Two weeks later the handsome circus-rider, crippled by debt, wrote the following letter to Comte Paz, which, having fallen into the hands of Comte Adam, was read by several of the dandies of the day, who pronounced it a masterpiece:—
“You, whom I still dare to call my friend, will you not pity me
after all that has passed,—which you have so ill understood? My
heart disavows whatever may have wounded your feelings. If I was
fortunate enough to charm you and keep you beside me in the past,
return to me; otherwise, I shall fall into despair. Poverty has
overtaken me, and you do not know what horrid things it brings
with it. Yesterday I lived on a herring at two sous, and one sou
of bread. Is that a breakfast for the woman you loved? The
Chapuzots have left me, though they seemed so devoted. Your
desertion has caused me to see to the bottom of all human
attachments. The dog we feed does not leave us, but the Chapuzots
have gone. A sheriff has seized everything on behalf of the
landlord, who has no heart, and the jeweller, who refused to wait
even ten days,—for when we lose the confidence of such as you,
credit goes too. What a position for women who have nothing to
reproach themselves with but the happiness they have given! My
friend, I have taken all I have of any value to my uncle’s; I have
nothing but the memory of you left, and here is the winter coming
on. I shall be fireless when it turns cold; for the boulevards are
to play only melodramas, in which I have nothing but little bits
of parts which don’t pose a woman. How could you misunderstand the
nobleness of my feelings for you?—for there are two ways of
expressing gratitude. You who seemed so happy in seeing me
well-off, how can you leave me in poverty? Oh, my sole friend on
earth, before I go back to the country fairs with Bouthor’s circus,
where I can at least make a living, forgive me if I wish to know
whether I have lost you forever. If I were to let myself think of
you when I jump through the hoops, I should be sure to break my legs
by losing a time. Whatever may be the result, I am yours for life.
“Marguerite Turquet.”
“That letter,” thought Thaddeus, shouting with laughter, “is worth the ten thousand francs I have spent upon her.”
III
Clementine came home the next day, and the day after that Paz beheld her again, more beautiful and graceful than ever. After dinner, during which the countess treated Paz with an air of perfect indifference, a little scene took place in the salon between the count and his wife when Thaddeus had left them. On pretence of asking Adam’s advice, Thaddeus had left Malaga’s letter with him, as if by mistake.
“Poor Thaddeus!” said Adam, as Paz disappeared, “what a misfortune for a man of his distinction to be the plaything of the lowest kind of circus-rider. He will lose everything, and get lower and lower, and won’t be recognizable before long. Here, read that,” added the count, giving Malaga’s letter to his wife.
Clementine read the letter, which smelt of tobacco, and threw it from her with a look of disgust.
“Thick as the bandage is over his eyes,” continued Adam, “he must have found out something; Malaga tricked him, no doubt.”