He told his sister exactly how the whole matter stood. Whilst his mind was in that state of excitement frequently caused by confessions, fresh ideas originated within him and strengthened the resolve he had made. They were, however, such as ought to have occurred to him at the time he was entering into those relations which he now regarded as guilty ones. When the intimacy had first sprung up between them—a purely innocent but clandestine affair—he had not told himself that strict morality forbids any secret engagement of this kind, and that to accustom a girl to elude the watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible proceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of honour has no right to declare his love until he has satisfied himself as to its stability, and that, although the ardour of passion excuses many weaknesses, a mere desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such weakness sinful. These reproaches and many more were now in his mind and on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's face he plainly saw what pain his conduct had caused his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle such dissimulation is productive of much grief to those who have been its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as though she had been imposed upon, she vented all her anger upon the girl, and upon her alone, exclaiming, after her brother had told her what he wanted her to do, 'I never would have believed her so deceitful.'
'Don't blame her,' said René shamefacedly. If their relations had remained hidden, whose fault was it? He therefore added: 'I am the guilty one.'
'You!' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. 'No, no; you are too good, too loving. But I will do what you wish, and I promise you I'll be as gentle as possible. It was the best thing you could have done to come to me. We women know how to smooth things down. And then, you know, it is only right that you should put an end to such a false position. The sooner it's over the better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this very afternoon. If I can't see her alone I will ask her to meet me somewhere.'
In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her own tact, Emilie became so impressed with the difficulties of her mission that, during lunch, she wore a look of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a third person to tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting in a particularly cruel manner and adding unnecessary humiliation to unavoidable pain? When his sister came to him ready dressed, just before starting on her errand, he was on the point of stopping her. There was still time—but he let her go. He heard the door close. Emilie was in the street—now she was in the Rue d'Assas—now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi.
But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments. Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it quite startled him.
'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense.
'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I misjudged her!'
'What did she say?'
'Not a word of reproach. She only wept—but, oh, how bitterly! Her love for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with Angélique—how cruel it sounds!—to order the things for Saturday's dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie opened the door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am with you—it is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. It is full of you—of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of places you've been to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers about your play. I began to deliver your message as gently as I could, but I give you my word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is so good of him to have asked you to come. You at least will not think me foolish in loving him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been expecting it for some time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to let me keep his letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it now. I am so afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her grief may bring you ill luck.'