On the day following that night which was to change my destiny, I wrote to Pettermann to come to Saint-MandÉ to receive some commissions to which I wished him to attend. My faithful German speedily appeared; but he seemed to me to act with some constraint, and when he stood in front of me he did not speak.

“Well, Pettermann, what is there new?” I asked him. “I can see that you have something to tell me; why don’t you speak?”

“Yes, monsieur, yes, I have something to tell you, but I don’t know how to put it.”

“Explain yourself!”

“You see, I’m afraid that you’ll think I’m an idiot; when I say one thing and do another.—Faith, prout!—but never mind! Monsieur knows well enough that men are not phoenixes! Here goes! Monsieur knows that I am married?”

“Yes.”

“And that I left my wife because we didn’t agree. She beat me and didn’t want me to drink; I wanted to drink and not to be beaten.”

“Well, Pettermann?”

“Well, monsieur, a few days ago I met my wife, and she spoke to me; she was as sweet as honey—in short, we melted toward each other. She asked me if I still got drunk; I told her that it only happened once a month; she said: ‘Nobody can find fault with once a month.’—In short, monsieur—you see—I’ve promised to take my wife back. But what makes me miserable is that then I shall have to leave you; and I’m afraid monsieur is angry with me too.”

“No, Pettermann, no; take back your wife. Far from reproaching you, I approve your resolution. What is your wife doing now?”

“She’s a concierge, monsieur, in a fine house within ten yards of the one where we live.”

“Well! it is possible that you may remain with me.”

“Ah! ten thousand prouts! how I should like that!”

“Is there a pleasant apartment to let in your wife’s house?”

“Two magnificent ones—partly decorated; one on the second, one on the third; with wood-shed and cellar; plenty of mirrors. I know everything there is in the house.”

“Hire the apartment on the second floor for me. Is it empty now?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You will have my furniture moved there. Go to my upholsterer—here is his address. He will look over the apartment and do whatever he considers necessary, so that there may be nothing lacking. Everything must be finished and all ready for our reception in four days at the latest; for then—I am going to tell you something in confidence, Pettermann—then I am going to take back my wife too.”

“Your wife? Why, is monsieur married?”

“Yes, my friend; and like you, I have not always agreed with my wife, although the causes of disagreement were not at all the same.”

“Oh! I imagine not.”

“But to-day I realize that I have done wrong, and I hope to find happiness once more with my wife and my children.”

“Faith! it pleases me to know that, monsieur. As monsieur does the same thing that I do, my mind is at rest. And I shall still be in monsieur’s service?”

“Yes, my friend. You understand me, do you not? See that everything is ready in four days.”

“It shall be ready.”

“But until then not a word—no indiscretion!”

“I am as dumb as a dead man.”

Pettermann returned to Paris.

I felt more content with myself, better satisfied; and yet—I may confess it to myself—I had no love for EugÉnie—no. But perhaps it was for the very reason that I had no love for her that it was possible for me to return to her. I saw in her the mother of my children, and I did not wish to condemn her to never-ending misery. We should never be to each other as we had been—that was impossible. I would treat her with consideration and affection, and time would do the rest. I should have to cease entirely to see Caroline. Ah! that was not the least of the sacrifices I should have made to my children. But, since everything was decided, since my resolution was irrevocable, I determined to go to see her on the next day for the last time, and to tell her that I was going back to my wife. She would think that I was influenced by her advice, her entreaties; I would not undeceive her.

I returned to the salon where all the others were assembled. I determined to forget myself, to be cheerful and merry. I played with the children, I kissed Madame Ernest, and I laughed with her husband.

“What’s the matter with him to-day?” Ernest and his wife asked each other; “how happy he seems!”

“I am happy.”

“What has happened to make you so cheerful?”

“I have had news that pleased me.”

“From whom?”

“Oh! you shall know later.”

The husband and wife exchanged glances; but I felt sure that they did not guess my purpose, and I continued at once:

“What is going on to-day? I feel strongly inclined to amuse myself.”

“Why, we might go to the ball,” said Ernest; “to-day is the last Saint-MandÉ ball, and they say that it will be very fine.”

“I haven’t been to one of them since I have been living here; I should not be sorry to see it. We will go. Do you agree?”

“Oh! I don’t go to balls,” said Marguerite; “I don’t care for them; I prefer to stay with the children. You two may go. But don’t speak to any women; for there are women at all these balls in the suburbs of Paris.”

We promised to be good; and immediately after dinner Ernest and I started for the place where the local balls were held. As the weather was superb, there were in addition to the people from Saint-MandÉ and from Vincennes, many Parisians, who desired to enjoy one more rural festivity. Numerous carriages were standing on the outskirts of the crowd.

“The deuce! this will be magnificent!” said Ernest. “I’ll bet that we shall find more than one actress here; the princesses of the wings delight in open air balls.”

“You know that you promised your wife to be good.”

“Oh! my friend, we always promise, and we keep our promise if we can!—Come, my dear BlÉmont, the music is striking up.”

In fact, the dancing had begun. There was a great crowd; many pretty dresses, some peasants, a few bourgeoises, and a large number of kept women. It is the same at all open air balls.

We had not walked ten steps when I heard my name called; I turned and saw BÉlan, with his wife and his mother-in-law on his arm, apparently very proud to escort his superb Armide. He honored me with a gracious nod; then, after finding seats for the ladies, he came to me and led me away from the dancing.

“Well, my dear BlÉmont, as you see, everything is arranged and I have returned to the fold. I was a lost lamb, as my mother-in-law says; but everything is forgotten and I have once more become reconciled with my wife.”

“That is what I supposed when I saw you just now. But I confess that it rather surprised me. After taking your affairs into court, after having your name published in the newspapers——”

“What difference does that make? What do the newspapers prove? Besides, as the court decided that I was mistaken, that I wasn’t a cuckold, I can’t claim to know more than the judges.”

“If I remember aright, you talked in a very different tone at Mont-d’Or; you proposed to appeal from the judgment against you.”

“Do you think that I said that? It’s possible. It is true that I was excited then—anger, you know, and jealousy—a man often says foolish things. I am more reasonable now. On my return from Mont-d’Or her relations came to me; they told me that Armide was inclined to forgive me. At that, I said: ‘Let us forget all our disagreements.’—All my friends tell me that I have done well to take back my wife.”

“I am far from blaming you; but if I had been in your place, I would have made less noise about it.”

“Oh! I like to make a noise—to make people talk about me. As soon as I go anywhere nowadays, I hear people whispering when they look at me. They say: ‘That’s Monsieur Ferdinand BÉlan,’ as they might say: ‘That is Voltaire, or Frederick the Great.’ I confess it doesn’t displease me. But au revoir, my dear fellow; the ladies await me, and I like dancing with Armide.”

I had no desire to detain BÉlan. What a strange man! And yet not so strange after all; we meet with such characters not infrequently. But I did not enjoy his society at all.—He had caused me to lose sight of Ernest, and I set out to find him again.

I returned to the place where they were dancing. Ernest was performing with a lady from Saint-MandÉ. As I did not care to dance, I was looking about for a seat, when my eyes met those of a young woman who beckoned to me. It was Caroline, sitting with her uncle, and she offered me a chair beside her. I hesitated, for before long I must cease to enjoy her society; but that would be the last time before bidding her adieu forever. To refuse would have been discourteous. So I stepped forward and took the proffered seat by her side.

“It took you a long while to decide,” she said with a smile, “although we are not alone here.”

I made no reply; I dared not even look at her; for I found her eyes very dangerous since coquetry had ceased to shine in them. Luckily her uncle put an end to my embarrassment.

“You do not dance, Monsieur Dalbreuse?”

“No, monsieur; I don’t care for dancing now.”

“I used to be very fond of it myself; in fact, I was a very good dancer. I remember that, in Amphitryon, when I played Sosie—A very nice rÔle, that of Sosie! Dugazon made me rehearse it very carefully.—You know the famous scene of the lantern. Dugazon used to leap over the lantern and cut all sorts of capers; but I proposed to do differently. I placed the lantern—look, like this chair, at about this distance. Then I ran forward, making a pirouette as I ran, and I executed a very neat entrechat as I landed on the other side. It was very difficult. Look—I’ll just turn the chair over so that I can show you better.”

“What, uncle! are you going to jump over chairs now?”

“No, my dear, no, I don’t intend to jump; but I was explaining to Monsieur Dalbreuse what I did as Sosie; and I flatter myself that no actor at the FranÇais ever jumped higher than I did.”

Luckily for Monsieur Roquencourt, one of his Saint-MandÉ neighbors came to bid him good-evening, and seated himself in the chair that he was about to take. That saved Monsieur Roquencourt the trouble of showing me how he jumped, and he entered into conversation with the newcomer.

“You are not dancing?” I said to Caroline.

“Oh, no! I shouldn’t care to dance here, except with somebody whom I know very well. Besides, I am like you, I no longer care for dancing. I don’t intend to go to any balls this winter—or into society at all. All the things that I used to enjoy so much bore me terribly now. I shall stay at home—alone—with my thoughts. To be able to think at one’s leisure is such a great satisfaction sometimes!”

She looked at me, then we both lowered our eyes and relapsed into silence. Meanwhile Monsieur Roquencourt was almost quarrelling with his neighbor.

“I tell you, monsieur, that Dugazon never played Moncade in L’École des Bourgeois!”

“I beg your pardon, but I saw him.”

“You are mistaken—it was Fleury.”

“No, it was Dugazon.”

“But it is impossible; the part wasn’t in his line. It is as if you should say that you had seen me play Hamlet or Œdipe; it is absolutely the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you have played, but I saw Dugazon play the Marquis de Moncade.”

“Oh! that is enough to make a man jump to the ceiling!”

But the little uncle could not jump to the ceiling, as we were under the trees; so he contented himself with falling backward with his chair; which made me afraid that he proposed to play Sosie again. Caroline and I could not help smiling. That diverted our thoughts for a moment. Suddenly Mademoiselle Derbin, who was watching the dancing again, said to her uncle:

“Ah! there is my lace-mender; how finely she is arrayed! She hasn’t a bad style; really one would think that she was a lady of fashion. Look, Monsieur Dalbreuse—that woman in a lilac hat is she.”

I looked at the person she pointed out to me, and I felt a shock of terror, as if I had seen a serpent.

It was Lucile—Lucile, whom I had not seen since the fatal day. Her presence seemed to revive all the agony that I had felt then. I cannot describe the pain that the sight of her caused me.

My features must have expressed very clearly what I felt, for Caroline instantly said to me:

“Mon Dieu! what is the matter? You must know that woman.”

“Yes, I—that is to say, long ago, but not now.”

“What did she ever do to you that the sight of her should upset you to this extent?”

“Nothing; but for some unknown reason, when I looked at her, I remembered—Sometimes one cannot account for one’s sensations.”

At that moment the quadrille came to an end. Lucile and her partner came in our direction. Great heaven! she sat down a few feet away; she saw me and gazed fixedly at me. I could not endure that woman’s presence, her eyes; I rose abruptly, forced my way through the throng, left the ball, and did not stop until I reached a place where I was alone.

So I was destined never to be happy, never to lose the memory of my sufferings! When I had decided to forgive EugÉnie, to give my children a mother, the sight of that Lucile must needs recall everything that I wanted to forget. How she stared at me! She seemed to enjoy the torture, the shame that her presence caused me. Malice gleamed in her eyes.—Ah! I had hoped that I never should see Lucile again!

I threw myself down on the turf and tried to be calm. After all, my chance meeting with that woman would make no change in my plans. I would learn to control myself better in the future; but I would travel a hundred leagues, if necessary, to avoid meeting Lucile.

I lay in that spot nearly half an hour. At last, feeling more tranquil, I rose; but I could not decide whether I would return to the ball. Ernest was waiting for me, no doubt. I walked a few steps, then stopped, for I did not want to see Lucile again. While I was hesitating, a woman came toward me from the direction of the dance. She was almost running. I waited anxiously.—Ah! it was Caroline.

She joined me and hung upon my arm, saying:

“I have found you at last! I have been looking for you everywhere.—Oh! how glad I am! But come—let us go into the woods, so that I may speak out to you at last. I have so many things to say to you! I told my uncle not to be worried, that you would bring me home.”

I listened to Caroline in amazement; some extraordinary change seemed to have taken place in her; she was not at all the same person whom I had left a short time before. She took my arm and pressed it gently; she seemed intensely agitated, but it was evidently with joy.

We went into the woods, and Caroline said, gazing affectionately into my face:

“I must seem very mad, very reckless to you, my friend, but you have no idea of all that I have just gone through! Within a few moments, my destiny, my future has changed. Now I can be happy. I loved you—you know it, for I have not been able to conceal my feeling for you. Without telling each other so, we understood each other perfectly.—But that love was a crime; at least I thought so. I blamed myself for it; I tried to avoid you, to forget you.—Mon Dieu! how unhappy I was!—But now I know the whole truth; I know that I am at liberty to love you.”

“What? what do you mean?”

“That I know all.—Oh! forgive me for questioning that woman, but I could not resist my curiosity. Your confusion at the sight of her seemed so strange!”

“That woman! Have you talked with Lucile?”

“Yes, and I know now that, far from being guilty toward your wife, you were shamefully deceived by her.”

“Oh! hush! hush!”

“Never again, I give you my word, will I remind you of a thing that has caused you such pain. Now I can understand why you would not go back to her—why you fled from her. I blamed you; I thought that I was an obstacle to your reconciliation, and that is why I tried to go away from you. But, since things are as they are, why should I doom myself to everlasting misery? why should I not abandon myself to the sentiment which you have inspired in me?”

“What are you saying, Caroline? If my wife were guilty, am I the more free for that?”

“Free? no, I am well aware that I cannot be your wife. But what do I care for that title? it is your love alone that I want; as you know, I worry very little about the world and the proprieties. I am my own mistress; why should I not dare to love you? Because you are bound to somebody who has made your life wretched, must you drag out your whole existence in bitterness and solitude?—No! on the contrary, I propose, by my love, to make you forget your sorrows. It will be so sweet to me to be your only friend—to have all your thoughts, every moment of your life!—But you do not answer? Great God! have I made a mistake? Can it be that you do not love me? Oh! then there is nothing left in life for me—I can only die!—Henri! Henri!—He does not answer!”

She had placed her head on my breast. I cannot describe what took place within me. How could I spurn, how fly from a woman whom I loved? I had not the strength. I raised that lovely head. As I sought to comfort her, my face touched hers; our cheeks were burning, our lips met. We forgot the whole world, we existed only for each other.

I do not know how long we stayed there on that turf, the scene of our transports. I was happy, and yet something oppressed and saddened me. I was afraid to reflect. Caroline had thrown her arms about my neck; she was engrossed by her love. I looked about and listened; there was no sound to be heard.

“It is very late. I think that I must go home,” said Caroline; “you will go with me, won’t you, dear?”

“Of course.”

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know; but I should think that we were not far from Ernest’s garden. Yes—that wall——”

“True—and I think that I see a summer-house too.”

“A summer-house? Oh! let us go at once.”

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you, dear?—However, I shall see you every day now.”

“Yes, I will see you to-morrow—I will talk with you.”

“How strangely you say that! What is the matter?”

“Nothing. But come—let us go away from here.”

Caroline put her arm about me; mine was about her waist, and in that position we walked away from the spot that had heard our oaths. It was very dark, we had not taken ten steps when our feet tripped over something. Caroline stooped and exclaimed with a shriek of terror:

“O my God! it is a woman, my dear!”

“A woman!”

I shuddered from head to foot; I hardly dared to lower my eyes to examine the woman who lay at our feet.

“She seems to be dead!” cried Caroline.

“Dead! Ah! if it were——”

I fell on my knees, I raised the unfortunate creature’s head, I put aside the leaves that shut out what light there was in the sky. A low groan escaped from my breast. I was utterly overwhelmed. It was EugÉnie, it was my wife, who lay inanimate before me.

Caroline had heard me murmur EugÉnie’s name, and she too recognized the unhappy woman; thereupon she fell on her knees beside her and abandoned herself to despair, for she guessed that it was she who had caused her death. For my part, I could neither speak nor act. I was dumb, turned to stone, before that shocking spectacle. Suddenly Caroline cried:

“Ah! her heart is still beating! She is not dead!”

Those words revived me. I stooped and took EugÉnie in my arms, while Caroline held the branches aside. But where could I find help so late? Ernest’s garden was the nearest place. I went to the little gate; it was open and we entered. There was a light in the summer-house, the door of which also was open. It was plain that she had gone out in haste. We went inside and I laid EugÉnie on the bed. Caroline looked about and brought me water and salts; then she ran to the house, to summon help.

I was left alone with EugÉnie; I poured water on her forehead and temples, while I tried to warm her ice-cold hands with mine. At last she moved; she opened her eyes, recognized me, and, taking my hand, put it to her mouth, murmuring:

“Ah! I am happy once more! You are with me!”

“EugÉnie, return to life and happiness. I have forgiven you! I had made up my mind to restore a mother to her children.”

“Is it possible? But no; it is better that I should die. You love another; I heard you. I was here, your voice reached my ears; I hurried out into the forest, and I saw you in her arms. That killed me. And yet I deserved this punishment.—I pray that Caroline may make you happier than I have done!—Tell me again that you forgive me, that you will love your son—-”

“EugÉnie!—Great God! She is fainting again—and no one comes!”

Ernest and Marguerite rushed into the summer-house and ran to the bed. EugÉnie opened her eyes again and held out her hand to me, murmuring:

“I have not seen my children.”

Marguerite started to go out, but EugÉnie motioned to her to stop.

“No,” she faltered, “they are asleep, don’t wake them.”

Then she too fell asleep, but never to wake again.