International Short Stories: French - - (new books to read .TXT) 📗
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Nathalie loved Armand; but she would not yield too easily. She sent for the captain.
“If you really love me—”
“Ah, can you doubt it?”
“Hush! do not interrupt me. If you really love me, you will give me one proof of it.”
“Anything you ask. I swear—”
“No, you must never swear any more; and, one thing more, you must never smoke. I detest the smell of tobacco, and I will not have a husband who smokes.”
Armand sighed, and promised.
The first months of their marriage passed smoothly, but sometimes Armand became thoughtful, restless, and grave. After some time, these fits of sadness became more frequent.
“What is the matter?” asked Nathalie one day, on seeing him stamp with impatience. “Why are you so irritable?”
“Nothing—nothing at all!” replied the captain, as if ashamed of his ill humor.
“Tell me,” Nathalie insisted, “have I displeased you in anything?”
The captain assured her that he had no reason to be anything but delighted with her conduct on all occasions, and for a time he was all right. Then soon he was worse than before.
Nathalie was distressed beyond measure. She imparted her anxiety to her uncle, who replied: “Yes, my dear, I know what you mean; I have often remarked it myself, at backgammon. He is very inattentive, and often passes his hand over his forehead, and starts up as if something agitated him.”
And one day, when his old habits of impatience and irritability reappeared, more marked than ever, the captain said to his wife: “My dear, an evening walk will do me a world of good; an old sailor like myself cannot bear to sit around the house after dinner. Nevertheless, if you have any objection—”
“Oh, no! What objection can I have?”
He went out, and continued to do so, day after day, at the same hour. Invariably he returned in the best of good humor.
Nathalie was now unhappy indeed. “He loves some other woman, perhaps,” she thought, “and he must see her every day. Oh, how wretched I am! But I must let him know that his perfidy is discovered. No, I will wait until I shall have some certain proof wherewith to confront him.”
And she went to seek her uncle. “Ah, I am the most unhappy creature in the world!” she sobbed.
“What is the matter?” cried the old man, leaning back in his armchair.
“Armand leaves the house for two hours every evening, after dinner, and comes back in high spirits and as anxious to please me as on the day of our marriage. Oh, uncle, I cannot bear it any longer! If you do not assist me to discover where he goes, I will seek a separation.”
“But, my dear niece—”
“My dear uncle, you who are so good and obliging, grant me this one favor. I am sure there is some woman in the secret.”
M. d’Ablaincourt wished to prevent a rupture between his niece and nephew, which would interfere very much with the quiet, peaceable life which he led at their house. He pretended to follow Armand; but came back very soon, saying he had lost sight of him.
“But in what direction does he go?”
“Sometimes one way, and sometimes another, but always alone; so your suspicions are unfounded. Be assured, he only walks for exercise.”
But Nathalie was not to be duped in this way. She sent for a little errand boy, of whose intelligence she had heard a great deal.
“M. d’Apremont goes out every evening.”
“Yes, madame.”
“To-morrow, you will follow him; observe where he goes, and come and tell me privately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, madame.”
Nathalie waited impatiently for the next day, and for the hour of her husband’s departure. At last, the time came—the pursuit is going on—Nathalie counted the moments. After three-quarters of an hour, the messenger arrived, covered with dust.
“Well,” exclaimed Nathalie, “speak! Tell me everything that you have seen!”
“Madame, I followed M. d’Apremont, at a distance, as far as the Rue Vieille du Temple, where he entered a small house, in an alley. There was no servant to let him in.”
“An alley! No servant! Dreadful!”
“I went in directly after him, and heard him go up-stairs and unlock a door.”
“Open the door himself, without knocking! Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, madame.”
“The wretch! So he has a key! But, go on.”
“When the door shut after him, I stole softly up-stairs, and peeped through the keyhole.”
“You shall have twenty francs more.”
“I peeped through the keyhole, and saw him drag a trunk along the floor.”
“A trunk?”
“Then he undressed himself, and—”
“Undressed himself!”
“Then, for a few seconds, I could not see him, and directly he appeared again, in a sort of gray blouse, and a cap on his Lead.”
“A blouse! What in the world does he want with a blouse? What next?”
“I came away, then, madame, and made haste to tell you; but he is there still.”
“Well, now run to the corner and get me a cab, and direct the coachman to the house where you have been.”
While the messenger went for the cab, Nathalie hurried on her hat and cloak, and ran into her uncle’s room.
“I have found him out—he loves another. He’s at her house now, in a gray blouse. But I will go and confront him, and then you will see me no more.”
The old man had no time to reply. She was gone, with her messenger, in the cab. They stopped at last.
“Here is the house.”
Nathalie got out, pale and trembling.
“Shall I go up-stairs with you, madame?” asked the boy.
“No, I will go alone. The third story, isn’t it?”
“Yes, madame; the left-hand door, at the head of the stairs.”
It seemed that now, indeed, the end of all things was at hand.
Nathalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and, almost fainting, she cried: “Open the door, or I shall die!”
The door was opened, and Nathalie fell into her husband’s arms. He was alone in the room, clad in a gray blouse, and—smoking a Turkish pipe.
“My wife!” exclaimed Armand, in surprise.
“Your wife—who, suspecting your perfidy, has followed you, to discover the cause of your mysterious conduct!”
“How, Nathalie, my mysterious conduct? Look, here it is!” (Showing his pipe.) “Before our marriage, you forbade me to smoke, and I promised to obey you. For some months I kept my promise; but you know what it cost me; you remember how irritable and sad I became. It was my pipe, my beloved pipe, that I regretted. One day, in the country, I discovered a little cottage, where a peasant was smoking. I asked him if he could lend me a blouse and cap; for I should like to smoke with him, but it was necessary to conceal it from you, as the smell of smoke, remaining in my clothes, would have betrayed me. It was soon settled between us. I returned thither every afternoon, to indulge in my favorite occupation; and, with the precaution of a cap to keep the smoke from remaining in my hair, I contrived to deceive you. This is all the mystery. Forgive me.”
Nathalie kissed him, crying: “I might have known it could not be! I am happy now, and you shall smoke as much as you please, at home.”
And Nathalie returned to her uncle, saying: “Uncle, he loves me! He was only smoking, but hereafter he is to smoke at home.”
“I can arrange it all,” said D’Ablaincourt; “he shall smoke while he plays backgammon.”
“In that way,” thought the old man, “I shall be sure of my game.”
JEAN MONETTE By Eugene Francois Vidocq
At the time when I first became commissary of police, my arrondissement was in that part of Paris which includes the Rue St. Antoine—a street which has a great number of courts, alleys, and culs-de-sac issuing from it in all directions. The houses in these alleys and courts are, for the most part, inhabited by wretches wavering betwixt the last shade of poverty and actual starvation, ready to take part in any disturbance, or assist in any act of rapine or violence.
In one of these alleys, there lived at that time a man named Jean Monette, who was tolerably well stricken in years, but still a hearty man. He was a widower, and, with an only daughter, occupied a floor, au quatrième, in one of the courts; people said he had been in business and grown rich, but that he had not the heart to spend his money, which year after year accumulated, and would make a splendid fortune for his daughter at his death. With this advantage, Emma, who was really a handsome girl, did not want for suitors, and thought that, being an heiress, she might wait till she really felt a reciprocal passion for some one, and not throw herself away upon the first tolerable match that presented itself. It was on a Sunday, the first in the month of June, that Emma had, as an especial treat, obtained sufficient money from her father for an excursion with some friends to see the fountains of Versailles.
It was a beautiful day, and the basin was thronged around with thousands and thousands of persons, looking, from the variety of their dresses, more like the colors of a splendid rainbow than aught besides; and when, at four o’clock, Triton and his satellites threw up their immense volumes of water, all was wonder, astonishment, and delight; but none were more delighted than Emma, to whom the scene was quite new.
And, then, it was so pleasant to have found a gentleman who could explain everything and everybody; point out the duke of this, and the count that, and the other lions of Paris; besides, such an agreeable and well-dressed man; it was really quite condescending in him to notice them! And then, toward evening, he would insist they should all go home together in a fiacre, and that he alone should pay all the expenses, and when, with a gentle pressure of the hand and a low whisper, he begged her to say where he might come and throw himself at her feet, she thought her feelings were different to what they had ever been before. But how could she give her address—tell so dashing a man that she lived in such a place? No, she could not do that, but she would meet him at the Jardin d’Eté next Sunday evening, and dance with no one else all night.
She met him on the Sunday, and again and again, until her father began to suspect, from her frequent absence of an evening—which was formerly an unusual circumstance with her—that something must be wrong. The old man loved his money, but he loved his daughter more. She was the only link in life that kept together the chain of his affections. He had been passionately fond of his wife, and when she died, Emma had filled up the void in his heart. They were all, save his money, that he had ever loved. The world had cried out against him as a hard-hearted, rapacious man, and he, in return, despised the world.
He was, therefore, much grieved at her conduct, and questioned Emma as to where her frequent visits led her, but could only obtain for answer that she was not aware she had been absent so much as to give him uneasiness. This was unsatisfactory, and so confirmed the old man in his suspicions that he determined to have his daughter watched.
This he effected through the means of an ancien ami, then in the profession of what he called an “inspector,” though his enemies (and all men have such) called him a mouchard, or spy. However, by whatever name he called himself, or others called him, he understood his business, and so effectually watched the young lady that he discovered her frequent absences to be for the purpose of meeting a man who, after walking some distance with her, managed, despite the inspector’s boasted abilities, to give him the slip.
This naturally puzzled him, and
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