"It seemed to be so," replied M. de Cernay. "They were never very demonstrative to each other; but when the marquis became ill, Madame de Pënâfiel showed great devotion to him; that means nothing, however, as you very well know."
"It means a great deal of devotion or a great deal of hypocrisy, for she probably had as many lovers before her widowhood as afterwards."
"People believe she had, at least, and people are not often mistaken," said the count; "but she is clever, and so careful! She never writes any but most trifling and insignificant little notes to any one. As for Ismaël, her conduct towards him has been an incomprehensible folly, which is quite unlike her usual behaviour, and can only be explained by the violence of the sudden passion he inspired; there is a story, too, of her having disguised herself, and gone to some little house, in a distant, lonely part of town. In a word, it is very evident to sensible people that, if Madame de Pënâfiel was in love with any honourable man, she would not hide it; but as, on the contrary, she permits every sort of contradictory rumour to be spread abroad concerning her, in order to mislead investigation, there can be no doubt that she gives herself up to the wildest fancies, and carries on the worst intrigues in secrecy. Then, why is she such a coquette? Why does she always take such pains to make herself agreeable? If you ever go to her house you will see how it is. Now when a woman has such a passion for being fascinating, she is never contented with disinterested admiration."
"But," said I to M. de Cernay, "what has become of the winning man in that extraordinary race, which, by its publicity, must have greatly upset the mysterious ways of Madame de Pënâfiel? M. de Senneterre, what has become of him?"
"Oh," said the count, "Senneterre was sacrificed, shamefully sacrificed; for, to say nothing about her crazy passion for Ismaël, she is capable, merely in a spirit of contradiction, of weeping for the dead lover, and hating the living one. A proof of this is that Senneterre has now the tact and good sense to insist upon it that Madame de Pënâfiel had nothing whatever to do with the race, which, he now tells every one who will listen to him, came about by a wager he made with that unfortunate De Merteuil, when they were both in high spirits.
"He says they had both been dining with Lord ——, and as they left, each one had begun to boast of the rare accomplishments of his horse, each one praising his own. They talked until they became excited, and the fatal challenge was the result of their boasting. The next day, when their enthusiasm had somewhat cooled down, they recognised the danger of their proposition; but neither wished to appear to shrink from it, and so from pure bravado they carried out their plan. That is all a very plausible tale, but it is not true, at least I do not believe it, for I know the real cause of their duel, and you must admit that De Senneterre's story is probable. After all, though, after hearing what rumours have connected Madame de Pënâfiel with their race, he is only behaving like a gallant gentleman in denying it all as he does."
Many years have passed since all this happened, and I still wonder how such puerile gossip should yet be so distinctly remembered.
It is because they formed a part of a very painful experience in my life, and because they were the exact type of certain sorts of conversations, and an example of the discussions, the praises, the attacks, and the malicious falsehoods that interest and occupy the minds of idle society people. If this statement of mine seems overdrawn or exaggerated, you have only to remember the last piece of gossip you heard yesterday, or your conversation of this morning, to find that I am right.
But to return to M. de Cernay. As there was, after all, an appearance of logic in the absurd propositions of which he was the cause, as well as the echo,—in fact, quite enough logic to appease the conscience of slander,—I did not attempt to defend Madame de Pënâfiel to the count. What was more, I fancied that I saw the cause of his persistent attacks on her; for all these rumours, that had been holding the best society in Paris spellbound for the last five or six days, had evidently no other author than he.
As for the other long conversation on the antecedents and character of Madame de Pënâfiel, I only repeated it because it exactly coincided with all that I had heard said, and it might be taken as the general opinion of the world as to Madame de Pënâfiel.