Chapter 22
It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival ateleven.
Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no oneanswered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurredto me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a light.I went to Marguerite's room.
"Where is madame?"
"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine.
"To Paris!"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"An hour after you."
"She left no word for me?"
"Nothing."
Nanine left me.
Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paristo make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a dayoff. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said tomyself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make mesuppose that she had written to Marguerite.
All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she comingto-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at thesame time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked ather after this remark, which seemed to indicate an appointment. Iremembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day long, which my father'skind reception had rather put out of my mind. From this moment all theincidents grouped themselves about my first suspicion, and fixed it sofirmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it, even my father'skindness.
Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretendedto be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen intosome trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being backin time for me not to perceive her absence, and had she been detained bychance? Why had she said nothing to Nanine, or why had she not written?What was the meaning of those tears, this absence, this mystery?
That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room,gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to methat it was too late to hope for my mistress's return. Yet, after allthe arrangements we had just made, after the sacrifices that had beenoffered and accepted, was it likely that she was deceiving me? No. Itried to get rid of my first supposition.
Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she hadgone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell mebeforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, the sale,so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to me, and she fearedto wound my self-respect in speaking to me about it. She would rathernot see me till the whole thing was done, and that was evidently whyPrudence was expecting her when she let out the secret. Marguerite couldnot finish the whole business to-day, and was staying the night withPrudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bowanxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition.But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the poorgirl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in whichshe had lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, withoutcrying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her for such regrets. Iwaited for her impatiently, that I might say to her, as I covered herwith kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her mysterious absence.
Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return.
My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppressmy head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps shewas injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the newsof some dreadful accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with thesame uncertainty and with the same fears.
The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very momentwhen I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to mymind. There must be some cause, independent of her will, to keep heraway from me, and the more I thought, the more convinced I was that thiscause could only be some mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming backto us in every form!
One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, butthat at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out forParis. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. ManonLescaut was open on the table. It seemed to me that here and therethe pages were wet as if with tears. I turned the leaves over and thenclosed the book, for the letters seemed to me void of meaning throughthe veil of my doubts.
Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashedthe windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of atomb. I was afraid.
I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of thewind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The halfhour sounded sadly from the church tower.
I began to fear lest someone should enter. It seemed to me that only adisaster could come at that hour and under that sombre sky.
Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the belltroubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke.
At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholyaspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all itssurroundings.
In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound ofthe door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in.
"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had togo to Paris."
"At this hour?"
"Yes.
"But how? You won't find a carriage."
"I will walk."
"But it is raining."
"No matter."
"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will betime enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will bemurdered on the way."
"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow."
The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, andoffered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained;but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, ina perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I should take to cover halfthe road. Besides, I felt the need of air and physical fatigue in orderto cool down the over-excitement which possessed me.
I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying good-byeto Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out.
At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and Ifatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged tostop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on.The night was so dark that at every step I feared to dash myself againstone of the trees on the roadside, which rose up sharply before me likegreat phantoms rushing upon me.
I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage wasgoing at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope cameto me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, "Marguerite!Marguerite!" But no one answered and the carriage continued its course.I watched it fade away in the distance, and then started on my wayagain. I took two hours to reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight ofParis restored my strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley Ihad so often walked.
That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of adead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d'Antin thegreat city stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o'clock struckat the church of Saint Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite'shouse. I called out my name to the porter, who had had from me enoughtwenty-franc pieces to know that I had the right to call on Mlle.Gautier at five in the morning. I passed without difficulty. I mighthave asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," andI preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as Idoubted, there was still hope.
I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. Nothing.The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I opened thedoor and entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. I drewthose of the dining-room and went toward the bed-room and pushed openthe door. I sprang at the curtain cord and drew it violently. Thecurtain opened, a faint li
ght made its way in. I rushed to the bed. Itwas empty.
I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. Itwas enough to drive one mad.
I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudenceseveral times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed.
I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had comehome during the day.
"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy."
"She left no word for me?"
"No."
"Do you know what they did afterward?"
"They went away in a carriage."
"What sort of a carriage?"
"A private carriage."
What could it all mean?
I rang at the next door.
"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened to me.
"To Mme. Duvernoy's."
"She has not come back."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last nightand which I have not yet given her."
And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. Irecognised Marguerite's writing. I took the letter. It was addressed,"To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. Duval."
"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him theaddress.
"You are M. Duval?" he replied.
"Yes.
"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy."
When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If athunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less startled thanI was by what I read.
"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress ofanother man. All is over between us.
"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, bythe side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you willsoon forget what you would have suffered through that lost creature whois called Marguerite Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, andwho owes to you the only happy moments of a life which, she hopes, willnot be very long now."
When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. Fora moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passedbefore my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myselfa little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life ofothers continue without pausing at my distress.
I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered thatmy father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes,and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it.
I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found thekey in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. Heshowed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he wasexpecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gavehim Marguerite's letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wepthot tears.