I questioned her about her sudden dejection which, as it worsened, alarmed me. She gave me no specific reason for it, and merely fell back on the excuses a woman falls back on when she does not want to give truthful answers.
When she was a little more herself again, I told her the outcome of my journey to town. I showed her my father's letter, and observed that some good might very well come of it.
When she saw the letter and heard my view of it, her tears began coming so fast that I called Nanine and, fearing some sort of nervous attack, we put her to bed. The poor girl wept without uttering a word, but she kept my hands clasped in hers and kissed them continually.
I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received a letter or a visit which could account for the state she was in, but Nanine replied that no one had come and nothing had been delivered.
And yet something had been going on since the previous evening which was all the more worrying because Marguerite was hiding it from me.
She seemed to be a little calmer during the evening and, motioning me to sit at the foot of her bed, she gave me lengthy, renewed assurances that she loved me. Then she smiled, though it was an effort for her to do so, for despite herself her eyes were masked with tears.
I used every means to make her reveal the real cause of her sorrows, but she stubbornly continued to give me the same vague excuses which I have already mentioned.
In the end, she fell asleep in my arms, but her sleep was the kind which wearies the body instead of giving it rest. From time to time, she would cry out, wake with a start and, after reassuring herself that I was really by her side, would make me swear I would love her always.
I could make nothing of these fits of distress which continues until morning. Then Marguerite lapsed into a sort of torpor. She had not slept now for two nights.
Her rest was short-lived.
About eleven o'clock, Marguerite woke and, seeing that I was up and about, looked around her and exclaimed:
'Are you going already?'
'No, ' I said, taking her hands in mine, 'but I wanted to let you sleep. It's still early.'
'What time are you going to Paris?'
'Four o'clock.'
'So soon? You'll stay with me till then, won't you?'
'Of course. Don't I always?'
'I'm so glad!'
Then she went on listlessly: 'Are we going to have lunch?'
'If you want.'
'And then you'll hold me right up to the moment you go?'
'Yes, and I'll come back as soon as I can.'
'Come back?' she said, staring wild- eyed at me.
'Of course.'
'That's right, you'll come back tonight and I'll be waiting for you, as usual, and you'll love me, and we'll be happy just as we've been since we met.'
These words were said so falteringly, and seemed to hide some painful notion that was so persistent, that I feared for her reason.
'Listen, ' I told her, 'you're ill, I can't leave you like this. I'll write to my father and say he's not to expect me.'
'No! no!' she exclaimed vehemently, 'you mustn't do that. Your father would only accuse me of preventing you from going to him when he wants to see you. No! no! you must go, you must! Besides, I'm not ill, I couldn't be better. I had a bad dream, that's all, I wasn't properly awake.'
From then on, Marguerite tried to appear more cheerful. There were no more tears.
When it was time for me to leave, I kissed her and asked her if she wanted to come with me as far as the station: I hoped that the ride would take her mind off things, and that the air might do her good.
But most of all, I wanted to remain with her as long as possible.
She agreed, put her cloak on and came with me, bringing Nanine so that she would not have to return alone.
A score of times I was on the point of not going. But the hope of returning soon and fear of further antagonizing my father kept my purpose firm, and the train bore me away.
'Until tonight, ' I said to Marguerite as I said goodbye.
She did not answer.
Once before she had not answered when I had said those selfsame words, and Count de G, as you will recall, had spent the night with her. But that time was so far off that it seemed to have been erased from my memory. If I had anything to fear, it was assuredly not that Marguerite was deceiving me.
When I reached Paris, I hurried round to Prudence's to ask her to go down and see Marguerite. I hoped that her zest and good spirits would cheer her up.
I entered without waiting to be announced, and found Prudence getting dressed.
'Ah!' she said anxiously, 'is Marguerite with you?'
'No.'
'How is she?'
'She's not well.'
'So she's not coming?'
'Was she supposed to?'
Madame Duvernoy reddened and, somewhat embarrassed, answered:
'What I meant was, now you've come to Paris, isn't she going to come and join you?'
'No.'
I stared at Prudence. She lowered her eyes, and from the way she looked, I had the feeling that she was afraid of seeing me stay much longer.
'As a matter of fact, my dear Prudence, I came to ask you, if you've nothing else to do, to go down and see Marguerite this evening. You could keep her company and stay the night. I've never seen her the way she was today, and I'm terrified she's going to be ill.'
'I'm dining in town, ' Prudence replied, 'and I can't see Marguerite this evening. But I will tomorrow.'
I said goodbye to Madame Duvernoy, who seemed to me as though she was almost as preoccupied as Marguerite, and went to call on my father who, from the start, gave me studied, searching looks.
He held out his hand.
'You called twice to see me. That pleases me, Armand, ' he said. 'It's given me hope that you've reflected on your position, as I have on mine.'
'May I ask, father, what the outcome of your reflections has been?'
'The outcome, my boy, is that I realize I attached too much importance to the reports I was given, and I have made up my mind not to be quite so hard on you.'
'Do you mean it, father!' I exclaimed, overjoyed.
'What I mean, my dear boy, is that a young man needs a mistress and, after further enquiries, I would prefer to know that you were the lover of Mademoiselle Gautier than of some other woman.'
'Oh, thank you, father! You've made me so happy!'
We talked in this vein for a short while, and then sat down to dine. My father remained most affable throughout the meal.
I was very anxious to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite all about this auspicious development. I glanced continually at the clock.
'You've got your eye on the time, ' said my father, 'you can't wait to get away. Oh, you young people! always sacrificing genuine feelings for suspect attachments!'
'Don't say that, father! Marguerite loves me. I know she does.'
My father did not answer. His manner suggested that he neither believed nor disbelieved me.
He was very insistent that I should spend the entire evening with him so that I would not have to set off again until the following day. But I had left Marguerite feeling ill, said so, and asked his leave to go and join her soon, promising to return the following day.
It was a fine evening. He decided he would accompany me on to the platform. I had never been so happy. The future looked exactly as I had wanted it to look for so long.
I loved my father more than I had ever loved him.
As I was on the point of taking my leave, he pressed me one last time to stay. I refused.
'So you really love her?' he asked.
'To distraction.'
'In that case, go!' and he put his hand to his brow as though to drive a thought away, and then opened his mouth as if to tell me something. But he simply shook my hand and turned away abruptly, shouting after me:
'I shall see you tomorrow, then!'
Chapter 22
I FELT that the train was hardly moving.
I reached Bougival at eleven.
Not one window in the house was lit. I rang, but no one answered.
It was the first time anything like this had happened. At length, the gardener appeared I entered the house.
Nanine met me with a light. I reached Marguerite's room.
'Where is your mistress?'
'Madame has gone to Paris, ' Nanine answered.
'Paris!'
'Yes, sir.'
'When?'
'An hour after you.'
'Did she leave anything for you to give me?'
'Nothing.'
Nanine left me.
'It's quite likely she was afraid, ' I thought, 'and went to Paris to see for herself whether the visit I'd said I was going to make to my father's wasn't just an excuse for having a day away from her.
'Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something important, ' I said to myself when I was alone. 'But I saw Prudence as soon as I got there, and she didn't say anything to make me suppose that she'd written to Marguerite.'
Suddenly, I recalled the question Madame Duvernoy had asked me: 'So she's not coming today?' when I had told her Marguerite was ill. Simultaneously, I remembered Prudence's embarrassed reaction when I'd stared at her after hearing her words, which had seemed to hint at a secret rendezvous. To this was added my recollection of the tears Marguerite had wept all that day which had been pushed into the back of my mind by my father's warm welcome.
From this moment on, all of the day's events began to congregate around my original suspicion and rooted it so firmly in my thoughts that everything seemed to confirm it, even my father's leniency.
Marguerite had virtually insisted that I should go to Paris. She had pretended to be calm when I suggested I should stay by her side. Had I fallen into a trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on getting back in sufficiently good time for me to remain unaware of her absence, and had some chance occurrence detained her? Why had she not said anything to Nanine, or why had she not left me a note? What was the meaning of the tears, her absence, this whole mystery?
Such were the questions which, with some trepidation, I put to myself as I stood in that empty bedroom, with my eyes fixed on the clock which, striking midnight, seemed to be telling me that it was too late now for me to hope to see my mistress return.
And yet, after the plans we had made, after the sacrifice which had been offered and accepted, was it likely she should be unfaithful? No. I made a conscious effort to dismiss my initial assumptions.
'The poor girl has probably found a buyer for her furniture and has gone to Paris to finalize the details. She didn't want to tell me beforehand because she knows that, though I may have agreed to her selling everything, for our future happiness depends on it, I don't like the idea at all. She was afraid she'd wound my pride and my scruples if she mentioned it. She'd much prefer to turn up again when everything is settled. It's obvious that Prudence was expecting her in connection with all this, and she gave herself away to me. Marguerite won't have been able to conclude her business today and is spending the night in her apartment, or perhaps she'll be here any minute, for she must have some idea of how anxious I am and certainly won't want to leave me to worry.
'But if that's the way of it, why the tears? She loves me of course, but I expect the poor girl couldn't help crying at the thought of giving up the luxury she's lived in up to now, for it made her happy and envied.'
I readily forgave Marguerite her regrets. I waited impatiently for her to come so that I could tell her, as I smothered her in kisses, that I had guessed the reason for her mysterious absence.
But the night wore on and still Marguerite did not come.
Imperceptibly, my anxiety tightened its hold, and gripped both my mind and my heart. Perhaps something had happened to her! Perhaps she was lying injured or ill or dead! Perhaps I would see a messenger arrive with news of some terrible accident! Perhaps the new day would find me still plunged in the same uncertainties, the same fears!
The thought that Marguerite was being unfaithful to me even as I waited in the midst of the terrors unleashed by her absence, no longer entered my head. There had to be some good reason, independent of her will, to keep her far from me, and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that this reason could only be some misfortune or other. Oh, the pride of man assumes protean shapes!
It had just struck one. I told myself I would wait another hour and then, if Marguerite were not back by two o'clock, I would leave for Paris.
To while away the time, I looked for a book, for I dared not let myself think.
Manon Lescaut lay open on the table. It appeared to me that here and there the pages were damp, as though tears had been shed over them. After skimming through the volume, I closed it: the print made no sense through the veil of my doubts.
Time passed slowly. The sky was overcast. Autumn rain lashed the windows. At times, the empty bed seemed, I thought, to resemble a grave. I felt afraid.
I opened the door. I listened, but heard nothing save the sound of the wind in the trees. No carriage rattled by on the road outside. Half past struck lugubriously from the church tower.
I had reached the point where I was afraid that someone would come. I felt that only misfortune would come seeking me out at such an hour and in such dismal weather.
It struck two. I waited a little longer. Only the regular, rhythmic ticking of the clock disturbed the silence.
At length, I left the room. Even the most trivial object in it had assumed that air of gloom which an anxious and lonely heart lends to everything around it.
In the next room, I found Nanine asleep over her needle work. The creaking of the door woke her, and she asked me if her mistress had returned.
'No, but if she does, you will say that I couldn't stand the worry and that I've gone to Paris.'
'At this time of night?'
'Yes.'
'But how will you get there? You won't find a carriage now.'
