“As for that, I agree with you,” resumed the baron. “Enjoy yourself, my dear fellow, I'll not be the one to preach to you, nor to tremble for the great interests we have confided to your care. Every one must sow his wild oats, and his head is generally clearer afterwards. Besides, there's nothing unpleasant in ruining one's self when one feels capable of building up another fortune. But if money is nothing, there are certain sufferings——”
He stopped, his smile became sad, former sufferings presented themselves amid the irony of his scepticism. He had watched the duel between Henriette and Mouret with the curiosity of one who still felt greatly interested in other people's love battles; and he felt that the crisis had arrived, he guessed the drama, well acquainted with the story of this Denise, whom he had seen in the ante-room.
“Oh! as for suffering, that's not in my line,” said Mouret, in a tone of bravado. “It's quite enough to pay.”
The baron looked at him for a moment without speaking. Without wishing to insist on his discreet allusion he added, slowly—“Don't make yourself worse than you are! You'll lose something else besides your money at that game. Yes, you'll lose a part of yourself, my dear fellow.” He stopped, again laughing, to ask, “That often happens, doesn't it, Monsieur de Vallagnosc?”
“So they say, baron,” the young man simply replied.
Just at this moment the door was opened. Mouret, who was going to reply, slightly started. The three men turned round. It was Madame Desforges, looking very gay, putting her head through the doorway to call, in a hurried voice—
“Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!” Then, when she perceived the three men, she added, “Oh! you'll excuse me, won't you, gentlemen? I'm going to take Monsieur Mouret away for a minute. The least he can do, as he has sold me a frightful mantle, is to give me the benefit of his experience. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I'm waiting for you.”
He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and mocking, “Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.”
Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc's grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself—so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride—had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one.
At first, they both crossed the bed-room, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.