“LOUISE GALET.”
This letter of Mlle. Louise Galet continued nothing definite, beyond, perhaps, the passage relative to the early vegetables, and the supposed scenes with her chambriere. Whatever may have been the good demoiselle’s past record, she certainly was not void of principles, and she prided herself on her truthfulness; only she did not always see the necessity of telling everything she knew; in her narratives she frequently omitted certain details. She had written at the instigation of Samuel Brohl, who had not explained to her his motives. To be sure, she had partially divined these, being shrewd and sly. He had commended himself to her discretion, for which he had paid liberally. Mlle. Galet had at first refused the round sum he had offered her; she had ended by accepting it with tender gratitude. These little pampering attentions make good friends.
An audacious idea suddenly came to Mlle. Moriaz; there was no time to recoil from it. She ordered up her coupe. M. Moriaz had just gone out to make a call in the neighbourhood. She determined to profit by his absence, and besought Mlle. Moiseney to make ready in haste to accompany her to Paris, where she had to confer with her dressmaker. Ten minutes later she stepped into her carriage, having ordered her coachman to drive like the wind.
Her dressmaker did not detain her long; from the Rue de la Paix she ordered to be driven to No. 27 Rue Mouffetard. She never was in the habit of permitting Mlle. Moiseney, who was very short of breath, to climb with her to the fifth story, where Mlle. Galet lodged; upon this occasion she indicated to her an express order to remain peaceably below in the coupe to await her return.
She slowly mounted the stairs; on her way up she encountered a servant, who informed her that Mlle. Galet was lying down taking a nap, being somewhat indisposed, but that the key was in the door. The apartment of which Mlle. Moriaz was in quest was composed of three rooms, a vestibule serving as a kitchen, a tiny salon, and a bed-chamber. She paused a few moments in the vestibule to regain her breath, to gather together all her courage, to compose her mind; she had at once divined that there was some one in the salon. She entered; Mlle. Galet was not there, but he was there, the man whom she had come to seek. Apparently, he awaited the awakening of the mistress of the place. In perceiving the woman whom he had sworn never to see again, he trembled violently, and his eyes sought some loophole of escape; there was none. Standing upon the threshold, Antoinette barred the passage. She looked fixedly at him and felt certain of her victory; he had the air of one vanquished, and his defeat resembled a complete routing.
She crossed her arms, she smiled, and, in a firm, half-mocking tone, said:
“So this is the way you rob me of my poor people! They flourish under it, I am well aware. Confess now that there is a little hypocrisy in your virtue. Mlle. Galet never for a moment doubted that these famous camellias were given for my sake. Bouquets costing sixty francs! absolute folly! How you despise money! Why, then, do you not despise mine? You are afraid of it, you fear to burn your fingers by touching it. You will not aid me to throw it out of the windows? Your poor and mine will surely pick it up. Say, will you not? My fortune is not such a great affair; but it is certain that I alone do not suffice to spend it properly; there is plenty for two—for two would really only be one. You cannot consent to share it with me? You are too proud—that is it. The day before yesterday you were playing comedy; you do not love me. It costs little to owe something to those we love.”
He made a gesture of despair and cried:
“I implore you, let me go!”
“Presently; I propose telling you first all that is in my mind. I do not place much reliance on your boasted nobility of spirit; it is pride, egotistical pride. Yes, your pride is your god—a pitiful sort of a god! And as to Poland—” He winced at this word. After a pause, Antoinette continued: “It is she herself who will give, or rather lend, you to me. I solemnly promise that if ever she has need of you I will say to her, ‘Here he is, take him’; and to you, yourself, I will say, ‘She calls you—go.’ But speak to me and look at me; you will not die of so doing. Are you so very much afraid of me? Come, have courage to repeat to me what you have said to others?”