Frederique Volume I Part 57

"If it's true that monsieur knows you, and if he chooses to pay your bill," said tall Piaulard, walking toward me, "that makes a difference, and things can be settled without a row."

I realized at that moment all the falseness and absurdity of my position; I realized also how foolish it is to be afraid of prejudice and the opinion of gossips. Pa.s.sing abruptly from shame to anger, I extricated myself roughly from Ballangier's grasp, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him violently.

"Yes, I am unfortunate enough to know you!" I cried; "twenty times I have helped you, rescued you from want; but that gives you no right to make demands on me in a public place, when you are drunk. I will do nothing more for you, you wretch! And I forbid you ever to speak to me again!"

Excited by anger and disgust, I pushed Ballangier so violently that he fell with a crash among the chairs, at some distance. The crowd, always easily swayed in favor of the man who makes the most noise, began to laugh when the drunken man fell. I heard Monsieur Piaulard's voice threatening his debtor anew, but I was no longer disturbed by that; I had recovered my courage. I pushed my way through the crowd and looked about for Armantine; but the first person I saw was Madame Dauberny, standing in a group of people a few steps away. She seemed to be inquiring what had happened. I paid no attention to Frederique; it was Madame Sordeville whom I was looking for. I walked on, and ere long I was at a distance from the crowd and from the spot where that sickening scene had taken place. I spied a woman, alone, and walking very fast. It was Armantine. I ran after her, overtook her, and detained her.

"Ah! I have found you out at last!" I cried.

She turned and looked at me. Her expression was cold, and her manner almost impertinent; she stared at me a moment as if she did not know me, but concluded at last to answer:

"Ah! is it you, monsieur? How is it that you didn't stay with your--intimate friend?"

"Oh! I trust, madame, that you do not suppose that I a.s.sociate with that wretch! There are some things, circ.u.mstances, which appear very odd, very strange at first sight, but which can easily be explained!"

"But I beg you to believe, monsieur, that I do not desire any explanation; you are entirely at liberty to select your friends in whatever social rank you choose."

"How strangely you speak to me, madame! What a manner! What icy coldness! What a change in your demeanor!"

"Oh! you are mistaken, monsieur; I a.s.sure you that my manners are the same as always. To be sure, they may, perhaps, differ a little from those of the people you a.s.sociate with. But, excuse me, monsieur, I cannot stand here any longer, and I am not going in the same direction that you are."

"What! you are going to leave me!"

"Adieu, monsieur!--By the way, I must tell you that I do not receive any more. We have ceased to have our evenings at home."

She gave me a disdainful nod, and, without listening to my efforts to detain her, walked away so rapidly that I soon lost sight of her.

I was stupefied; that woman's conduct seemed to me so outrageous, so insulting, that it was some time before I could believe in its reality.

It seemed to me that I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I was tempted to run after her; but I had enough control over myself to understand that it would be weak and cowardly to make any further attempt to speak to a woman who had treated me with such contempt. And I had believed that she loved me! Ah! how I had fooled myself! Because a drunken man in cap and blouse had called me his friend, because I had admitted that I knew him, I became a compromising personage, and she could no longer afford to see me or speak to me! she had even given me to understand that she did not propose to receive me at her own house!

and all that, without listening to what I might have to say, without finding out whether I could or could not explain that unpleasant adventure. Ah, madame! I thought that you had a heart; I found that I was mistaken, that you had a mind only; and that is a very barren mind in which no trace of sentiment can ever be detected.

I stood a long while on the same spot, absorbed in my thoughts. But the throng had largely disappeared, and the Champs-elysees was becoming deserted; snowflakes falling on my face explained the sudden change. The weather was no longer the same; the radiant sun was obscured by clouds, which, with the snow, gave a totally different aspect to the scene.

"Well!" I said to myself, as I walked slowly away, "nothing is constant, in the heavens or on earth! We must submit to the storms of the heart, as to those of nature."

As I retraced my steps toward the scene of that unfortunate meeting, I remembered the paroxysm of anger to which I had given way; and now that I was once more able to reflect, I was stirred by a feeling of regret and pity when I thought how violently I had thrown to the ground the poor wretch who sought my a.s.sistance. I knew that his conduct was most reprehensible, that he had abused my kindness a hundred times; but to spurn him, to throw him into the dust! Was it possible that I had really treated him so? That woman's presence, my anger, my humiliated self-esteem, had led my reason astray. What could have become of the poor fellow? He had fallen at my feet without attempting to defend himself, without a complaint; and it seemed to me that I had read only surprise and grief in his eyes, instead of anger. If that other man had had him arrested!--and that seemed to be his intention, for I had not thought of giving him what Ballangier owed him, and that was the first thing that I should have done. How could I find out how the episode had ended?

I looked about; I recognized the place where I was sitting with the three ladies, but there was no one there. The snow had put all the idlers to flight. The people who pa.s.sed walked rapidly, with their heads down; there were no hucksters, no itinerant singers, n.o.body to whom I could apply for information. I walked on, but had not taken thirty steps when I saw a man leaning against a large tree, apparently unconscious of the snow that covered his cap and blouse. He stood quite still, but his eyes were turned in my direction. I walked toward him: it was Ballangier.

He looked at me with a shamefaced, timid expression; when he saw me walking sadly toward him, I fancied that tears glistened in the eyes which no longer dared to meet mine; and when I stood beside him, and was on the point of apologizing for pus.h.i.+ng him away so roughly, he fell at my feet, on the snow, and humbly begged my pardon for speaking to me when I was with friends.

Ah! I was no longer angry with him; I made haste to raise him, and shook him by the hand. I believe that my eyes too were moist.

"You forgive me, then?" murmured Ballangier. "I was drunk, you see; I had been drinking; if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have spoken to you. I should have remembered that one time a scene almost like this broke off a marriage you had in view.--But you punished me, and you did right; I deserved it. Still, you know, I am little used to such lessons from you. _Dame!_ when you threw me down, that sobered me off in an instant. You were in such a rage with me--and you've always been so good-natured before. But you did well; yes, you did well to treat me like that, for it shook me all up. I realized that I was a great scamp, a miserable wretch; that I was always on hand to do you a bad turn, to put you to shame; although I didn't say--no, it don't make any difference how drunk I may be, I'll never say that thing. But I promise you that this will be the last. You'll never have any reason to complain of me again."

"I believe you, Ballangier, I believe you! But your conduct is no excuse for mine. I ought not to have treated you harshly, as I did just now.

You were drunk, and I should have taken pity on your condition. When I think that I pushed you so roughly that you fell, I am terribly angry with myself. Come, give me your hand again, and forgive me for throwing you down."

Ballangier took my hands and effusively pressed them in his, while great tears fell from his eyes and he muttered:

"He asks me to forgive him, after all the mean tricks I've played on him! Oh! you're too good to me, Charles; you ought to beat me--yes, beat me like an old carpet; for I cheated you also about going to Besancon.

It is true that I had had a letter from Morillot--you saw the letter, you know; but when you gave me four hundred francs for the journey, I didn't go as I had promised you! I allowed myself to be led away by some of those villainous loafers whom we are foolish enough to call _friends_, when we ought rather to call them _enemies_. What sort of friends are they who can do nothing but drink and carouse and raise the devil in wine shops, who pa.s.s their lives in idleness and make sport of steady, hard-working mechanics, and who never cease trying to make us do all sorts of foolish things, so that we may end by being as worthless as they are? With friends like that, a man ought to smash their ribs the first time they give him bad advice; I'm sure that would lessen the number of vagrants that are taken to the Prefecture every week. But that's all over; I'll take my oath, Charles, by all that's holy, that it's all over this time! You won't be obliged again to--push me, as you did just now."

"I believe you, Ballangier; let us forget all that. But tell me--how did you succeed in getting rid of your creditor?"

"Piaulard? Oh, yes! now you remind me of it, it is strange; for I didn't pay him. Well, after you threw me on the ground, where I lay for some time, all dazed like--not that I was hurt at all, but I was dazed by the effect I felt inside of me; I can't describe it--at last I got up, and found everybody had gone, Piaulard with the rest, for I didn't see him again. It's a strange thing, sure enough. I stayed a long while right in the same place, like a dazed man; I don't know what I was thinking about--that is to say, I was looking for you; I was determined to see you and ask your pardon.--Ah! now I remember--a lady came and spoke to me."

"A lady?"

"Yes, yes! Why, I forgot all about her!"

"What was her appearance? Try to remember; draw her portrait for me."

"She was dressed in style, and I think she was rather tall; as for her face, I didn't pay any attention to it. I was still looking for you; I was like a madman; I didn't know what I was doing, but I was calling your name, and I think I was weeping too."

"But what did this lady say? what did she want of you?"

"Wait a minute; I don't just remember what she said. She tried to comfort me, and then--yes, I think she offered me money."

"Money?"

"Yes. I don't know what for, but she said: 'Take this;' and then, faith!

I don't know what else she said. All I know is that I told her to let me alone; she interfered with my looking for you. When she saw that I wouldn't answer her, she left me."

"And you didn't take her money?"

"Oh, no! indeed I didn't!"

"That was right, Ballangier; you did right to refuse. Didn't she say anything else to you?"

"Mon Dieu! I didn't listen to her at all. I was looking all the time to see if I could see you pa.s.s, and I just said to her: 'Oh! let me look for Charles; you prevent my finding him!'--And she went off."

"Poor fellow! Here, take this; pay your creditor--you owe him twenty-nine francs, I believe--that is, if someone hasn't already taken it upon herself to pay him, as I am inclined to think."

"Someone? Nonsense! who could it be?"

"A person whom you don't know, but I do. However, you must look up this Piaulard, and find out about it. Then go to work, straighten yourself out, make yourself a good workman, and come to see me if you need my help."

"Ah! Charles, I don't deserve to have you make any more sacrifices for me; I am forever annoying and distressing you! Keep the money; I must learn to earn my living at last."

"You will succeed, as soon as you have sincerely made up your mind to do it, I don't doubt. But, meanwhile, I want you to pay your debts and not be left without anything. So, take this; I insist upon it! If by means of your work you should become rich, and I should need to be helped, I would accept without blus.h.i.+ng what you offered me."

"What you say puts some heart and courage into me," cried Ballangier, grasping my hand as he spoke. "Help you some day! _Cre coquin!_ I should be a proud and happy man then!"

Luckily, my purse was well filled, for I had come out with antic.i.p.ations of an intrigue. I put eighty francs in Ballangier's hand. The money had been intended for another purpose; but I began to think that it was better employed so.

I said adieu to Ballangier, who reiterated his oath to turn over a new leaf, and I went home.

I had an idea that it was Madame Dauberny who had paid Piaulard and offered money to Ballangier. Why did she do it? A strange woman that, whom I would have liked right well to understand.