Monsieur de Marsan went forward; Raymond followed him. The moon at that moment was much too bright! we were petrified.
“It’s Almaviva and Rosine!” said Raymond, jumping back. Monsieur de Marsan alone retained his presence of mind.
“Madame,” he said, calmly addressing his wife, “your guests are asking for you; you are needed for the festivities; you must try to arrange your business and your pleasures so that they will not interfere with each other.”
With that, he coolly turned on his heel and returned to the house. Madame de Marsan had fainted; Raymond stood like a statue. I rushed from the thicket, pushing him roughly aside, in an instant was at the courtyard, then on the Paris road, and reached the capital at two in the morning.
XXVI
WHERE WILL IT END?
After the adventure of the thicket, it was impossible for me to go again to Madame de Marsan’s house, or to see her in public. So that we were obliged to cover our liaison with a veil of mystery. With many women that fact would have simply added to the charm; but I was afraid that with Madame de Marsan, who loved to be surrounded by adorers and by admiring homage, the impossibility of gratifying her vanity by her conquest of me would speedily abate her love. If we no longer met at her house, it was solely out of respect for the proprieties; for, as Raymond had witnessed the catastrophe, I had no doubt that it was known to everybody.
What surprised me most was that I had not seen him since that memorable evening: a week had passed, and I had not even met him on the stairs; doubtless he dreaded my wrath. He evidently kept out of sight when he heard me coming; for as we lived on the same landing and both went in and out several times during the day, we did not usually pass two days without meeting.
Madame de Marsan and I were in regular correspondence; we made appointments, we went into the country together, and sat in closed boxes at the theatre. I enjoyed her society more, seeing her only en tête-à-tête. There was no longer between us that swarm of young dandies who were constantly fluttering about her, and whose presence was far from agreeable to me; when we were alone, she could not play the coquette so successfully and amuse herself by tormenting me. So that, for my part, I was not at all sorry that we met as we did, but I was very much afraid that it was not the same with her. Already our correspondence was beginning to drag, our assignations were becoming less frequent; she constantly found something to prevent her meeting me: a reception, a ball, some festivity which she could not possibly avoid attending. I had no faith in her excuses, because I knew that her husband left her entirely at liberty to do as she chose. If she refused to keep an appointment with me, it was because she preferred to create a sensation at a ball or a concert; in a word, to make conquests, to surround herself with admirers and attentions, rather than to be alone with me. The conclusion to be drawn from that state of affairs was very simple: Madame de Marsan did not love me, had never loved me. She had smiled upon me solely from caprice; had given me hopes from coquetry; had yielded by chance; and would leave me because she was bored.
One morning, opening my door suddenly, I saw Raymond going downstairs and caught him by his coat tail.
“Great heaven! I thought you were dead, Monsieur Raymond!” said I.