Chapter 4
Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 3.50,000 francs. Thecreditors divided among them two thirds, and the family, a sister and agrand-nephew, received the remainder.
The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her thatshe had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her sister forsix or seven years, and did not know what had become of her from themoment when she had disappeared from home. She came up to Paris inhaste, and great was the astonishment of those who had known Margueritewhen they saw as her only heir a fine, fat country girl, who until thenhad never left her village. She had made the fortune at a single stroke,without even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, I heardafterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister's death,but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the investment atfour and a half per cent which she had been able to make.
All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city ofscandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by littleforgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new incident brought tomy knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, and acquainted me withsuch pathetic details that I was taken with the idea of writing down thestory which I now write.
The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for threeor four days when one morning there was a ring at my door.
My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to thedoor and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it tohim wished to see me.
I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval.
I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the firstleaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had giventhe book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once.
I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit whichlooked as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not even takenthe trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was covered withdust.
M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal hisagitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice thathe said to me:
"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people arenot very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see youto-day that I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent myluggage, and have rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I mightmiss you, early as it is."
I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking hishandkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment.
"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly, "forwhat purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, andin tears, can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of you agreat service."
"Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal."
"You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?"
At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an instant,was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes with hishand.
"I must seem to you very absurd," he added, "but pardon me, and believethat I shall never forget the patience with which you have listened tome."
"Sir," I answered, "if the service which I can render you is able tolessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, andyou will find me only too happy to oblige you."
M. Duval's sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt thedesire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me:
"You bought something at Marguerite's sale?"
"Yes, a book."
"Manon Lescaut?"
"Precisely."
"Have you the book still?"
"It is in my bedroom."
On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight,and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely bykeeping the book.
I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to him.
"That is it indeed," he said, looking at the inscription on the firstpage and turning over the leaves; "that is it in deed," and two bigtears fell on the pages. "Well, sir," said he, lifting his head, and nolonger trying to hide from me that he had wept and was even then on thepoint of weeping, "do you value this book very greatly?"
"Why?"
"Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me."
"Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to MargueriteGautier?"
"It was!"
"The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand itover to you."
"But," said M. Duval with some embarrassment, "the least I can do is togive you in return the price which you paid for it."
"Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale ofthat kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave forit."
"You gave one hundred francs."
"True," I said, embarrassed in my turn, "how do you know?"
"It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and Ionly managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to havesomething which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the auctioneerand asked him to allow me to see the list of the things sold and ofthe buyers' names. I saw that this volume had been bought by you, andI decided to ask you to give it up to me, though the price you hadset upon it made me fear that you might yourself have some souvenir inconnection with the possession of the book."
As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite ashe had known her. I hastened to reassure him.
"I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight," I said; "her death made on me theimpression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a youngman who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, andI bid higher and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to annoysomeone else, who was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defyme to the contest. I repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once moreI beg you to accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer,and let it be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimateacquaintance."
"Good," said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; "I accept,and I shall be grateful to you all my life."
I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, forthe inscription in the book, the young man's hurried journey, his desireto possess the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I questionedmy visitor that I might seem to have refused his money only in order tohave the right to pry into his affairs.
It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me:
"Have you read the volume?"
"All through."
"What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?"
"I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volumemust have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not takethose two lines as a mere empty compliment."
"You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter." And hehanded to me a paper which seemed to have been many times reread.
I opened it, and this is what it contained:
"MY DEAR ARMAND:--I have received your letter. You are still good, andI thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with one of thosediseases that never relent; but the interest you still take in me makesmy suffering less. I shall not live long enough, I expect, to have thehappiness of pressing the hand which has written the kind letter I havejust received; the words of it would be enough to cure me, if anythingcould cure me. I shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and youare hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of oldtimes is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see heragain than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; oh, with allmy heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving thelove you had for me. I have been in bed for a month, and I think so muchof your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from themoment we left each other
to the moment when I shall be able to writeno longer. If the interest you take in me is real, Armand, when you comeback go and see Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. You willfind in it the reason and the excuse for what has passed between us.Julie is very good to me; we often talk of you together. She was therewhen your letter came, and we both cried over it.
"If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you thosepapers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. This dailylooking back on the only happy moments of my life does me an immenseamount of good, and if you will find in reading it some excuse for thepast. I, for my part, find a continual solace in it. I should like toleave you something which would always remind you of me, but everythinghere has been seized, and I have nothing of my own.
"Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can heara man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors have put himthere to see that nothing is taken away, and that nothing remains tome in case I do not die. I hope they will wait till the end before theybegin to sell.
"Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is just andinflexible!
"And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buysomething, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might accuseyou of embezzling seized goods.
"It is a sad life that I am leaving!
"It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. Accordingto all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I do not write alonger letter, but those who say they are going to cure me wear me outwith bloodletting, and my hand refuses to write any more.
"MARGUERITE GAUTIER."
The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter toArmand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind while I wasreading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it:
"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And,overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing of theletter, which he finally carried to his lips.
"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see her,and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she did for mewhat no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive myself for havingleft her to die like that. Dead! Dead and thinking of me, writing andrepeating my name, poor dear Marguerite!"
And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, held outhis hand to me, and continued:
"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like thisover a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made thatwoman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resignedshe was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feelunworthy of the forgiveness which she grants me. Oh, I would give tenyears of my life to weep at her feet for an hour!"
It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one, andnevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young man, he made meso frankly the confidant of his distress, that I believed a word from mewould not be indifferent to him, and I said:
"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they willconsole you. As for me, I can only pity you."
"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, "Iam wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my sorrow mustmean to you, and that I am intruding upon you something which can notand ought not to interest you at all."
"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I regretmy inability to calm your distress. If my society and that of my friendscan give you any distraction, if, in short, you have need of me, nomatter in what way, I hope you will realize how much pleasure it willgive me to do anything for you."
"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let me stayhere for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my eyes, so that theidlers in the street may not look upon it as a curiosity to see a bigfellow like me crying. You have made me very happy by giving me thisbook. I do not know how I can ever express my gratitude to you."
"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by telling methe cause of your suffering. One feels better while telling what onesuffers."
"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can not verywell talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and you will see ifI have reason for regretting the poor girl. And now," he added, rubbinghis eyes for the last time, and looking at himself in the glass, "saythat you do not think me too absolutely idiotic, and allow me to comeback and see you another time."
He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing him.As for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw that Iperceived it and turned away his head.
"Come," I said, "courage."
"Good-bye," he said.
And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed ratherthan went out of the room.
I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the cabrioletwhich awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he seated before heburst into tears and hid his face in his pocket-handkerchief.