My Neighbor Raymond Part 10

"Ah! give it to me, Madame Dupont, give it to me; I know what it is, I bought it yesterday. I have got to send it to someone; it's to go into the country, to our farmer's daughter."

"It's a pretty little cross; but I shouldn't think it was new."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Madame Dupont."

And I hastily put the cross in my pocket, to hide it from the glances of that accursed concierge, who, finding that I no longer replied to her, talked on all alone, in order to keep the conversation alive.

"They say the girl was very pretty, and that she was crying! That's a strange thing."

"What girl are you talking about?"

"A little thing--a sort of--faith! I don't know just what she was, for I didn't see her. To be sure, she pa.s.sed my lodge, but she went by so quick! brrr! like a bomb!"

"Who told you anything about her?"

"Madame Martin, Madame Bertin's cook, who saw her when she went downstairs to get her milk."

"Where did the girl come from?"

"Oh!--I--they--that is--I don't know anything about it, monsieur."

The tone in which Madame Dupont told me that she knew nothing satisfied me that she did know a great deal. Raymond had probably tattled to Madame Martin, and she to the concierge. And then the couch, and the gilt cross: I had certainly become the byword of the whole house! Madame Bertin would undoubtedly be the first one to hear about it, and Madame Bertin was the mother of two pretty daughters, whose esteem I was most anxious to retain. And yet it was a generous action, a sublime action when performed by a young man, which was likely to injure me in the opinion of many people. Ah! how untrustworthy are appearances!

I was about to put an end to the chatter of my concierge by leaving my lodgings, when she detained me.

"By the way, monsieur, I beg your pardon--I quite forgot--I have something for you."

"What is it, pray?"

"I had entirely forgotten it; that girl is on my brain. It's a letter."

"A letter! who gave it to you?"

"The postman, monsieur; he brought it last night; you'd gone out, and when you came home it was very late and I was in bed; for I couldn't even see you, and that's how it was that----"

"Morbleu! Madame Dupont, give me the letter, and spare me your reflections!"

"Here it is, monsieur."

I recognized the postmark and the handwriting: it was from my sister, my dear Amelie. But that reminds me that I ought to have told you before this who I am, where I come from, and what my business is. I confess that it never occurred to me; indeed, I should have been quite capable of going on to the end without giving you any further information, and my adventures would have been none the less simple in your eyes; for as I have not to tell of mysteries, murders, abductions, subst.i.tution of children,--which always produces an excellent effect,--promenades in the galleries of the West, visits to subterranean caverns, moonlight visions, encounters in murky caves, etc., etc., I shall have nothing to explain or disentangle for my denouement, and shall be constrained, in all probability, to end as simply as I began.

"But," you will say, "it is always well to know with whom one is dealing; in fact, it is customary to begin with that."--That is true; but I care little about doing as others do, and, moreover, it seems to me that these never-ending stories of births and family anecdotes are not adapted to afford you much amus.e.m.e.nt; for that reason, I shall be very brief.

My name is Eugene Dorsan; I am of a Parisian family; my father was a king's attorney [_procureur_]; they say _avoue_ now, a t.i.tle which lends itself less readily to pleasantry. However, my father was a very honorable man, so I have always been told, and I have never doubted it.

He earned a great deal of money, to his credit be it said; but he died young, wherein he made a mistake; especially as his death was the result of overwork. My mother was left a widow with two children: my sister Amelie, my senior by a year, and your humble servant. Madame Dorsan was rich; she was in a position to marry again, but she preferred to retain her freedom; she was wise both on her own account and on ours; for, in my opinion, marriage, while a most excellent thing, should be used in moderation.

My sister and I received a good education. We made the most of it, especially my sister, who is naturally amiable, kindly, and gentle, and whose only aim was to satisfy her teachers, and to demonstrate to her mother her affection and her obedience. For my part, I am no phoenix, but I have no glaring faults. My predominant pa.s.sion is the love which women arouse in me; but as that pa.s.sion could not develop in my childhood, it did not impede my progress.

My mother had bought a beautiful country estate near Melun, and we spent the summer there. Our childhood and youth pa.s.sed away without accident or trouble, without any important occurrences, and, I may say also, without sorrow or tribulation. Indeed, what sources of affliction can one encounter before the age of fifteen, when one is surrounded by wealthy and generous kindred?

How I pity the poor wretches reared in poverty by parents whom misfortune often makes stern and unfeeling! Even in the days of innocence, they know the afflictions of maturity; what a pitiable apprenticeship to life!

At the age of sixteen my sister married a young man of twenty-four, a steady, orderly youth and a tremendous worker, who owned a cotton mill at Melun. Three years after the wedding, our mother died. She had economized in the interest of her children, and she left us ten thousand a year each. Amelie, now Madame Deneterre, and her husband took up their abode in our country house; and I returned to Paris, partly to seek diversion from my grief at my mother's death, and partly to complete my acquaintance with the world.

Six years had pa.s.sed since then, and I had become so attached to the seductive capital that I spent only six weeks, in the summer, with my sister. I had not yet been to her that year, and I a.s.sumed that that was why she was writing to me. That dear sister of mine, knowing that I was not over-virtuous, was exceedingly anxious that I should marry, in the hope that that would put an end to my follies; and every summer I found at her house a new young woman, very pretty and sweet and well bred, possessed of abundant talents and attractions and a very respectable dowry. She was presented to me without affectation, but I knew what was in the air. But, despite the attentions of her parents, the eloquent sermons from my sister on the joys of wedded life, and the sighs and sidelong glances of the young lady herself, I took my leave at the end of six weeks without making a declaration.

"Patience!" my sister would say to her husband; "next year, I'll find one who will turn his head, I'll wager."

"So be it!" Deneterre would reply tranquilly; "we'll put it off till next year."

Now, let us read my sister's letter:

"MY DEAR EUGeNE:

"It is the last of July, and you haven't come to see us yet; can it be that life in Paris has made you entirely forgetful of the relations who love you and think constantly of you and your future?----"

My future! Oh, yes! that means another marriage on the carpet. What a mania it is of Amelie's! always trying to induce me to marry! It is worse than the conventional guardian of comedy. But let us go on:

"It seems to me that you must be tired of those numerous conquests, of those gallant adventures, of those women who have no other guide than pleasure, and who forget you as quickly as they adore you.----"

Aha! sarcasm! You are mistaken, my dear sister; I am not tired of making conquests; those that I make are not all so simple as you think, said I to myself. But in the provinces people are even more spiteful, more evil-tongued than in Paris; and since my sister has left the capital, she takes it upon herself to lecture me. But at heart she is kindness itself! I cannot be angry with her for constantly thinking of me. But where was I?

"As quickly as they adore you. I often hear of you from people who come here from Paris; I know that you are more heedless than ever, that you think of nothing but your pleasures, that you deceive all your mistresses, that they pay you back in your own coin.----"

How well she divines the truth! it is astonishing!

"We never hear of any sensible action on your part.----"

Ah! my dear sister, if you had known the story of the night I had just pa.s.sed! And people slander me, and call me a libertine!--But you were very, very pretty, Nicette! and I was really ent.i.tled to great credit for my self-restraint.

"I trust, however, that you are not incorrigible. Come to us very soon. We have pretty women here, too; they are modest and virtuous, and I should suppose that that would give them an additional attraction.----"

Oh, of course! very pretty women! stiff, affected, prudish, or simpering! And such costumes! In a word, genuine provincials--I need say no more. As for their virtue, it is possible that--but it is not safe to trust to appearances, as I know better than most; for I would have sworn that Nicette was a little wanton.

"My husband sends a memorandum of a few errands he would like you to do for him. He is organizing grand fishing parties for your visit, and I look forward with delight to the prospect of embracing you.

"AMeLIE DeNETERRE."

I determined to go to Melun--in a few days. There were several business matters that I must first attend to. Moreover, I should be very glad to know what Nicette was going to do; I was deeply interested in that young woman, and I did not propose to lose sight of her.

I left my apartment and was going downstairs; but I could not resist my desire to speak to my neighbor Raymond. I wished to thank him for his discretion. I rang at his door; no one answered, but I heard a noise within. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. He did not open the door. I felt sure that he had bored a hole in his door and had seen that it was I. No matter: he could not always avoid me; meanwhile, that he might know that it was I who had broken his bellrope, I tied it to my own.

I went downstairs at last; and on the first floor I met Madame Bertin and her two daughters, going to ma.s.s.

I bowed; they returned my bow, but with a frigid air very different from the amiable greeting they were accustomed to bestow on me. The two young ladies stood aside without raising their eyes, and the mother's face wore a glacial expression that made me afraid to speak to her.

"This is the result of the infernal chatter of Raymond and Madame Martin and the concierge," I thought; "these ladies know that Nicette pa.s.sed the night in my rooms; that is to say, the mamma knows it, and that is why she ordered her daughters to pa.s.s me without raising their eyes, without smiling, and, above all, without speaking to me."

But you will tell me, the milliner also used to pa.s.s the night in your rooms. Ah! that was very different. Agathe was dressed like everybody else, and n.o.body noticed her; moreover, there were several people in the house for whom she made hats; and no one ever knew certainly whom she was going to see. So that I was able to retain Madame Bertin's good graces, and was admitted to her society, when Mademoiselle Agathe honored me with her favors. And now I was tabooed because Nicette, the pretty flower girl, had pa.s.sed the night in my rooms. And you know how it all came about. But the world is made that way; it judges by the exterior before it knows what is within. Be whatever you choose, but observe the proprieties; save appearances, and you will be received everywhere.