Camille ALEXANDRE DUMAS FILS CHAPTER 22 docx

Camille
ALEXANDRE DUMAS FILS

CHAPTER 22

It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival at eleven.
Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one answered the
bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurred to me. At last the
gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a light. I went to Marguerite's
room.
"Where is madame?"
"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine.
"To Paris!"
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"An hour after you."
"She left no word for me?"
"Nothing."
Nanine left me.
Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paris to make
sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a day off. Perhaps
Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said to myself when I was
alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make me suppose that she had
written to Marguerite.
All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she coming to-
day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at the same time
how embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked at her after this remark,
which seemed to indicate an appointment. I remembered, too, Marguerite's tears
all day long, which my father's kind reception had rather put out of my mind.
From this moment all the incidents grouped themselves about my first
suspicion, and fixed it so firmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it,

even my father's kindness.
Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretended to be
calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen into some trap? Was
Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being back in time for me not to
perceive her absence, and had she been detained by chance? Why had she said
nothing to Nanine, or why had she not written? What was the meaning of those
tears, this absence, this mystery?
That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room, gazing at
the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to me that it was too
late to hope for my mistress's return. Yet, after all the arrangements we had just
made, after the sacrifices that had been offered and accepted, was it likely that
she was deceiving me? No. I tried to get rid of my first supposition.
Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had gone to Paris
to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell me beforehand, for she knew
that, though I had consented to it, the sale, so necessary to our future happiness,
was painful to me, and she feared to wound my self-respect in speaking to me
about it. She would rather not see me till the whole thing was done, and that was
evidently why Prudence was expecting her when she let out the secret.
Marguerite could not finish the whole business to-day, and was staying the night
with Prudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow
anxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. But, if
so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the poor girl could not
make up her mind to give up all the luxury in which she had lived until now,
and for which she had been so envied, without crying over it. I was quite ready
to forgive her for such regrets. I waited for her impatiently, that I might say to
her, as I covered her with kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her mysterious
absence.
Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return.
My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress my head and
heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she was injured, ill,

dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news of some dreadful
accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with the same uncertainty and
with the same fears.
The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very moment when
I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to my mind. There must
be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her away from me, and the
more I thought, the more convinced I was that this cause could only be some
mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming back to us in every form!
One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, but that at
two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out for Paris.
Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. Manon Lescaut was
open on the table. It seemed to me that here and there the pages were wet as if
with tears. I turned the leaves over and then closed the book, for the letters
seemed to me void of meaning through the veil of my doubts.
Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashed the
windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of a tomb. I
was afraid.
I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the wind in the
trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half hour sounded sadly
from the church tower.
I began to fear lest some one should enter. It seemed to me that only a disaster
could come at that hour and under that sombre sky.
Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell troubled the
silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke.
At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy aspect
which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its surroundings.
In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound of the
door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in.
"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had to go to Paris."
"At this hour?"

"Yes.
"But how? You won't find a carriage."
"I will walk."
"But it is raining."
"No matter."
"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will be time enough
in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will be murdered on the
way."
"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow."
The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, and offered to
wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained; but I would hear
of nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, in a perhaps fruitless inquiry,
more time than I should take to cover half the road. Besides, I felt the need of
air and physical fatigue in order to cool down the over-excitement which
possessed me.
I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying good-bye to
Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out.
At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I fatigued myself
doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged to stop, and I was drenched
with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on. The night was so dark that at
every step I feared to dash myself against one of the trees on the roadside,
which rose up sharply before me like great phantoms rushing upon me.
I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage was going at
full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope came to me that
Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, "Marguerite! Marguerite!" But no
one answered and the carriage continued its course. I watched it fade away in
the distance, and then started on my way again. I took two hours to reach the
Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of Paris restored my strength, and I ran the whole
length of the alley I had so often walked.
That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of a dead

city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d'Antin the great city
stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o'clock struck at the church of Saint
Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite's house. I called out my name to
the porter, who had had from me enough twenty-franc pieces to know that I had
the right to call on Mlle. Gautier at five in the morning. I passed without
difficulty. I might have asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might have said
"No," and I preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as I
doubted, there was still hope.
I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. Nothing. The
silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I opened the door and
entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. I drew those of the dining-
room and went toward the bed-room and pushed open the door. I sprang at the
curtain cord and drew it violently. The curtain opened, a faint light made its way
in. I rushed to the bed. It was empty.
I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. It was
enough to drive one mad.
I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudence several
times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed.
I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had come home
during the day.
"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy."
"She left no word for me?"
"No."
"Do you know what they did afterward?"
"They went away in a carriage."
"What sort of a carriage?"
"A private carriage."
What could it all mean?
I rang at the next door.
"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened to me.

"To Mme. Duvernoy's."
"She has not come back."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last night and which I
have not yet given her."
And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I recognised
Marguerite's writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, "To Mme. Duvernoy, to
forward to M. Duval."
"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him the address.
"You are M. Duval?" he replied.
"Yes.
"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy."
When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a thunder-bolt had fallen
at my feet I should have been less startled than I was by what I read.
"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of another
man. All is over between us.
"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by the side of a
pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will soon forget what you
would have suffered through that lost creature who is called Marguerite Gautier,
whom you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy
moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now."
When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For a moment
I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed before my eyes and
my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself a little. I looked about
me, and was astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at my
distress.
I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that my
father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes, and that,
whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it.
I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the key in the

door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. He showed so little
astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was expecting me. I flung myself
into his arms without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite's letter, and, falling
on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears.