It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the theatre. He was tied to the gauzy apron-strings of a sylph, or, in plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two years, and the evenings away from Muse were passed with the beautiful danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext, that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs, in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds, each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with noble emulation Von Kreig replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs.
Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and fashionable resorts.
The blackest ingratitude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything, travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of a humble and obedient wife.
Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live, she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income, set up an écarté, taking care always to have around her many pleasing young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the unfortunate.
As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her respectfully, and smiled bitterly.
At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression.
There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself unobserved.
Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic smile.
"All happy!" said he. "And I"--
Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise. The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old friend whom she had so often wished dead.