“Can I live without you?”
He tried to calm her emotion. She laid her two hands on his shoulders in order to get a better view of his face, and fixing her green eyes on his with an almost fierce tearfulness:
“Will you be my husband?”
“But,” Frederick began, casting about in his inner consciousness for a reply. “Of course, I ask for nothing better.”
At that moment M. Roque’s cap appeared behind a lilac-tree.
He brought his young friend on a trip through the district in order to show off his property; and when Frederick returned, after two days’ absence, he found three letters awaiting him at his mother’s house.
The first was a note from M. Dambreuse, containing an invitation to dinner for the previous Tuesday. What was the occasion of this politeness? So, then, they had forgiven his prank.
The second was from Rosanette. She thanked him for having risked his life on her behalf. Frederick did not at first understand what she meant; finally, after a considerable amount of circumlocution, while appealing to his friendship, relying on his delicacy, as she put it, and going on her knees to him on account of the pressing necessity of the case, as she wanted bread, she asked him for a loan of five hundred francs. He at once made up his mind to supply her with the amount.
The third letter, which was from Deslauriers, spoke of the letter of attorney, and was long and obscure. The advocate had not yet taken any definite action. He urged his friend not to disturb himself: “ ’Tis useless for you to come back!” even laying singular stress on this point.
Frederick got lost in conjectures of every sort; and he felt anxious to return to Paris. This assumption of a right to control his conduct excited in him a feeling of revolt.
Moreover, he began to experience that nostalgia of the boulevard; and then, his mother was pressing him so much, M. Roque kept revolving about him so constantly, and Mademoiselle Louise was so much attached to him, that it was no longer possible for him to avoid speedily declaring his intentions.
He wanted to think, and he would be better able to form a right estimate of things at a distance.
In order to assign a motive for his journey, Frederick invented a story; and he left home, telling everyone, and himself believing, that he would soon return.
XIII
Rosanette as a Lovely Turk
His return to Paris gave him no pleasure. It was an evening at the close of August. The boulevards seemed empty. The passersby succeeded each other with scowling faces. Here and there a boiler of asphalt was smoking; several houses had their blinds entirely drawn. He made his way to his own residence in the city. He found the hangings covered with dust; and, while dining all alone, Frederick was seized with a strange feeling of forlornness; then his thoughts reverted to Mademoiselle Roque. The idea of being married no longer appeared to him preposterous. They might travel; they might go to Italy, to the East. And he saw her standing on a hillock, or gazing at a landscape, or else leaning on his arm in a Florentine gallery while she stood to look at the pictures. What a pleasure it would be to him merely to watch this good little creature expanding under the splendours of Art and Nature! When she had got free from the commonplace atmosphere in which she had lived, she would, in a little while, become a charming companion. M. Roque’s wealth, moreover, tempted him. And yet he shrank from taking this step, regarding it as a weakness, a degradation.
But he was firmly resolved (whatever he might do) on changing his mode of life—that is to say, to lose his heart no more in fruitless passions; and he even hesitated about executing the commission with which he had been entrusted by Louise. This was to buy for her at Jacques Arnoux’s establishment two large-sized statues of many colours representing negroes, like those which were at the Prefecture at Troyes. She knew the manufacturer’s number, and would not have any other. Frederick was afraid that, if he went back to their house, he might once again fall a victim to his old passion.
These reflections occupied his mind during the entire evening; and he was just about to go to bed when a woman presented herself.
“ ’Tis I,” said Mademoiselle Vatnaz, with a laugh. “I have come in behalf of Rosanette.”
So, then, they were reconciled?
“Good heavens, yes! I am not ill-natured, as you are well aware. And besides, the poor girl—it would take too long to tell you all about it.”
In short, the Maréchale wanted to see him; she was waiting for an answer, her letter having travelled from Paris to Nogent. Mademoiselle Vatnaz did not know what was in it.
Then Frederick asked her how the Maréchale was going on.
He was informed that she was now with a very rich man, a Russian, Prince Tzernoukoff, who had seen her at the races in the Champ de Mars last summer.
“He has three carriages, a saddle-horse, livery servants, a groom got up in the English fashion, a country-house, a box at the Italian opera, and a heap of other things. There you are, my dear friend!”
And the Vatnaz, as if she had profited by this change of fortune, appeared gayer and happier. She took off her gloves and examined the furniture and the objects of virtu in the room. She mentioned their exact prices like a secondhand dealer. He ought to have consulted her in order to get them cheaper. Then she congratulated him on his good taste:
“Ha! this is pretty, exceedingly nice! There’s nobody like you for these ideas.”
The next moment, as her eyes fell on a door close to the pillar of the alcove:
“That’s the way you let your friends out, eh?”
And, in a familiar
