Volume I Part 31 (1/2)

Honorine Dalmont, with her young friend Agathe, occupied a modest apartment on Rue des Martyrs. Their only servant was a woman who came in to do their housework, and went away again after preparing their dinner.

Madame Dalmont's slender fortune would not allow her to live more expensively in Paris, where living is so dear, and it was in the hope of being less straitened and of being able to obtain more of the comforts of life, that she had formed the plan of going into the country--a plan which had keenly delighted her friend Agathe.

For women who go into society, who follow the fas.h.i.+ons, who pa.s.s their evenings at theatres or concerts or b.a.l.l.s, or at fas.h.i.+onable receptions, it seems a terrible penance to go to the country to live. To them it is equivalent to ceasing to exist, it means the renunciation of all the pleasures of life, it means, in short, condemning themselves to die of ennui.

But it is not so with those who, although they dwell in Paris, pa.s.s their lives in their own homes, seldom go out, and know nothing of that splendid capital save the uproar, the crowd, the vehicles which constantly threaten them with destruction out of doors, and the tumultuous throng that blocks the popular promenades on Sundays and holidays. To them there is nothing painful about leaving the great city.

On the contrary, when they turn their backs on the tumult, the confusion, the incessant whirl of business and pleasure in which they have no part, they breathe more freely; they feel more at liberty to raise their heads, they find in nature something that they had lost; they have their places there, whereas in Paris they were nothing at all!

Honorine's past life had been uneventful. The daughter of respectable people who had not succeeded in business--there are many respectable people who do not make a fortune--she had nevertheless received a careful education. She had learned music and drawing; she was blessed by nature with that fortunate temperament which enables one to learn quickly and without much difficulty that which others often spend long years in studying.

Honorine, who was a very intelligent girl, would have liked to marry an artist, but circ.u.mstances did not permit her to choose. She was fain to be content with a simple government clerk, an honest fellow who had nothing poetic in his nature, but who attended punctually at his desk and performed his duties promptly.

Honorine longed to become a mother; that would at least afford some occupation for her heart, which longed for someone to adore; for, with the best will in the world, she could only esteem her husband.

After she had been married two years, she had a son; but she was denied the joy of rearing him; he died at the age of twenty months, when he was just beginning to stammer his mother's name and to take his first tottering steps. Honorine's grief was so intense that it affected her health. From that moment she began to lose her color, and her lungs seemed to be impaired. Another child alone could have consoled her for the loss of the first; for the heart is of all the organs most amenable to h.o.m.oeopathic treatment; but she had no other child, and a few months later her husband died suddenly of inflammation of the lungs.

At twenty-one, Honorine was left alone--a widow and an orphan, for her parents had died long before.

Then it was that she made the acquaintance of Madame Montoni, the mother of Agathe, at that time a child of nine.

Madame Montoni, who lived in the strictest retirement, happened to occupy an apartment in the same house as Madame Dalmont; she had seen her grief when she lost her child, and had been deeply moved by it. When she learned that she had lost her husband suddenly, she hastened to offer her consolation and attentions.

Honorine received her advances gratefully. Being without experience and entirely unacquainted with business, she was in danger of being deprived of the small property which her husband had left her, and which was claimed by collateral relations. But Madame Montoni had strength, courage and resolution; she took all the necessary steps, and the young widow was enabled to enjoy in peace the two thousand francs a year which her husband had left her.

As for Madame Montoni herself, she supported herself and her child with her hands. She made those pretty pieces of fancy work which bring in so little, and require so much time and care. Luckily she was very skilful.

But she often pa.s.sed whole nights over her embroidery frame, in order that she might buy a new dress for her daughter.

Honorine had tried to a.s.sist her new friend a little; but Madame Montoni was proud; she would accept nothing from her to whom she had, however, rendered material service.

Incessant toil exhausts vitality. Moreover, Agathe's mother had in the depths of her heart a mortal sorrow which was crus.h.i.+ng her; she had confided it to Honorine, who could only weep with her. There are sorrows which admit of no consolation.

Little Agathe used often to ask her mother:

”Why don't we ever see papa? what can have become of him? When I was a little girl, I remember he used to come to see me often; he used to take me out to ride and to dine at restaurants; you used to be very bright then, mamma; you didn't work all day long; and then papa always brought me nice presents, and you too; and he used to kiss me a lot and tell me he loved me with all his heart. And then he stopped coming all of a sudden, and then you cried every day, yes, every day.--Is my papa dead?”

When Madame Montoni heard that question she always wept and strained the child to her heart as she replied:

”Alas! dear child! I don't know what to tell you! I have no idea what has become of your father; I do not know if he still lives, and that is the cause of this grief that is wearing my life away!--Adhemar loved me so dearly! and he adored you! How can I believe that he could have determined to abandon us for no reason whatever?--that he, who promised me such a lovely future,--certain happiness--would have left us suddenly without means, without resource, without support--oh, no! no!

he would not have done that! Your father must be dead! My Adhemar certainly has ceased to live, since we are so unhappy!”

”How long ago did you last see him?” inquired Honorine one day, when she had become the confidante of the mother and daughter.

”Alas! my Agathe was just six years old when her father came to see us the last time.”

”Why, didn't papa live with you?”

Madame Montoni blushed and turned her face away.

”No, my child, he couldn't; his business prevented him.”