“Why do you amuse yourself by exciting her jealousy?” I replied. “How can you be so hardhearted? You pained her just now. She was angry.”
“Angry?” he cried, “angry? Why she has just asked me to see her home to-night. Her mother is not coming for her. Angry? Why women love teasing. It troubles them at first, but then they are like all vicious animals, they can only be subdued by hurting them. I want you now to see her rival. About the middle of the act Favier goes off the stage, and I will go to Madam de Bonnivet’s box and ask permission to present you. You shall see what a different woman she is.”
CHAPTER III
To-day as I pass in detail these recollections, just as one inks over a half-effaced pencil route upon a map, I clearly understand a truth which escaped me at the time. I had fallen in love with Camille Favier the moment I saw her on the stage with her fine beautiful face so like the art type of a master whom I have studied much. This little actress, of whom I knew nothing, except that she spoke well and was the mistress of a fashionable author, had at once touched one of the most vibrating fibres in my heart. In spite of Molan’s boasting, in spite of the childish grace of her reception, she might be a profligate or a schemer. Certainly she was a very cunning innocent, since by my companion’s confession the siege of her virtue had nothing in common, either in length or in difficulty, with the siege of Troy or even the siege of Paris. A person does not reflect much when his heart is captivated as mine was.
This child already occupied such a prominent place in my feelings, that the idea of her leaving the theatre with Molan that evening gave me a strange feeling of sadness. Now that the time is past I can explain these impressions; then, I contented myself with feeling them. Seated in the box, opera glass in hand, I thought in good faith that this sadness proceeded to establish that commonplace and discouraging statement, that the most beloved of men are those who love the least. Then neither use nor age have hardened me concerning disloyalty in love. I never could lie to a mistress, even one engaged like an extra cook for a week. Actually I have not known many of that sort. My caprices have lasted for eight years, and I have experienced deception which ought to make me indulgent where the ruses of men against women are concerned. People like Jacques Molan revenge us others who have never made ourselves loved, simply because we love. Perhaps I ought to have experienced in this box at the Vaudeville on this strange evening that not very delicate but very natural feeling, the joy of the avenged company, if the victim of that vengeance had not been the little Blue Duchess. When she appeared on the stage, I was seized with pity at noticing the happier look in her eyes, the more joyful fire of her acting, and the visible tremors in her supple and nervous person, of a lover who believes herself loved. When she disappeared into the wings, my pity grew and changed into indignation. My friend got up with a malicious look upon his face. As I watched him in the distance enter Madam de Bonnivet’s box I said to myself not without bitterness—
“Why can one only please a woman by being as womanish as herself in the worst sense of the word? The charming Camille is happy now. She is undressing and dressing with the gaiety of a brave creature who has been under fire and won a battle for the man she loves. She has acted so well in this scene. Hardly is her back turned when he deceives her. This treachery doubles the pleasure he experiences in manœuvring with the other woman. No coquette ever had her eyes so lit with desire to please as the famous author then. He is cordially shaking hands with the two men who are with the lady! One of them probably is her husband and the other a rival. Good, he is talking of me, for her wicked blue eyes had fixed me with the aid of glasses. Let me follow the play. It will be more worthy and more agreeable.”
Was I talking to myself quite frankly? No, alas, I vaguely felt I was not. Molan’s perfidy, and it alone, would not have disgusted me like this. Had it been applied to any other person than the little Burne-Jones girl of the Vaudeville, I should have found it amusing enough. Particularly I should have been diverted by his somewhat sheepish look when he got back to our box.
“You have not quite the air of triumph I expected, but everything seemed to go on well from the distance.”
“Very well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Madam de Bonnivet has invited me to supper with her after the performance.”