Le Cocu Part 49

"Did not leave me for one minute while my life was in danger. And yet I was a mere stranger to him. He is to travel with me, he will go wherever I go."

"I am very glad to know that you will have some devoted friend with you."

"Here, my friend, take this memorandum book."

"What shall I do with it?"

"It contains the portrait of the woman whom I used to call my wife. I must not keep it any longer. Later, if you choose, you may give the book to--to her son."

"Her son? But, Blemont, he is your son too. Are you not going to see him before you go away?"

"No, the sight of him is too painful to me. I have told you all that I thought,--all my torments. I shall never see that child again."

"My dear Blemont, are you not wrong? Is that child responsible for his mother's wrongdoing?"

"It is possible that I am unjust; why did she give me a right to be? I entrust you to look after everything that concerns him, and to put him at school when he reaches the proper age. I will give you a letter to my notary, instructing him to supply you with money whenever you need it.

Forgive me, my friend, for all the trouble I cause you."

"Do not speak of trouble. But consider that that child----"

"Not another word about him, I beg you. I propose to try to banish from my memory those persons whom I am forced to banish from my heart. By the way, you must cease to call me Blemont, too; from this moment I lay aside that name and a.s.sume the name of Dalbreuse. So that is the name under which you must write to me, Ernest; for I trust that you will write to me, my friend."

"Yes, to be sure; but I trust that you will not stay away from us a century. There will come a time, my dear Henri, when you will be able to live in Paris and to meet the--the person whom you avoid now, without its producing too serious an effect upon you."

"I hope so. Meanwhile, I shall go away; I propose to visit Switzerland, the Alps, the Pyrenees, Italy--no, I shall not go to Italy. But I shall stop wherever I find that I enjoy myself. I shall try to paint some lovely views, some attractive landscapes."

"Above all things, paint some portraits of beautiful women; they will distract you better than anything else. But when are you going? You must wait until you are perfectly well."

"I flatter myself that in a week I shall not feel my wound; meantime, you will see me often; I am to be allowed to go out to-morrow, and I will go to your house."

Ernest took his leave and I made arrangements for my journey. Ernest would let my apartment all furnished during my absence, and I left him in full charge of everything. I had but one wish, that was to be far away from Paris; but first I absolutely must see and embrace my daughter.

At last I was able to leave my room. I purchased two horses, for I proposed to travel by short stages as long as it amused me. Then I went to see my mother; I trembled lest she should have learned that I was no longer living with my wife. She did know it, in fact; some kind friends had not failed to inform her that I had separated from Eugenie; but she thought that it was nothing more than a quarrel which had caused the rupture. She proposed her mediation to reconcile us, for she also believed that it was I who was in the wrong; and she preached me a sermon.

I thanked my mother and told her of my approaching departure, which I said was due to important business. She hoped that at my return everything would be forgotten between my wife and myself; I encouraged her in that hope and bade her adieu. I was very certain that she would not go to see my wife, for that would disturb her habits.

I gave to Ernest and his companion all the time that remained before my departure. They were sorry to lose me, and yet they were glad that I was going; it was the same with myself. I urged them to send me news of my daughter; in leaving her I was separating from a part of myself, but if I remained I should not see her any more. I made them swear that when they wrote to me they would never mention Madame Blemont. Finally, one night I embraced Ernest and Marguerite and their children affectionately; I was to start early next morning.

Pettermann had long been ready. He told me that he was an excellent rider. We had a good horse each, and at six o'clock we left Paris. My comrade was very glad to be on the road; he hummed a refrain from the _Mariage de Figaro_, which he had not done since my illness.

I started in the direction of Montmorency, for Aubonne is in that neighborhood, and I proposed to go there to see my daughter. During the past few days I had made inquiries concerning Madame Blemont at her house on Rue d'Antin. In Paris, by the use of money, one may learn whatever one desires. The result of my inquiries was that Madame Blemont was now at Paris, and that her daughter was not with her. So that Henriette was in the country without her mother; I could not hope to find a more favorable moment to see my daughter.

We rode through Montmorency and arrived at Aubonne. Pettermann rode behind without once asking where we were going, and his discretion gratified me. When we came in sight of the first houses of Aubonne, I said to him:

"I have business here, Pettermann; I have to see someone who is very dear to me."

"Whatever you please, monsieur; it looks to be a pleasant place."

"First of all, you must inquire where Madame Rennebaut lives; she is an old lady who owns a house in this neighborhood."

"Madame Rennebaut? All right; I will ask the first baker that I see.

Perhaps there's only one in the village, and Madame Rennebaut must necessarily trade with him. Wait here for me, monsieur, I will soon be back."

I let Pettermann go; I was then on the summit of a hill from which I could see several country houses nearby; I had stopped my horse and my eyes strove to look inside those houses, to find my Henriette; the hope that I should soon see and embrace my child made my heart beat faster.

Pettermann returned.

"Monsieur, I have found out about Madame Rennebaut: she is an old widow lady, very rich and with no children, who keeps a gardener, a cook and a maid."

"And her house?"

"It is at the other end of the village; if we take this road to the pond, then turn to the left, we shall see the house in front of us. It is a fine house with an iron fence in front of it, and a garden with a terrace, from which there is a splendid view."

"Let us go on, Pettermann."

We followed the road that had been pointed out to him. As I knew that Madame Blemont was at Paris, I had no hesitation about calling at Madame Rennebaut's house; I did not know what Eugenie might have told her, but I would ask to see my daughter, and I could not believe that they would deny me that satisfaction.

We had pa.s.sed the pond and were on a sort of path with the fields on one side, leading to the lovely valley of Montmorency.

I spied the house that had been described to us; I urged my horse, and we were already skirting the garden wall, when I saw a woman walking on the terrace which ran along the wall on that side, leading a little girl by the hand.

I recognized the woman and the little girl at once; and, instantly turning my horse about, I rode into the fields and away from the house as rapidly as we had approached.

I did not stop until several clumps of trees concealed me from the house. Eugenie was there; therefore my informant must have been misled, or perhaps she had returned the night before. However that might be, she was there and I could not go to that house; her presence debarred me; perhaps she would think it was she whom I wished to see. I should be too humiliated if she should have such a thought.

However, I did not wish to go away without embracing my daughter. I did not know what to do. Pettermann had followed me closely, and was right behind me; but he waited and said nothing. I dismounted, and he was about to do the same.

"No," I said, "remain in the saddle and hold my horse; we shall go away again soon. Wait for me behind these trees."

I left him and walked toward the house, taking a roundabout way in order to avoid being seen by the persons on the terrace; I was certain that they had not seen me before, for they were not looking in my direction.

At last I reached the garden where I had seen them; a hedge concealed me. I saw the edge of the terrace, but I could not look into the garden.

There was a walnut tree within a few feet of me; I looked about to see if anyone was observing me, and in a few seconds I was in the tree. From there I could look into the garden easily and had no fear of being seen.

There they were; they were coming in my direction from a path where they had been out of my sight. Henriette ran about playing. Her mother walked slowly, her eyes often on the ground, or gazing listlessly about. Ah!

how much lovelier than ever my daughter appeared to me! How happy I was when she turned her head in my direction!

They drew near. The mother sat down on a bench near the corner of the wall. She had a book, but she placed it by her side and did not read.

Why did she not read? Of what was she thinking? She did not talk with her daughter; her brow was careworn and her eyes were heavy. Was she already weary of dissipation?

Henriette ran to her and offered her some flowers which she had just plucked. She took her daughter between her knees, gazed at her, and suddenly kissed her several times in a sort of frenzy, then released her and relapsed into a reverie.

Never had she embraced her daughter like that in my presence; was it that she was afraid of pleasing me by allowing me to witness the caresses which she bestowed upon our child?

Nearly an hour pa.s.sed. She was still there, sitting on the bench, not reading, from time to time glancing at her daughter, who was playing on the terrace. And I gave no thought to the pa.s.sing of time, to poor Pettermann who was waiting for me; I could not turn my eyes away from that garden.

Suddenly, as she ran toward her mother, Henriette made a false step and fell on her face. I uttered a cry simultaneously with Eugenie. She ran to the child, lifted her up and kissed her; the little one cried a little, but soon became calm and smiled, and I heard her say:

"It isn't anything, mamma."