Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of adding remorse to the feelings brought into play by René's fresh passion. She represented that past which we never forgive if it becomes an obstacle between us and our future. False as most women are in matters of love, their perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret selfishness of the majority of men. If René had had the sorry courage of his friend Claude Larcher, and looked himself straight in the face, he would have had to confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the fact that he had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet, and one who was an adept at throwing a veil over the ugly parts of his soul.
He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne, and of the noble love which had sprung up and was burning within him; for the first time he succeeded in forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie, saying to himself, 'I will be worthy of her!' She was the lying wanton who, with her luxurious surroundings, her rare science of dress, her incomparable power of aping sentiment, and her seductive, soul-troubling beauty, had such immense advantages over sweet, simple-hearted Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's enslaved imagination just as old Offarel was giving the signal for departure by rising and saying to Fresneau, 'I've won fourteen sous from you—ha! ha! that'll keep me in cigars for a week. Come,' he added, turning to his wife, 'are you ladies ready?'
'Since we are all here,' replied Madame Offarel, emphasising the word 'all' by darting a look at René. 'When are you coming to dinner? Would Saturday suit you? That's M. Fresneau's best day, I believe?' The professor replying in the affirmative, she now addressed herself to the poet direct, 'Will that suit you, René? You'll be more comfortable at our place, I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people on whom your friend Larcher goes sponging.'
'But, Madame——' exclaimed the poet.
'Oh—that's enough!' cried the old lady; 'I always remember what my dear mother used to say: a crust of bread at home is better than a stuffed turkey at another's table.'
Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply nonsense when applied to the unhappy Claude, whose acute dyspepsia seldom permitted him to drink even a glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it had been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in it yet another sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility between his old associations and the new life for which since that morning he so eagerly and ardently longed. These people had a right to him—a fuller right than Madame Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie by a secret understanding? A fresh fit of irritation against this poor child came over him, and he said to himself more firmly than before, 'I shall break it off.'
Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but could not sleep. The current of his ideas had changed. He was now thinking of his letter. It must have reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen dangers spread itself out before his imagination. Suppose her husband were to intercept the letter? A thrill ran through him as he thought of the misery his imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman, in the power of a tyrant whose brutality he could well imagine. And then, even if the letter reached Suzanne safely, what if it displeased her? And he was sure that such would be the case. He tried to remember the words he had written. 'How can I have been such a fool as to write like that?' he asked himself, and hoped that the letter might miscarry. He knew that such things happened sometimes when people wished the contrary. Why should it not happen now that he expressly desired it? He grew quite ashamed of his childishness, and attributing it to the nervous excitement of the evening, began once more to curse Madame Offarel's mean-spirited remarks. His irritability against the mother paralysed all pity for the daughter. He passed the night in this fashion, tossed between two kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning sleep which is more tiring than refreshing; on awaking, the first thought that occurred to him was his desire, stronger than ever, to break off his engagement.
What means could he employ? A very simple expedient presented itself to his mind at once—ask the girl to make an appointment. It was so easy, too! How many times had she not let him know when Madame Offarel would be out, so that he could come to the Rue Bagneux sure of finding her alone with Angélique; and how considerate the latter had always been in leaving the two lovers together and in peace! This was undoubtedly the most loyal means to adopt. But the poet could not even bear to think of such an interview.
In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a contemptible form of pity that consists in unwillingness to look upon the sufferings we have caused. We do not mind inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off, but we do not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by writing—the resource of the weak in every kind of rupture. Paper can stand a good deal, people say. He got out of bed and commenced to write—but the words would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop. Meanwhile the hour for the postman's first call was drawing near. Although it was perfect madness to expect Suzanne's reply by that delivery, the lover's heart beat faster when Emilie entered the room with his letters and the newspaper, as was her wont when she knew he was awake. How happy would he have been had one of the three envelopes she brought him borne that long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he would have recognised amongst a hundred others! No—these were only business letters, which he tossed aside so petulantly that his sister stared at him in surprise.
'Are you in trouble, René?' she asked, and as she put the question there was a look of such intense devotion and love in her eyes that she appeared to her brother like a guardian angel come to save him from the troubles of that cruel night. Why should he not charge Emilie with the utterance of those words he dared not formulate himself, and which he could not manage to put into writing? He had no sooner conceived this plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to carry it out with the impetuosity common to all weak minds, and with tears in his eyes he began to disclose the unfortunate plight he was in with regard to Rosalie.