She answered, coldly,—
“Is it kind in you, my son, to recall such humiliations? Had M. D’Argenton treated me a thousand times worse than he has, I should be able, I hope, to recognize the fact that he stands at the head of the poets of France. More than one person who speaks of him with contempt to-day, will yet be proud of having known him and of having sat at his table!” And as she finished she left the room with great dignity. Jack took his seat at his desk, but his heart was not in his work. He felt that “the enemy,” as in his childish days he had called the vicomte, was gradually making his approaches. In fact Amaury d’Argenton was as unhappy apart from Charlotte as she was herself. Victim and executioner, indispensable to each other, he felt profoundly the emptiness of divided lives. From the first hour of their separation the poet had adopted a dramatic and Byronic tone as of a broken heart. He was seen in the restaurants at night, surrounded by a group of flatterers who talked of her; he wished to have every one know his misery and its details; he wished to have people think that he was drowning his sorrows in dissipation. When he said, “Waiter! bring me some pure absinthe,” it was that some one at the next table might whisper, “He is killing himself by inches—all for a woman!”
D’Argenton succeeded simply in disordering his stomach and injuring his constitution. His “attacks” were more frequent, and Charlotte’s absence was extremely inconvenient. What other woman would ever have endured his perpetual complaints? Who would administer his powders and tisanes. He was afraid, too, to be alone, and made some one, Hirsch or another, sleep on a sofa in his room. The evenings were dreary because he was environed by disorder and dust, which all women, even that foolish Ida, contrive to get rid of in some way. Neither the fire nor the lamp would burn, and currents of air whistled under all the doors; and in the depths of his selfish nature D’Argenton sincerely regretted his companion, and became seriously unhappy. Then he decided to take a journey, but that did him no good, to judge from the melancholy tone of his letters to his friends.
One idea tormented him, that the woman whom he so regretted was happy away from him, and in the society of her son. Moronval said, “Write a poem about it,” and D’Argenton went to work. Unfortunately, instead of being calmed by this composition, he was more excited than ever, and the separation became more and more intolerable. As soon as the Review appeared, Hirsch and Labassandre were bidden to carry a copy at once to the Rue des Panoyeaux.
This done, D’Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand coup. He dressed with great care, took a fiacre, and presented himself at Charlotte’s door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. D’Argenton was very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of the greatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that moved him, but he saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifying his hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the disappointment of the youth on his return to find that the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly before Charlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, giving her no time to think, to carry her away with him at once. She must be very much changed since he last saw her if she could resist him. He entered her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, “It is I.”
There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, on account of the occurrence of his mother’s birthday, had a holiday, and was at work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. The two men looked at each other in silence. This time the poet had not the advantage. In the first place, he was not at home; next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, proud-looking fellow, in whose intelligent face appeared, as if still more to exasperate the lover, something of his mother’s beauty.
“Why do you come here?” asked Jack.
The other stammered and colored. “I was told that your mother was here.”
“So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her.”
This was said rapidly and in a low voice; then Jack took D’Argenton by the shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some difficulty preserved his footing.