第103章

"Thank you," said Madame de Rastignac, as she accompanied her to the door, "for having broken a lance with that cynic; Monsieur de Rastignac's past life has left him with odious acquaintances."As she resumed her place, Monsieur de Ronquerolles was saying,--"Ha! saved her child's life indeed! The fact is that poor l'Estorade is turning as yellow as a lemon.""Ah, monsieur, but that is shocking," cried Madame de Rastignac."Awoman whom no breath of slander has ever touched; who lives only for her husband and children; whose eyes were full of tears at the mere thought of the danger the child had run!--""Heavens! madame," retorted Monsieur de Ronquerolles, paying no heed to the rebuke, "all I can say is that newfoundlands are always dangerous.If Madame de l'Estorade becomes too much compromised, she has one resource,--she can marry him to the girl he saved."Monsieur de Ronquerolles had no sooner said the words than he perceived the horrible blunder he had committed in making such a speech before Mademoiselle de Nucingen.He colored high,--a most unusual sign in him,--and the solemn silence which seemed to wrap all present completed his discomfiture.

"This clock must be slow," said the minister, catching at any words that would make a sound and break up an evening that was ending unfortunately.

"True," said de Ronquerolles, looking at his watch; "it is a quarter to twelve."He bowed to Madame de Rastignac ceremoniously, and went away, followed by the rest of the company.

"You saw his embarrassment," said Rastignac to his wife; "he had no malicious intention in what he said.""It is of no consequence.I was saying just now to Madame de l'Estorade's that your past life had given you a number of detestable acquaintances.""But, my dear, the King himself is compelled to smile graciously on men he would fain put in the Bastille,--if we still had a Bastille and the Charter permitted him."Madame de Rastignac made no reply, and without bidding her husband good-night, she went up to her room.A few moments later the minister went to the private door which led into it, and not finding the key in the lock, he said, "Augusta!" in the tone of voice a simple bourgeois might have used in such a case.

For all answer, he heard a bolt run hastily on the other side of the door.

"Ah!" he thought to himself with a gesture of vexation, "there are some pasts very different from that door,--they are always wide open to the present."Then, after a moment's silence, he added, to cover his retreat, "Augusta, I wanted to ask you what hour Madame de l'Estorade receives.

I ought to call upon her to-morrow, after what happened here to-night.""At four o'clock," said the young wife through the door,--"on her return from the Tuileries, where she takes the children to walk every day."One of the questions that were frequently put by Parisian society after the marriage of Madame de Rastignac was: "Does she love her husband?"The doubt was permissible.The marriage of Mademoiselle de Nucingen was the unpleasant and scarcely moral product of one of those immoral unions which find their issue in the life of a daughter, after years and satiety have brought them to a condition of dry-rot and paralysis.

In such marriages of convenience the husband is satisfied, for he escapes a happiness which has turned rancid to him, and he profits by a speculation like that of the magician in the "Arabian Nights" who exchanges old lamps for new.But the wife, on the contrary, must ever feel a living memory between herself and her husband; a memory which may revive, and while wholly outside of the empire of the senses, has the force of an old authority antagonistic to her young influence.In such a position the wife is a victim.

During the short time we have taken to give this brief analysis of a situation too frequently existing, Rastignac lingered at the door.

"Well," he said at last, deciding to retire, "good-night, Augusta."As he said the words, rather piteously, the door opened suddenly, and his wife, throwing herself into his arms, laid her head upon his shoulder sobbing.

The question was answered: Madame de Rastignac loved her husband; but for all that, the distant muttering of a subterranean fire might be heard beneath the flowers of their garden.