"Adieu, once more; I love you more than I can express!more than you can believemore than you can ever imagine.
"RAOUL."
This billet, which would have appeared very cold to a woman of these days, because it only said just what the writer intended, seemed sufficient to the chevalier, and was really impassioned for the epoch; thus D'Harmental folded it up, and attached it, as he had the first, to Mirza's collar; then, taking up the sugar, which the greedy little animal followed with her eyes to the cupboard, where D'Harmental shut it up, the chevalier opened the door of his room, and showed Mirza, with a gesture, what there remained for her to do. Whether it was pride or intelligence, the little creature did not wait to be told twice; darted out on the staircase as if she had wings, and only stopped on the way to bite Monsieur Boniface, whom she met coming home from his office; crossed the road, and disappeared in Bathilde's house. D'Harmental remained at the window for a minute, fearing that Mirza would take his note to Buvat instead of Bathilde, but she was too intelligent for that, and he soon saw her appear in Bathilde's room. Consequently, in order not to frighten poor Bathilde too much, he shut his window, hoping that by this concession he should obtain some sign, which would indicate to him that he was pardoned.
But it did not turn out so. D'Harmental waited in vain all the evening, and a great part of the night. At eleven o'clock, the light scarcely seen through the double curtains, still hermetically closed, went out altogether, and D'Harmental was obliged to renounce the hope of seeing Bathilde till the next day.
The next day brought the same rigor; it was a settled plan of defense, which, with a man less in love than D'Harmental, would simply have indicated fear of defeat; but the chevalier, with a simplicity worthy of the age of gold, saw nothing but a coldness, in the eternity of which he began to believe, and it is true that it had lasted four and twenty hours.
D'Harmental passed the morning in turning in his mind a thousand projects, each more absurd than the preceding one. The only one which had common sense was to cross the street, mount boldly to Bathilde's room, and tell her everything. It came to his mind like all the rest; and as it was the only reasonable one, D'Harmental did well to stop at it. However, it would be a great boldness to present himself thus before Bathilde, without being authorized by the least sign, and without having any pretext to give. Such a course of conduct could but wound Bathilde, who was only too much irritated already; it was better to wait then, and D'Harmental waited. At two o'clock Brigaud returned, and found D'Harmental in a very savage state of mind. The abbe threw a glance toward the window, still hermetically closed, and divined everything. He took a chair, and sat down opposite D'Harmental, twisting his thumbs round one another, as he saw the chevalier doing.
"My dear pupil," said he, after an instant's silence, "either I am a bad physiognomist, or I read on your face that something profoundly sad has happened to you."
"And you read right, my dear abbe," said the chevalier; "I am ennuied."
"Ah, indeed!"
"So much so," said D'Harmental, "that I am ready to send your conspiracy to the devil."
"Oh, chevalier, one must not throw the helve after the hatchet! What! send the conspiracy to the devil, when it is going on wheels! Nonsense; and what will the others say?"
"Oh, you are charming, you and your others. The others, my dear abbe, have society, balls, the opera, duels, mistresses, amusements in fact, and they are not shut up like me in a nasty garret."
"Yes; but the piano, the drawing?"
"Even with this, it is not amusing."
"Ah, it is not amusing when one sings or draws alone; but when one sings or draws in company, it begins to do better."
"And with whom, in the devil's name, should I sing or draw?"
"In the first place there are the Demoiselles Denis."
"Oh, yes, they sing beautifully and draw well, do they not?"
"Mon Dieu! I do not propose them to you as virtuosos and artists; they have not the talents of your neighbor. But, bytheby, there is your neighbor."
"Well, my neighbor?"
"Why do you not sing with her, since she sings so well? That will amuse you."
"Do I know her? Does she even open her window? Look, since yesterday she has barricaded herself in her own room. Ah, yes, my neighbor is amiable."
"Yes, they told me that she was charming."
"Besides, it seems to me, that both singing in our own rooms, we should have a singular duet."
"Then go to her room."
"To her room! Have I been introduced to her? Do I know her?"
"Well, make a pretext."
"I have been searching for one since yesterday."
"And you have not found one, a man of imagination like you? My dear pupil, I do not recognize you there."
"Listen, abbe! A truce to your pleasantriesI am not in the humor for them today: every one has his stupid days."
"Well, on those days one addresses one's self to one's friends."
"To one's friendsand what for?"
"To find the pretext which one has sought for vainly one's self."
"Well, then, abbe, you are my friend; find the pretext; I wait for it."
"Nothing is easier."
"Really!"
"Do you want it?"
"Take care what you engage to do."
"I engage to open your neighbor's door to you."
"In a proper manner?"
"How! do I know any others?"
"I have been searching for one since yesterday."
"And you have not found one, a man of imagination like you? My dear pupil, I do not recognize you there."
"Listen, abbe! A truce to your pleasantriesI am not in the humor for them today: every one has his stupid days."
"Well, on those days one addresses one's self to one's friends."
"To one's friendsand what for?"
"To find the pretext which one has sought for vainly one's self."
"Well, then, abbe, you are my friend; find the pretext; I wait for it."
"Nothing is easier."
"Really!"
"Do you want it?"
"Take care what you engage to do."
"I engage to open your neighbor's door to you."
"In a proper manner?"
"How! do I know any others?"
"Abbe, I will strangle you if your pretext is bad."
"But it is good."
"Then you are an adorable man."
"You remember what the Comte de Laval said about the descent which the police have made upon the house in the ValdeGrace, and the necessity he was under of sending away his workmen and burying his press?"
"Perfectly."
"You remember the determination which was come to in consequence?"
"To employ a copyist."
"Finally, you remember that I undertook to find that copyist?"
"I do."
"Well, this copyist on whom I had cast my eyes, this honest man whom I promised to discover, is discovered, and is no other than the guardian of Bathilde."
"Buvat?"
"Himself! Well, I give you full powers, you go to his house, you offer him gold, the door is opened to you on the instant, and you can sing as much as you like with Bathilde."
"My dear abbe," cried D'Harmental, "you have saved my life!"
D'Harmental took his hat, and darted toward the door; now that he had a pretext he doubted of nothing.
"Stop, stop," said Brigaud; "you do not even ask me where the good man must go for the papers in question."
"To your house, pardieu!"
"Certainly not, young man, certainly not."
"Where then?"
"At the Prince de Listhnay's, Rue du Bac, 110."
"The Prince de Listhnay! And who is he?"
"One of our own makingD'Avranches, the valetdechambre to Madame de Maine."
"And you think that he will play his part well?"
"Not for you, perhaps, who are accustomed to see princes, but for Buvat."
"You are right. Au revoir, abbe!"
"You find the pretext good?"
"Capital."
"Go, then, and good luck go with you."
D'Harmental descended the stairs four at a time; then, having arrived at the middle of the street, and seeing the abbe watching him from the window, he made a parting sign to him with his hand, and disappeared through the door of Bathilde's house.
Chapter XXVI
Counterplots
On her part, as may be easily understood, Bathilde had not made such an effort without suffering from it; the poor child loved D'Harmental with all the strength of a love at seventeen, a first love. During the first month of his absence she had counted the days; during the fifth week she had counted the hours; during the last week she had counted the minutes. Then it was that the Abbe Chaulieu fetched her, to take her to Mademoiselle de Launay; and as he had taken care, not only to speak of her talents, but also to tell who she was, Bathilde was received with all the consideration which was due to her, and which poor De Launay paid all the more readily from its having been so long forgotten toward herself.
This removal, which had rendered Buvat so proud, was received by Bathilde as an amusement, which might help her to pass these last moments of suspense; but when she found that Mademoiselle de Launay wished to retain her longer, when, according to her calculation, Raoul would return, she cursed the instant when the abbe had taken her to Sceaux, and would certainly have refused, if Madame de Maine herself had not interposed. It was impossible to refuse a person who, according to the ideas of the time, from the supremacy of her rank, had almost a right to command this service; but as she would have reproached herself eternally if Raoul had returned in her absence, and in returning had found her window closed, she had, as we have seen, insisted on returning to study the cantata, and to explain to Buvat what had passed. Poor Bathilde! she had invented two false pretexts, to hide, under a double veil, the true motive of her return.
If Buvat had been proud when Bathilde was employed to draw the costumes for the fete, he was doubly so when he found that she was destined to play a part in it. Buvat had constantly dreamed of Bathilde's return to fortune, and to that social position of which her parents' death had deprived her, and all that brought her among the world in which she was born appeared to him a step toward this inevitable and happy result. However, the three days which he had passed without seeing her appeared to him like three centuries. At the office it was not so bad, though every one could see that some extraordinary event had happened; but it was when he came home that poor Buvat found himself so miserable.