AdhÉmar went to see Nathalie every day; during the day, he gave her all the time which his literary labors left at his disposal, and passed all his evenings with her. He often discussed with her his ideas, his plans for new plays; and sometimes read a scene to her, or a chapter of a new novel. He consulted her and profited by her advice. If MoliÈre consulted his maid-servant, is it not much more natural to consult one's mistress? There is this difference, however: Laforest, MoliÈre's servant, was proud and happy to be consulted by her master; whereas, out of twenty mistresses, there will be nineteen who will not listen to you when you talk literature to them, who will yawn when you read them a page that you have just written, or who will interrupt you at the most interesting point to say:

"What color do you prefer for a dress, my dear, green or blue? I myself think that blue is more becoming to me—what do you say?"

Thereupon you see that your efforts as a reader who desires to move his audience are thrown away; you put your manuscript in your pocket, and make up your mind never to talk with your fair one about anything but dresses and fashions, as she takes no interest in anything else. But there are exceptions; there are women who are willing to listen when you do not talk to them about themselves, and who are able to talk about something besides styles and love. Nathalie was one of these exceptions; that is why AdhÉmar was so happy in her company; that is why they suited each other so well.

So it was that the most perfect harmony reigned between the lovers, when, on arriving at Madame Dermont's one morning much earlier than usual, AdhÉmar was informed by the servant that her mistress was not at home.

"What! she has gone out before noon? To do some shopping, I suppose?"

"I don't know, monsieur; but madame will certainly return very soon, for whenever she goes out in the morning like this, she always comes home before noon."

"Whenever she goes out like this!" muttered AdhÉmar, his heart beginning already to sink. "So Madame Dermont often goes out in the morning?"

"Dame! monsieur, I can't say just how often; but she has been out several times lately."

AdhÉmar did not pursue his questioning any further. He threw himself into an armchair, thinking:

"I will wait for her; of course, she will tell me where she has been."

And he tried to banish the evil thoughts which were already besieging his mind. Less than five minutes had passed, when Nathalie appeared. She seemed a little surprised to find AdhÉmar there; but she went to him with outstretched hand, and said, smiling as usual:

"Good-morning, my dear!"

"Good-morning, madame!"

"Oho! what does that madame mean? Since when have I been madame to you? Is it because you didn't find me when you came, that you would call me madame?"

"Why, no—it was simply for a change."

"I don't like the change, myself! What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Have you been to walk?"

"Yes—that is to say, I have been to pay a visit."

"Oh! a visit. Would it be presumptuous in me to ask you to whom you pay visits—so early?"

"Why, yes, a little presumptuous, perhaps. However, as I see that you are frowning, and that you probably suspect me of treachery already——"

"Oh! upon my word!"

"No, you are incapable of it, aren't you?—Well, monsieur, I have been to see my poor friend Juliette. Are you satisfied?"

"Mon Dieu! I asked you—just for something to say."

"Yes, I understand—and to find out where I had been."

"Did you see your friend Juliette?"

"To be sure!"

"And you have been to see her often of late?"

"Why not? if I can comfort her or gratify her by listening to her confidences. If you were unhappy, wouldn't you be very glad to have a true friend come to see you and try to console you?"

"Oh! when I am unhappy, I keep it to myself, and don't go and tell other people about it."

"Women are not like men, my dear; when they have troubles—love troubles, especially—they love to pour out their hearts on a friend's breast."

"Yes, women are very fond of having secrets between themselves, of being mysterious with us."

"Oh, dear! there you go again, with your evil thoughts! Is it because I have been to see Juliette that you are so cross?"

"Cross? I am not cross!"

"As if I didn't know you! as if I couldn't read in your eyes! You promised me absolute confidence."

"It seems to me that I am proving my confidence in you at this moment."

"By making wry faces because you didn't find me when you came this morning! Come, my friend, let us reason a little; you should be logical: if I don't love you, what reason have I for pretending to, for feigning sentiments which I do not feel—for deceiving you, in a word? Come—answer me!"

Instead of answering, AdhÉmar rose and paced the floor, sat down at the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, began waltzes, polkas, and mazurkas; then ran to Nathalie and kissed her, saying:

"Forgive me, dear girl; I slept badly last night; I have a little headache; that is why you found me so sulky."

Nathalie pretended to believe him, and harmony was reËstablished, in appearance at least; for in the bottom of his heart AdhÉmar was tormented by doubt; he thought of those frequent goings-out in the morning, ostensibly to see Juliette, and said to himself:

"She used not to go out so often—or, if she did, she told me herself when she intended to go."

Several days passed; AdhÉmar constantly changed the hour of his visits; but Madame Dermont was always at home, and he began to feel a little more at ease. But, impelled by that jealousy which in him was the inevitable concomitant of genuine love, it happened more than once that, after he had left Nathalie, he prowled about the street a long while, or stood under a neighboring porte cochÈre, to see if she did not go out; but he had his trouble for his pains, to his great contentment.

One morning, about nine o'clock, it occurred to him to go and walk through the street where Madame Dermont lived.

"I won't go up to her rooms," he said to himself, "for she's not an early riser, and I might disturb her in her sleep; but I may see her servant come out, and I can give her the bouquet I am going to buy for her mistress. Nathalie will find it by her side when she wakes, and she'll surmise from whom it comes."

He dressed hurriedly, and bought a lovely bouquet on Passage Verdeau. Then he walked to Rue de Paradis-PoissonniÈre, to Madame Dermont's house, looked up at the windows, where all the curtains were still drawn, and strolled along the street, after looking at his watch: it was half-past nine. That was too early for a call on Nathalie, but he hoped that the servant would come out.

Ten minutes passed, and Madame Dermont's servant did not appear. AdhÉmar was tired of pacing the street with his flowers in his hand, and had almost concluded to go up, thinking that he could ring very softly, to avoid waking her, when he saw a cab coming rapidly toward him. It slackened its pace as it approached Madame Dermont's house. AdhÉmar, without pausing to weigh his reasons for so doing, stepped aside; something told him that he was interested in that cab, and he determined to see who alighted from it.

It stopped in front of Nathalie's door; a young woman alighted, paid the driver, and hurried into the house. But AdhÉmar had recognized her; he could not be mistaken; he had seen her features, he had recognized her dress, and the hat she wore when she went out in the morning: it was she, it was Nathalie! For an instant AdhÉmar thought of running after her and shouting:

"Where have you been?"

But he reflected that she might lie to him again; and a better plan occurred to him. The cab was still there, the driver preparing to return to his box. AdhÉmar opened the door, jumped in, and, taking ten francs from his pocket, placed them in the cabman's hand as he asked him where he wished to go.

The man was amazed at sight of the ten francs which his new passenger gave him even before hiring him.

"Oh! it's to be a long trip, eh? You want to go into the country, I take it, bourgeois?"

"The ten francs are to pay you for answering my questions briefly: a lady has just got out of your cab?"

"Yes, bourgeois; a pretty little lady—good style. I know what I'm talking about."

"Where did you take her from?"

"Where did I take her from? why, from here, bourgeois, about an hour and a quarter ago; it wasn't quite a half, but the little woman pays generous, without haggling."

"She took you by the hour, then, when she started?"

"Just so."

"Where did you go with her? Now, don't lie to me!"

"You pay too well for me to lie to you! Besides, there's no mystery about it; I took her to the Jardin des Plantes."

"To the Jardin des Plantes?"

"Yes, bourgeois; in front of the gate, on the water side. She got out there and told me to wait, and then she went into the garden."

"Alone?"

"Yes, yes, alone when she went in; but when she came out, after a quarter of an hour or more, she wasn't alone then."

"Who was with her?"

"A gentleman—a young man."

"A young man? What was he like—his dress—his features?"

"Oh! excuse me! but you don't suppose I took his photograph, do you? He was dressed, like everybody else, in a frock-coat. I thought he was rather a good-looking fellow. That's all I can tell you."

"And this man—this gentleman—this frock-coat—he came out with the lady, you say? Did she have his arm?"

"Oh! as to that, I can't say; I was on my box, and I didn't see them till they were close to my cab, and the young man helped the lady in."

"And got in with her?"

"No, no; he didn't get in—he said good-bye."

"How did he say it? Did he embrace her?—did he kiss her hand?"

"Oh! bless your heart! I was straightening out my reins, and I didn't see them embrace. The lady called out to me: 'Take me back to where you brought me from!'—The young man shut the door and went off—but, yes, I remember now that he said to her, as he went away: 'Thank you, thank you a thousand times for coming!'—Now, where'll you go, bourgeois?"

"To the Jardin des Plantes, to the same spot where that lady got out."

AdhÉmar's brain was on fire, his heart beat violently; he pressed his hands against his brow, saying to himself:

"It is absolutely certain now—she too deceives me—and she dared to tell me that she loved me! Ah! we don't deceive those whom we love! It is all over—yes, all over, this time! I won't see her again, for she would tell me another lie; she would invent some fable to make me believe that she is innocent! And perhaps I should be idiot enough to believe her. But, no, I do not propose to be her dupe again; I will see her no more. But that man with whom she makes assignations so early in the day—ah! if I could find out who he is, I would kill him! And yet, he is not the guilty one, for he loves her. But not as I loved her—oh, no!"

As he glanced about, AdhÉmar saw a handkerchief at his feet; he picked it up, examined it, and recognized Nathalie's monogram, which he had seen her embroidering with her own hands.

"She was so engrossed that she forgot it!" he muttered, twisting the handkerchief in his clenched hands. "A moment ago, she was here, on this seat, and she was thinking of another man!"

He could no longer control his grief; he sobbed bitterly, and the tears rushed from his eyes; but he felt a sort of pleasure in wiping them away with the handkerchief which belonged to her.

The cab stopped and the driver opened the door, saying:

"This is the very place where the little lady got out, bourgeois, and where I waited for her. There's the Jardin des Plantes."

AdhÉmar, absorbed by his reflections and memories, had no idea where he was or whither he was going. The cabman's words recalled him to himself. He jumped out of the cab and said to the man:

"You must come with me."

"Where to, bourgeois?"

"Into the Jardin des Plantes."

"Carriages ain't admitted; it's against the rules."

"I didn't say anything about your cab; I want only you. We will walk through the garden, and I want you to look closely at every man you see; and if you recognize the young man who escorted that lady back to your cab, you must point him out to me instantly."

The cabman began to laugh.

"My word! that's a good one, that is! You want me to go with you afoot, eh? And what will become of my cab and my horses in the meantime?"

"Mon Dieu! they won't fly away. Go and stand your cab over yonder where those others are."

"I can't do that, bourgeois; our orders is not to lose sight of our horses; I should be punished—discharged, perhaps."

AdhÉmar took ten more francs from his pocket and put them in the cabman's hand.

"Just a few times round the garden; while you're away, one of your comrades will look after your horses."

Money always produces its due effect; the cabman wavered, and at last replied:

"I'll go and ask JÉrÔme, who's over there, I believe, if he'll have an eye on my horses, and I'll share the ten francs with him—eh, bourgeois?"

"Yes, yes,—here, give him this five-franc piece; off with you!"

"Oh! JÉrÔme's a good fellow! he'll do it for me."

The driver ran to the cab stand, told his comrade what was wanted, and showed him the last five-franc piece he had received.

"We two will drink it up directly," he added.

JÉrÔme agreed; the cabman pocketed the hundred sous, and returned to AdhÉmar.

"It's all fixed," he said; "JÉrÔme will have an eye on my beasts."

"Come with me, then."

They entered the garden, the cab driver walking beside AdhÉmar, who said to him:

"Look carefully at all the men—the young men, I mean—and as soon as you see the one who was with that lady, say: 'There he is!'"

"All right, bourgeois; or, say I cough to warn you?"

"Very well."

There were few people in the garden. AdhÉmar walked rapidly, and his companion could hardly keep up with him.

"Sapristi!" he cried; "you travel faster than my horses!"

A young man passed them, and the cabman began to cough.

"Well!" exclaimed AdhÉmar, stopping abruptly.

"That's not the man, bourgeois."

"What in the devil did you cough for, then?"

"To let you know that he wasn't the one."

"You are not to cough unless you recognize him."

"Oh! all right! I understand!"

They went on again. They met a number of men, but the cabman made no sign; he simply said from time to time:

"If JÉrÔme should get a fare, who'd look after my cab?—By the way, monsieur," he said at last; "there's one thing perhaps I ought to tell you."

"What's that?"

"If the man you're looking for should pass us, I wouldn't know him. You see, I hardly looked at him, only just caught a glimpse of him, and I don't even know whether he was dark or light!"

AdhÉmar stamped impatiently, and, realizing that his search would necessarily be fruitless, decided to leave the garden. The cabman was overjoyed to find JÉrÔme still on the square.

"Where shall I take monsieur now?" he asked.

"Nowhere—thanks! I don't need you any longer."

In his then frame of mind, AdhÉmar preferred walking to riding; he craved air and exercise. He walked very rapidly, often without looking to see where he was going. However, he reached home in time, and had no sooner entered his study than he ran to his desk and seized his pen.

"I will write to her," he said to himself; "I cannot wait to tell her that I know of her treachery—and then everything will be at an end between us. I will try to forget her."

With a hand that trembled with excitement, although his thoughts caused it to move swiftly across the paper, he wrote Nathalie the following letter:

"MADAME:

"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen—seen with my own eyes—that you devote to another the hours that I am not with you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"