Paul and His Dog Volume I Part 64

XXIII

CHAMOUREAU TAKES THE PLUNGE HEADFOREMOST

Beauregard threw himself upon a chair, facing Thelenie. When Mademoiselle Helose had left them alone, they gazed at each other for some time without speaking; but one could read on their faces that the same thought was not in the minds of both.

The beautiful courtesan pressed her lips together in a convulsive fashion, her eyes avoided her companion's and wandered about the room, and she opened and closed her hands with a sort of nervous contraction of the muscles that indicated an impatience which she could hardly control.

Beauregard, on the contrary, seemed perfectly calm and placid; he amused himself watching the woman before him, and the ironical expression of his eyes might have created the impression that he took a secret pleasure in the annoyance which his presence caused her.

"May I be permitted to know to what I owe the honor of seeing you, monsieur?" said Thelenie, breaking the silence at last.

"Ah! so you a.s.sume, madame, that I must have some special reason for coming to see you? Why should you not think that I am impelled solely by the desire to do homage to your beauty?"

"Because I know that my beauty has long been entirely indifferent to you; we have got beyond the complimentary stage!"

"Which may be interpreted to mean that we no longer tell each other falsehoods, may it not?"

"I don't interpret it so! When you told me that you thought me pretty, that I pleased you, I was pretty enough to justify me in believing that you meant it."

"Yes, we men sometimes tell the truth; I am convinced that, as a general rule, we lie less than women."

"Do you think so? it is quite possible! Did you come here to work out that problem?"

"No, indeed; it would take too long; I should prefer the labors of Hercules. Restrain your impatience, madame, I am coming to the purpose of my visit. The liaison which once existed between us two was not without result, as you know."

Thelenie turned paler and pressed her lips together more tightly; but she kept silent and waited.

"In short, to speak plainly, you had a child, whose paternity you chose to attribute to me; in fact, I do not deny it, as the step which I am taking at this moment sufficiently proves. Yes, we had a few months of ardent pa.s.sion, of exalted sentiments! we even went so far as to live away from the world for some time, in a chalet, surrounded by goats and cheese. It was superb, but it didn't last long; things that are carried to excess never do last.--Briefly, you returned to Paris, and I had gone to Italy for a little trip, I believe, when you wrote me that you had given birth to a son--for it was a boy, was it not, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur, it was a boy; and you didn't even answer my letter."

"Because I was very much occupied then; but when I returned to Paris, nine months later, I lost no time in calling upon you; I had some difficulty in finding you; I had even more in obtaining an audience. You were so surrounded by adorers, courtiers, slaves! You had them in all ranks of life--bankers, Hungarian counts, speculators!--Oh! I must do you the justice to say that you have always had a very marked penchant for finance!--and you no longer cared to receive a visit from me."

"It was my turn, monsieur, to be very much occupied."

"My reign had gone by; I do not presume to make any complaint on that score, madame!"

"And you are wise, for you have no right to; didn't you leave me first--to go to Italy?"

"Possibly; it may be that I had reasons for leaving you. But let us not recriminate; that matter is not in question now. When I saw you again, my first remark was to ask you where my son was; and you replied that he died three months after his birth."

"I certainly did, monsieur; and as it was true, I could make no other answer."

"At first, I was satisfied with that answer; and I left you; but later, other ideas occurred to me, and I called on you again. I found the same difficulty in speaking to you, for you seemed to shun me, and to display the greatest persistency in avoiding my presence."

"Why should I have desired it, monsieur? For a long time we had ceased to have anything to say to each other."

"Pardon me, madame; I had certain questions to ask you concerning the particulars of the child's death; and those questions seemed to annoy you exceedingly, for only with the very greatest difficulty did I succeed in obtaining the answers I desired."

"There are subjects which it is painful to revive; that was one of them; it could not fail to renew my grief."

"Oh! as for your grief, madame, you will pardon me if I refuse to believe in it. I think that maternal love does not fill a very large place in your heart."

"Why do you think that, monsieur?"

"Because, if it were otherwise, you would have been the first to talk to me about our son, to give me a thousand and one details of his birth and death. Whereas, on the contrary, your answers on those subjects were so short and sharp that it was easy to see that you were in a hurry to put an end to the interview."

"Did you expect me to give you very many details of the life of a child that lived three months?"

"A mother would have found them."

"I was not a mother, then?"

"No, not in the full acceptation of the word. However, after making me repeat my questions many times, you told me that you had entrusted your child to a nurse who lived at Saint-Denis. I asked you the woman's name,--you had forgotten it; but I was so persistent that you finally remembered the name: it was Madame Mathieu, the wife of a farm hand. I asked you her address. Oh! then you jumped from your seat in your wrath, as if I had asked you where you had hidden a treasure! Again your memory was at fault. You finally told me that the woman lived near the church on the square, and that that was all you knew."

"Well, what then?"

"Then I went to Saint-Denis myself; I asked for Madame Mathieu, wife of a farm hand; n.o.body knew such a person. I visited all the houses near the church, and it was impossible for me to discover that nurse. I found two women named Mathieu at Saint-Denis, but one was eighty years old, the other sixty-six; so that neither of them could be the one I was looking for--quite uselessly, for you had lied to me."

"I beg you, monsieur, to choose your expressions more carefully."

"I have no need to be considerate toward you, madame, for I know you and I know what you are, what you are worth.--A melancholy knowledge, for which I have paid very dear!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur? It seems to me that you never ruined yourself for me."

"Thank G.o.d! I left that pleasure to others; but you know very well what I mean.--To resume, madame, you lied when you gave me the address at Saint-Denis of a nurse who never existed."

"I told you all that I knew, monsieur; it was not my fault if the woman had left the place where she once lived."

"Peasants don't move about like lorettes, and if they do happen to change their place of abode, everyone knows everyone else so well in a village, that it is easy to find them."

"Saint-Denis is not a village, monsieur, it's a town."

"Once more, madame, I am convinced that you lied in everything that you told me on the subject of that child."

"Why should I have lied to you, monsieur?"

"Because you did not wish to be a mother; because you had never manifested anything but regret at being one; because you were capable of sending the poor little fellow to the Foundling Hospital."

"That is a shocking thing for you to say to me, monsieur!"

"Very well! I do not propose that my son shall be brought up by charity; I want to take the child with me; I want to love him, and I want him to love me. Those sentiments in my mouth surprise you, do they not, madame?

But it is all true. I have never had any great confidence in love or friendship, but there must be such a thing as filial love, for I feel the love of a father.--Moreover, for some time past I have suffered from ennui; I am weary of the pleasures one procures with money; it seems to me that if I had that child with me, it would occupy my mind, it would make a different man of me. My youth is at an end; I have carried everything to excess; but paternal love will afford me enjoyment of a new kind. You will say perhaps that I have waited rather long before having these ideas, and it is true; but each day carries away with it some illusion, my pa.s.sions are dying out; I feel that I must have something to attach me to life.--Come, Thelenie, be honest for once.

Tell me what you did with that child, who still lives, perhaps. Yes, I have a presentiment that he is alive. He must be seven years and a half old now. Tell me where he is, and don't be afraid; he will never ask you for anything, you will never have to spend a sou for him; more than that, I shall not tell him who his mother is, he will not know you! It seems to me that you can ask nothing more. Tell me, where is the child?

I have a cab below, I will go and get him."

"I have told you, monsieur, all that I can tell you on the subject of your son; it is useless for you to ask me anything more."