Courtesans -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction; Love stories; Paris (France) -- Fiction; Tuberculosis -- Patients -- Fiction
“I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, after
all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what happened. I am
even grateful to her, for I see now what would have happened if I had
lived with her altogether. It was ridiculous.”
“She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was quite
time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent to whom she
had offered to sell her furniture went around to her creditors to find
out how much she owed; they took fright, and in two days she would have
been sold up.”
“And now it is all paid?”
“More or less.”
“And who has supplied the money?”
“The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on purpose for
such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her twenty thousand
francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows quite well that
Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is very nice with her all
the same. As you have seen, he has repurchased her horses, he has taken
her jewels out of pawn, and he gives her as much money as the duke used
to give her; if she likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long
time.”
“And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?”
“She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go myself
and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a package of them
and you can send here for them. You will find everything, except a
little case with your initials. Marguerite wanted to keep it. If you
really want it, I will ask her for it.”
“Let her keep it,” I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my heart
to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had been so
happy, and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep something which
had belonged to me and would recall me to her. If she had entered at
that moment my thoughts of vengeance would have disappeared, and I
should have fallen at her feet.
“For the rest,” continued Prudence, “I never saw her as she is now; she
hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she goes to suppers,
she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, she had to stay in bed
for a week; and when the doctor let her get up, she began again at the
risk of her life. Shall you go and see her?”
“What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always been
charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew Marguerite. I owe it
to you that I have been her lover, and also, don’t I, that I am her
lover no longer?”
“Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe you
will be thankful to me later on.”
“I owe you a double gratitude,” I added, rising, for I was disgusted
with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to her as if it were
serious.
“You are going?”
“Yes.”
I had learned enough.
“When shall I be seeing you?”
“Soon. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with tears
of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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