"You are wrong, madame; the count is no longer furious with me; rage doesn't last twenty years; it dies long before that time. It is nothing but the sentiment of honor that impels your husband now; and that sentiment would not stifle the regret that he would feel if he should kill a man whom he once loved with the most sincere affection."

"But whom he now holds in the greatest possible detestation!"

"No, madame, I a.s.sure you that he no longer detests me. When a man grows old, he remembers the happy days of his youth much more vividly than the troubles of his maturer years; the latter are effaced in the jolting and hurly-burly of life; the first remain and rise to the surface, to divert our thoughts, to charm our memories--and that is why I believe that De Brevanne no longer detests me.--What I say surprises you--you do not agree with me; but women do not understand friendship!"

"You have an amusing way of practising it! However, how do you propose to prevent this duel?"

"As I have prevented it for twenty years; I propose to elude the count's search. I have moved already; I no longer live in furnished lodgings, and I should be very much astonished if he should find me where I am now."

Madame de Grangeville said nothing more; Roncherolle seemed to reflect; and the ex-lovers were silent for a considerable time. At last the gouty gentleman put out his hand toward his hat, and seemed about to go, when his former friend detained him, saying with some hesitation:

"Monsieur de Roncherolle, I have something to say to you on another subject of--of deep interest to us both."

"A subject of interest to us both?" repeated Roncherolle, replacing his hat on the table; "you surprise me; I thought that we no longer had anything of interest to say to each other. What is it all about?"

"You must have a very short memory, monsieur, since it is necessary for me to remind you of that--that result of our liaison--of our wrong-doing, alas!"

"Ah, yes! thrice alas!"

"Well, monsieur, that child, that little girl--for it was a girl--tell me, monsieur, what became of her? Formerly, when I questioned you on that subject, you always answered: 'Don't be disturbed, I know where she is, we shall find her again.'--But that was more than twelve years ago, monsieur, and it seems to me that it is high time that I should know what became of that child!"

Roncherolle moved about on the _causeuse_ as he replied:

"Yes, yes, that is very true; there is the subject of the little girl; I had forgotten about her entirely, and you will understand in a moment why I had forgotten her; it was because it would have done no good to think of her, for I have no idea what became of her after I put her out to nurse."

"You don't know what became of her! why, that is abominable, monsieur, it is frightful; you break my heart!"

"No fine words, my dear friend. I beg you; with me, as you must know, they will miss their effect; I break nothing at all of yours; for if you had chosen to be a mother, to know and to enjoy the happiness which that t.i.tle affords, you would not have begun by begging me to rid you of your child as soon as possible the instant that it came into the world."

"Monsieur, that is not true; you insult me, you slander me!"

"You are beginning again. Come, Lucienne, stop acting and listen to me.

When you were in an interesting condition and on the point of emerging from it, we were journeying through the fertile pastures of Normandie; suddenly the fancy seized you to visit Ermenonville, the village that became so famous because a so-called philosopher--for I consider that that Monsieur Jean-Jacques had little claim as such, and that a man can hardly call himself the friend of mankind when he constantly inflicts injury on those who have conferred benefits on him--but no matter, he made the village of Ermenonville famous by living there, and especially by being buried there. I remarked to you that it was imprudent to approach Paris, where your husband might be, especially in your condition; but you were always obstinate in your whims, and I have never been able to thwart a lady. We reached Ermenonville in horrible weather; very good. The next day you felt ill and insisted on returning to Paris, to be sure of having all the necessary a.s.sistance in your condition; that was another imprudence. But no matter--I yielded. We reached Paris; we had hardly arrived, when whom should we see on the street but your husband! Very good; he didn't see us; you wanted to go away again, but it was too late; you brought a daughter into the world.--- In the confusion and embarra.s.sment into which that event, antic.i.p.ated though it was, cast us, you began by saying to me: 'Take the child away at once!

find a nurse instantly, and let her go back to her home in the country this very day,'--I continued to do your will; I carried the little one--who was a sweet little thing, on my word!--to a room above yours, which I was occupying temporarily; and I said to my servant--I had Comtois then, a most intelligent fellow, whom I could never replace--I told him to find me a stout, healthy nurse. Comtois went away and very soon returned with the desired object: she was a peasant woman of excellent appearance--a Picard. I remember distinctly that she was a Picard. I gave her the child, and she raved over her; then she asked me for the _layette_; I confess that that embarra.s.sed me sadly; you ought to have thought of that, madame, but you never considered it. I gave her all that I found at my hand: trousers, dressing-gown, shirts, cravats; I remember too that I gave her a handkerchief that belonged to you, and that I happened to have in my pocket. The nurse laughed heartily when I gave her all those things. I handed her a hundred francs in addition.

She made a price for nursing the child, and it wasn't exorbitant. She asked me the little girl's names, but you and I had not fixed upon any.

I said to the Picard: 'You may call the child Evelina de Paulausky'--yes, those are the names I gave her; I had just read a novel the heroine of which bore that name.--I then asked the nurse for her name and address, so that I might send her money and have news of the child. She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling.

It was all arranged very quickly, as you see."

"Certainly, monsieur, I have nothing to reproach you for, up to that point--except the _layette_, which you might have bought."

"That is to say, which you should have bought beforehand."

"Oh! monsieur, when one is travelling all the time, has one any opportunity to make purchases?"

"In that case, madame, when could I have bought it, as I was travelling with you?--Besides, is that sort of thing a man's business?"

"Well, monsieur, let us drop that and return to the nurse. You heard from the child through her? you sent her money?"

"I never heard from the nurse, madame, for the very simple reason that I did not give her my address; I refrained, from prudential motives; and then too we were always in flying camp at that time, and I really don't know what address I could have given her."

"Then, monsieur, you must have written to her?"

"Mon Dieu! that is what I expected to do, and to send her some money; and then I would have given her an address, _poste restante_, so that she might answer me. But at that point difficulties arose. Imagine, if you please, that, when that woman gave me her name and address, I did not take the precaution to write them down at once; we were in such a hurry, so completely upset! What with giving my clothes for the _layette_, and the child's crying, and your sending to ask what was going on--in short, I didn't write down the confounded address at the time, feeling sure that I should remember it. The nurse went away. We had a thousand things to do: I had to obtain money to resume our travels, and we were constantly beset by the fear of being discovered by your husband.--As you will remember, we started for the Pyrenees as soon as you were in a condition to endure the journey."

"I know all that--well?"

"At last, one fine day, you asked me about the child. I answered: 'She is well; she must be all right.' But that reminded me that I had neglected to send the nurse any money since the little one came into the world, six months before. I said to myself: 'Pardieu! I must repair that neglect.'--I instantly wrote a few lines in haste, but when it came to writing the woman's name and address, I could not possibly remember them! She was from Picardie, and her first name was Marguerite; but Marguerite what? there are Marguerites everywhere! And the name of that wretched village--I could not remember that either!--I said to myself: 'A little patience and it will come back to me.'--Six more months pa.s.sed and I thought again of the child; I tried once more to remember the nurse's address; but I could not recall it!"

"And you kept telling me that the child was well!"

"What would you have had me tell you? I couldn't say that she was ill, because I didn't know.--In short, for nineteen years I have tried very often to think of that address, but it hasn't come back to me yet."

"And so, monsieur, by your fault, I am deprived of my daughter forever, and the poor child is without a family! It is shocking!"

"Pardon me, madame, pardon me; on mature reflection--in the little one's behalf first of all--I am not sure that it is a great calamity that she has never known the secret of her birth; she would still have been in a false position; and then life in Paris wouldn't have been as good for her health as the fresh country air--especially in Picardie. That's an excellent region; they drink cider there, which is very healthy. If she is still alive, I am sure that she must be in good health. She lives in the fields and woods--bless my soul! she is happier, no doubt, than she would be here; especially as I could never give her an establishment with the remains of my fortune."

"But what of me, monsieur?--do you make no account of my regrets? I am deprived of my daughter's caresses!"

"I beg pardon, madame, but the longing for those caresses takes you rather tardily."

"Why, monsieur, it is twelve years since I last saw you."

"But for seven years we were almost never apart, and you were perfectly willing to leave the child at nurse; you asked me about her sometimes--at long intervals; but you never said: 'Do send for her.'--You thought that the attention you would have to give the child would disturb your pleasures; and for my part, I believe that her presence would embarra.s.s you even more now; for the girl is nineteen years old; and a daughter of nineteen would be terribly repugnant to you; she might rob you of conquests!"

"Monsieur, you do not mean to insult me, I trust?"

"By no means, my dear friend! We have had an explanation, and I have confessed the truth. 'I had to do it!' as Bilboquet says; and now I will take my cane and my hat and return to my Marais."

"Do you live in the Marais? What a horrible neighborhood!"

"Oh, no! however, one lives where one can! I have not, as you have, anonymous admirers who make me an allowance; but I congratulate you; you can still gratify your taste for pleasure, for fine clothes. I consider you very rich now--compared with myself."

"No, indeed! no, indeed!" Madame de Grangeville replied eagerly, with an embarra.s.sed air. "I have only what I need to live; a woman requires so many things, you know; it would be impossible for me to accommodate anybody."

Roncherolle put on his hat, leaned on his cane and exclaimed with a savage glance at the baroness:

"Did you suppose by any chance, madame, that I intended to ask you for anything, or to borrow anything of you? I hoped that you had lived with me long enough to know me. I have spent a devilish lot of money on women; they have led me into all sorts of folly, but nothing base. I have ruined myself for them, and I had a right to do it. I have made love to them much, loved them sometimes, deceived them often; but thank G.o.d! I have never accepted anything from them; I am ent.i.tled to say to them just what I think, and I avail myself of that right on occasion.--My respects, my affectionate friend!"

With these words, Roncherolle bowed to Madame de Grangeville with a mocking expression, and left her apartment, saying to himself:

"Ah! these women whose lives have been nothing but coquetry--when you search their hearts, what a barren soil you find! Sow benefactions there and you never reap anything but ingrat.i.tude."

As for Madame de Grangeville, as soon as her former lover had left her, she called her maid and said:

"If by any chance that gentleman should come again to see me, Lizida, I shall not be at home to him! The idea! a ruined man, who dresses shabbily, who drags one leg, and who has nothing but disagreeable things to say!"

"Madame is quite right. That is a good sort of man to keep out."