Part 14 (1/2)
”No, monsieur, I propose to talk. We are not so poor now as we were.
See, look at my mantel, see those two cups and the porcelain sugar bowl!
That box is to put the money in for the week's expenses. When there's anything over, I put it in a Christmas box. Oh! we are very happy now!”
Poor child! how little she needed to esteem herself rich! So many people would have considered that chamber a wretched place still. I congratulated her and admired everything that she showed me. I complimented Ernest on the success of his play. I shared their happiness most sincerely; it made me happier to see how happy they were. I remained with them for more than an hour, talking of Eugenie and of our love. They told me of their little plans for the future, of the hopes in which they indulged,--very modest hopes, which proved that, being engrossed by their love, they knew neither ambition nor vanity.
I had not begun to think of retiring, and I believe that we should have pa.s.sed the whole night talking thus; but suddenly we heard a loud noise on the roof, and broken gla.s.s falling on the leads and into the yard. I was startled at first; but I soon recovered myself and began to laugh as I glanced at Ernest and Marguerite, who did the same. It was Monsieur Pettermann breaking into his room.
VII
THE PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS
I went every day to see Eugenie, for I did not see why I should continue to conceal my love. She loved me, she knew that I adored her; was it possible that her mother was not also aware of our sentiments? I had never dreamed of making Eugenie my mistress. My only desire and hope was for an enduring happiness. Eugenie should be my wife. I was sure of her consent, but it would be necessary to have her mother's as well.
I believe that that good woman had divined my sentiments long before; parents are not always deceived by our little stratagems, by our affectation of coldness and ceremony; but when they pretend not to see, it means that they secretly approve our inclinations. Madame Dumeillan saw that I went there every day, and one does not go every day to a house where there is a pretty woman, unless there is love underneath.
Eugenie pouted when I was late, and scolded me when I suggested going away; her mother heard it all and simply smiled. I saw that our love was no longer a secret to anyone.
Eugenie no longer called me Monsieur Blemont; she called me Monsieur Henri, and Henri simply, when we were alone. How pleasant it is to hear the woman we love call us for the first time by our Christian name, without that depressing _monsieur_! From that moment a stronger bond united us, a more tender intimacy existed between us. Eugenie could love as dearly as I; I read all her thoughts in her eyes; she no longer tried to conceal from me what she felt. I had found the woman that I desired: beauty, charm, wit and virtue. Yes, virtue; for Eugenie was kind, easily moved, and submissive and affectionate to her mother; I never heard her utter a murmur about complying with her slightest wish. I had judged her to be very coquettish, but I was mistaken; she loved the amus.e.m.e.nts of her age, she abandoned herself to them frankly and without reserve; but that is not coquetry. She laughed with those who tried to please her, but she gave false hopes to none of them. Now, when at her mother's receptions, young men came to pay court to her and to make complimentary speeches, she no longer laughed; their flattering words bored her; her eyes sought me and followed me incessantly; and when she could escape from the crowd, she would come to me and whisper:
”Henri, I no longer enjoy society; I like it much better when you alone come to see us.”
Perhaps Eugenie was a trifle too susceptible; she yielded too readily to first impressions. I found that she would sometimes take offence and sulk for several days on account of a remark misunderstood, or a perfectly innocent act; but I was sure that that trifling defect would disappear with time and experience. I believed also that Eugenie would be jealous, yes, very jealous; she changed color and was evidently disturbed when I happened to talk a long time with the same lady. But, far from blaming her for that sentiment, I was secretly overjoyed by it; that jealousy was a new proof of the love that I inspired in her. I should have been very sorry to have her indifferent when I was talking with a pretty woman; for then I should have thought that she cared but little for me. Moreover, I had not hoped to find a perfect mortal; they say that such do not exist. And if there were such a thing as a perfect woman, I should not care to marry her; I think that a man would be bored with her.
Eugenie agreed to teach me music; she declared that I had a sweet voice and that I sang with taste; we began our lessons at once. I did not make rapid progress, but as we enjoyed the lessons, and as they gave me an opportunity to be with Eugenie, to tell her again and again that I adored her, she gave them to me often, and I could not help becoming a musician. In my turn, I was to teach her painting; she had some idea of drawing and earnestly desired to be able to use a brush; and I had no doubt in a short time she would do honor to her master.
Every day increased my love for Eugenie, and every day I obtained new proofs of her attachment to me. Those delightful hours which I pa.s.sed with her, but always in her mother's presence, made me long for a still greater happiness. Why should I delay to settle my fate? Eugenie, I felt sure, would accept joyfully the t.i.tle of my wife.
Thus far I had spoken to her of love only, not of marriage. But what need had I to utter that word? And could Eugenie mention it to me? A well-bred young lady doesn't ask the man who is making love to her if he proposes to marry her, for she cannot a.s.sume that he has any other purpose. She who asks such a question always places herself in an unfavorable position; it is as if she said: ”I will love you when I am sure that you will marry me.” A wretched sort of love that, which one can order or countermand at will!
One day I went to Madame Dumeillan's. It was about noon. By an extraordinary chance Eugenie was alone; her mother had gone to pay a visit, and Eugenie had succeeded in excusing herself from accompanying her; she hoped that I would come. She told me so with that charming smile which transported me and filled me with rapture; she gave me her hand, which I pressed ecstatically; then I seated myself beside her, very close, as close as I possibly could. I talked to her of my love; I told her--as I had told her a hundred times before--that I was happy only with her. But one is never weary of listening to protestations of a pa.s.sion which one shares; when such a.s.surances tire us, it means that our hearts are beginning to change.
As I talked with Eugenie, I pa.s.sed my arm about her waist for the first time, and I drew her lovingly toward me; but she gently extricated herself and rose, saying:
”Come, monsieur, come to the piano, you must take a lesson this morning.”
I felt incapable of looking calmly at the notes; I detained Eugenie by the hand.
”Let us continue to talk, please! We have plenty of time for the piano.”
”We can talk while we practise.”
”It would be impossible for me to practise this morning.”
”Why so, monsieur? Do you mean that you are tired of your music lessons already?”
”Oh, no! but I have so many things to say to you! It so seldom happens that I find you alone!”
”Does mamma's presence prevent you from talking with me? Don't we talk hours at a time every evening, while they are playing cards?”