Frederique Volume I Part 42

"I beg your pardon. I have the bad habit of saying whatever comes into my mind. It's a serious fault, I admit, and I have often had occasion to regret it in society. I regret it all the more, because I see that it has annoyed you, for you have ceased to _tutoyer_ me; and yet you were the one who said to me just now: 'Let us have no secrets from each other.'"

Frederique turned her face to mine, with a charming smile, and held out her hand, saying:

"You are right I was foolish to be angry, as we agreed to be like two brothers. Come, give me your hand! That's right! The fact is, you see, that you touched a sensitive chord. I have quarrelled with Saint-Bergame; the wound is still fresh; and wounds in the vicinity of the heart do not heal quickly. I will tell you about it."

"No, it's not necessary. I don't want to know it."

"Oh! but I want to tell you, now. Upon my word, he is trying to prevent my speaking!"

"Because I sincerely regret----"

"Hus.h.!.+ Be quiet, and listen.--You know that Saint-Bergame writes for a newspaper?"

"Yes."

"The newspaper in question has much to say about literature and the stage; and Saint-Bergame writes almost all the dramatic criticisms. I have often thought that his judgments were partial and unjust, and I have not hesitated to tell him so. When I have read in his article, after a play has been successfully produced, that it has failed miserably and been hissed, I have exclaimed:

"'What you have written is false! It's a shame! Why do you cry down that play?'

"'Because the author is not my friend. Because he didn't come to bespeak my good will.'

"'So, because an author is conscious of his dignity, because he doesn't go about begging praise; because, in short, he relies upon your sense of justice, your impartiality, you abuse him and belittle his work! And you call that exercising your profession of critic! In that case, it's a vile profession; you had better be a mason, monsieur, if your talents lie in that direction.'

"But Saint-Bergame always laughed at my anger, and that was the end of it. A few days ago, however, I saw at one of the boulevard theatres a very pretty young debutante, who showed great promise in her part.

Saint-Bergame was with me, and echoed my opinion of the young actress's talent.

"'Then, of course, you will speak well of her in your newspaper?' I said. He smiled in a curious way, and answered:

"'We shall see; that depends.'

"'Depends on what? What is there to prevent your writing what you think at this moment?'

"'One of my friends is making love to this debutante.'

"'Well! what has that to do with the article you are going to write?'

"'The girl is playing the prude. She refuses to listen to my friend's proposals, and won't accept his bouquets. That's a familiar manoeuvre to increase her value.'

"'But suppose your friend doesn't please her? Isn't she her own mistress, pray?'

"'Bah! that's all mere comedy! She means to lead my friend on. But he has invited her to a nice little dinner to-morrow. I am to be there. If she comes, I exalt her to the skies; if she doesn't, I tear her to tatters.'

"I said nothing, but I cannot describe my sensations. I turned my eyes away so that Saint-Bergame should not see their expression, in which he might read what I thought of him. I waited impatiently for the second day following--that was the day before yesterday. I lost no time in opening the newspaper edited by Saint-Bergame, in which I found an article on the young debutante we had seen. Not only did he criticise her acting, her methods, and her stage manner in the most contemptuous terms, but he also attacked her personal appearance; she is pretty, and he called her ugly; she has a fine figure, and he said she was deformed; she is exceedingly graceful, and he could not find words to describe her awkwardness and her embarra.s.sment; in short, according to that article, she was a sort of monster who had been allowed to go on the stage to amuse the public for a moment.

"I crumpled the paper in my hands and threw it on the floor; I was furiously angry with Saint-Bergame. When he appeared, I threw his abominable article in his face, and told him that he was a dastard; that a man who would empty his gall so on a woman deserved no woman's love, and that I forbade him to darken my doors again. He tried to insist, to turn it into a joke, and called me hot-headed. But when he saw that I was in earnest, I believe that he lost his temper, too, and asked me by what right I presumed to pa.s.s judgment on his writings. I made no answer, but locked myself into my room. He went away in a rage, and I have not seen him since."

"And if he comes back?"

"I shall not receive him. It's all over! all over!"

"And you don't regret him?"

"I regret having had any relations with him--that is what I regret. He's a good-looking fellow, and I liked him. But I realize now that I never loved him."

"But if he loves you, he will return; he will beg you, beseech you."

"He will do nothing of the sort. He never loved me, either. It flattered his self-esteem to make a conquest of me, and that was all. He is one of the men who think that a woman is too highly favored when they deign to look at her. Oh! I know him now, I know him too well! I see him now as he is! Besides, he was not faithful to me, I am sure. How do I know that it was not he himself who was making love to that actress? Ah! my dear Charles, how does it happen that a connection so intimate, which is sometimes based on sincere love, often leaves nothing but regrets and bitter memories in the heart? After love should come friends.h.i.+p. Should not that be the natural consequence of the relation lovers have borne to each other? But, instead of that, they part in anger, and sometimes come to hate where they have loved so dearly."

"No, Frederique, no! that does not happen when two hearts have burned for each other with a sincere pa.s.sion. The connection may be broken, but a pleasant remembrance of the happiness they have enjoyed always remains."

"Do you think so? In that case, I never loved Saint-Bergame. Yes, I am sure now that I didn't love him; and, more than that--would you like me to tell you my inmost thoughts? Well! I believe that I have never loved any man! and I propose to continue on that line; it's much more amusing.

Then one treats men just as they treat us--one drops them as soon as they cease to be attractive! You won't say that I am right; but in the bottom of your heart you think so."

"I--I--I am thinking that you are free at this moment----"

"Yes, and I believe I am almost as delighted as I was when I ceased all relations with Monsieur Dauberny."

"Oh! for all that--before long--another sentiment----"

"We shall see; one can be sure of nothing; but not very soon. No, I am in no hurry to a.s.sume new chains, however light they may be. I believe that I was born to be independent. It is such fun to do just what you please! For example: if I had been Saint-Bergame's mistress still, I couldn't have had you to supper to-night. It would have displeased him; or else I should have had to conceal it from him; and I don't like mysteries.--Ha! ha! ha! how poor Brunzbrack is snoring! If that's his way of making love to a woman----"

"He won't be the man to replace Saint-Bergame, will he?"

"No, indeed! Besides, I don't mean to love any more; I have decided. I don't feel sure--whether--I am--right; tell me--if I'm--right. It's very late--isn't it? I must--go to bed. You don't tell me anything; I have to do all the talking myself."

For several minutes Frederique had had difficulty in fighting against the drowsiness that made her eyelids heavy. While she was talking, she let her head fall on the back of her chair; her eyes closed and still she talked on. But suddenly she ceased--she had fallen asleep.

I turned and leaned over her to gaze upon her at my leisure. I could not tire of contemplating that strange woman, whom I had known so short a time, and with whom I was already on the most friendly terms. I liked that face, which reflected so clearly the impressions of the heart; surely that mouth could not speak falsely! Her forehead was n.o.ble and distinguished; at that moment, her lovely hair, through which she had pa.s.sed her fingers a moment before, fell in long curls about her temples and partly covered her face. I have seldom seen black hair of such brilliancy and of such a beautiful shade. I could understand why she enjoyed changing its arrangement; with that natural adornment she was sure of always looking well.

She was speaking at the moment that sleep overcame her. Her lips were partly open; but her expression was rather serious than smiling. When she fell asleep she threw her body back, so that there was nothing to prevent my examining her bust, her waist, and the graceful figure which the fine, soft fabric of her gown outlined while it concealed them, and which disappeared at one point beneath the clinging folds, only to reappear farther on more alluring than ever.

I took much pleasure in that scrutiny. I can hardly define the sentiment that made my heart beat fast; but I was profoundly moved. I tried to forget the fascinating sleeper for a moment by glancing about the room; but the oddity of my position, the place, the time, and everything within my view, simply intensified the agitation that had taken possession of me. Imagine yourself, in the middle of the night, in a deliciously cosy retreat, near a table at which you have enjoyed a dainty supper, and on which the decanters are still half full of exquisite wines which you have not spared; the lamps diffusing only a dim light; and beside you, seated, or rather reclining in an easy-chair, a young, fascinating, original woman, a woman who addresses you _thou_ and who has confided to you the secrets of her heart; that woman in a ravis.h.i.+ng neglige which permits you to admire a portion of her charms and to divine the rest. If all this does not give you a sort of vertigo, upon my word I pity you! As for the third person who was with us, he did not count. He was snoring like a bell ringer, with his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table.

I moved nearer to Frederique, then drew back. I resumed my contemplation of her; and suddenly, unable to resist the impulse that drove me on, I put my lips to hers and stole a kiss in which there was nothing fraternal.

Frederique woke instantly, pushed me away, and sprang to her feet; her brow was clouded, her bosom rose and fell more quickly, and I thought that her eyes, which she turned away from me, were wet with tears.

"Ah! so this is the way you treat me!" she cried, in a quivering voice.

"What do you take me for, monsieur, in heaven's name? I receive you in my house, I look upon you as a friend; and you treat me like one of the women with whom a man seeks to gratify a caprice! Do you suppose that I asked you to my house to make you my lover? that I, the friend of Armantine, whom you love to distraction, asked you to sup with me in order to steal from her the heart of a man who is paying court to her?

Ah! you know me very little, monsieur. I do not love you, I shall never love you! It was because I knew that you were in love with Armantine that I invited you this evening and then offered you a brotherly affection. You understand me now. Adieu, monsieur! It is not worth while for you to come to my house again."

She took a lamp and vanished before I had recovered from the shock her words had caused me, or had found anything to say in reply.

But in a few moments my excitement subsided, and I had no other sentiment than irritation at having allowed myself to be so roughly handled by the lady with whom I had supped. I said to myself that when one is dealing with a _gaillarde_ of Frederique's stamp, it does not pay to do things by halves. If, instead of kissing her so gently, I had been more audacious, would she have shrieked louder? I could not say, but, at all events, she would have had some excuse for shrieking. Oh! these women! I utterly failed to understand that one. The idea of forbidding me her house because I had kissed her! Could she not have scolded me gently, instead of flying into a rage? I decided that I should be a great fool to waste another thought on Madame Dauberny.

But as one should never forget to be polite or to keep one's promises, I went to the Baron von Brunzbrack, whom none of these episodes had aroused from his heavy sleep, and shook him violently.

"Wake up, monsieur le baron, it's time for us to go! Madame Dauberny has gone to her room."