Frédérique, vol. 1

by Paul de Kock

"Adieu, monsieur!—By the way, I must tell you that I do not receive any more. We have ceased to have our evenings at home."

She gave me a disdainful nod, and, without listening to my efforts to detain her, walked away so rapidly that I soon lost sight of her.

I was stupefied; that woman's conduct seemed to me so outrageous, so insulting, that it was some time before I could believe in its reality. It seemed to me that I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I was tempted to run after her; but I had enough control over myself to understand that it would be weak and cowardly to make any further attempt to speak to a woman who had treated me with such contempt. And I had believed that she loved me! Ah! how I had fooled myself! Because a drunken man in cap and blouse had called me his friend, because I had admitted that I knew him, I became a compromising personage, and she could no longer afford to see me or speak to me! she had even given me to understand that she did not propose to receive me at her own house! and all that, without listening to what I might have to say, without finding out whether I could or could not explain that unpleasant adventure. Ah, madame! I thought that you had a heart; I found that I was mistaken, that you had a mind only; and that is a very barren mind in which no trace of sentiment can ever be detected.

I stood a long while on the same spot, absorbed in my thoughts. But the throng had largely disappeared, and the Champs-Élysées was becoming deserted; snowflakes falling on my face explained the sudden change. The weather was no longer the same; the radiant sun was obscured by clouds, which, with the snow, gave a totally different aspect to the scene.

"Well!" I said to myself, as I walked slowly away, "nothing is constant, in the heavens or on earth! We must submit to the storms of the heart, as to those of nature."

As I retraced my steps toward the scene of that unfortunate meeting, I remembered the paroxysm of anger to which I had given way; and now that I was once more able to reflect, I was stirred by a feeling of regret and pity when I thought how violently I had thrown to the ground the poor wretch who sought my assistance. I knew that his conduct was most reprehensible, that he had abused my kindness a hundred times; but to spurn him, to throw him into the dust! Was it possible that I had really treated him so? That woman's presence, my anger, my humiliated self-esteem, had led my reason astray. What could have become of the poor fellow? He had fallen at my feet without attempting to defend himself, without a complaint; and it seemed to me that I had read only surprise and grief in his eyes, instead of anger. If that other man had had him arrested!—and that seemed to be his intention, for I had not thought of giving him what Ballangier owed him, and that was the first thing that I should have done. How could I find out how the episode had ended?

I looked about; I recognized the place where I was sitting with the three ladies, but there was no one there. The snow had put all the idlers to flight. The people who passed walked rapidly, with their heads down; there were no hucksters, no itinerant singers, nobody to whom I could apply for information. I walked on, but had not taken thirty steps when I saw a man leaning against a large tree, apparently unconscious of the snow that covered his cap and blouse. He stood quite still, but his eyes were turned in my direction. I walked toward him: it was Ballangier.

He looked at me with a shamefaced, timid expression; when he saw me walking sadly toward him, I fancied that tears glistened in the eyes which no longer dared to meet mine; and when I stood beside him, and was on the point of apologizing for pushing him away so roughly, he fell at my feet, on the snow, and humbly begged my pardon for speaking to me when I was with friends.

Ah! I was no longer angry with him; I made haste to raise him, and shook him by the hand. I believe that my eyes too were moist.

"You forgive me, then?" murmured Ballangier. "I was drunk, you see; I had been drinking; if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have spoken to you. I should have remembered that one time a scene almost like this broke off a marriage you had in view.—But you punished me, and you did right; I deserved it. Still, you know, I am little used to such lessons from you. Dame! when you threw me down, that sobered me off in an instant. You were in such a rage with me—and you've always been so good-natured before. But you did well; yes, you did well to treat me like that, for it shook me all up. I realized that I was a great scamp, a miserable wretch; that I was always on hand to do you a bad turn, to put you to shame; although I didn't say—no, it don't make any difference how drunk I may be, I'll never say that thing. But I promise you that this will be the last. You'll never have any reason to complain of me again."