him that he

was no longer the same, that he was changed; she was sad, and wept, and

had red eyes.

One evening, in a fit of anger, she menaced him with a singular threat.

"You love another," she said. "I know it, for I have proofs of it. Take

care! If you ever leave me, my anger will fall on her head, and I will

not have any mercy on her."

The count foolishly attached no importance to these words; they only

hastened the separation.

"She is getting very troublesome," thought he. "If some day I shouldn't

go when she was expecting me, she might come up to Valfeuillu, and make

a wretched scandal."

He armed himself with all his courage, which was assisted by Bertha's

tears and entreaties, and started for Corbeil resolved to break off with

Jenny. He took every precaution in declaring his intentions, giving the

best reasons for his decision that he could think of.

"We must be careful, you know, Jenny," said he, "and cease to meet for a

while. I am ruined, you know, and the only thing that can save me is

marriage."

Hector had prepared himself for an explosion of fury, piercing cries,

hysterics, fainting-fits. To his great surprise, Jenny did not answer a

word. She became as white as her collar, her ruddy lips blanched, her

eyes stared.

"So," said she, with her teeth tightly shut to contain herself, "so you

are going to get married?"

"Alas, I must," he answered with a hypocritical sigh. "You know that

lately I have only been able to get money for you by borrowing from my

friend; his purse will not be at my service forever."

Jenny took Hector by the hand, and led him to the window. There, looking

intently at him, as if her gaze could frighten the truth out of him, she

said, slowly:

"It is really true, is it, that you are going to leave me to get

married?"

Hector disengaged one of his hands, and placed it on his heart.

"I swear it on my honor," said he.

"I ought to believe you, then."

Jenny returned to the middle of the room. Standing erect before the

mirror, she put on her hat, quietly disposing its ribbons as if nothing

had occurred. When she was ready to go, she went up to Tremorel. "For

the last time," said she, in a tone which she forced to be firm, and

which belied her tearful, glistening eyes. "For the last time, Hector,

are we really to part?"

"We must."

Jenny made a gesture which Tremorel did not see; her face had a

malicious expression; her lips parted to utter some sarcastic response;

but she recovered herself almost immediately.

"I am going, Hector," said she, after a moment's reflection; "If you are

really leaving me to get married, you shall never hear of me again."

"Why, Jenny, I hope I shall still remain your friend."

"Well, only if you abandon me for another reason, remember what I tell

you; you will be a dead man, and she, a lost woman."

She opened the door; he tried to take her hand; she repulsed him.

"Adieu!"

Hector ran to the window to assure himself of her departure. She was

ascending the avenue leading to the station.

"Well, that's over," thought he, with a sigh of relief. "Jenny was a

good girl."