"When I dreamed that I had come to America to study art, and to escape politics, what a fine idea I had then!"
M. Dubois could not help laughing.
"Grumble now; later you will relate your adventures."
"The fact is, that if I go on as now, they will be considerably varied. It is necessary that I set out immediately, no doubt?"
"No, we are not going on so rapidly as that. You have all the time necessary to make your preparations. Your journey will be long and difficult."
"How much time can I have to get ready to leave?"
"I have obtained eight days – ten at most. Will that suffice you?"
"Amply. Once more I thank you."
The countenance of the young man suddenly brightened, and it was with a smile on his lips that he added —
"And during this time I shall be free to dispose of myself as I like."
"Absolutely."
"Well," pursued he, grasping heartily the hand of M. Dubois, "I do not know why, but I begin to be of your opinion."
"In what way?" said the diplomatist, surprised at the sudden change manifested by the young man.
"I believe that all will finish better than I at first thought."
And after having ceremoniously saluted the old man, he left the saloon and went to his apartments.
M. Dubois followed him a moment with his eyes.
"He meditates some folly," murmured he, shaking his head several times. "In his own interest I will watch him."
CHAPTER II
THE LETTER
The painter had taken refuge in his apartments, a prey to extreme agitation.
Having reached his bedroom, he doubly locked the door; then, certain that for a time no one would come to thrust him out of this last asylum, he allowed himself to fall heavily on a butaca, threw his body backward, leaned his head forward, crossed his arms over his chest, and – an extraordinary thing for an organisation like his – he gave himself up to sad and profound reflections.
At first he called to mind – tormented as he was by the saddest presentiments – all the events which had happened to him since his arrival in America.
The list was long, and by no means pleasant.
At the end of half an hour, the artist arrived at this miserable conclusion – that, from the first moment that he had placed his foot on the New World, Fate had taken a malicious pleasure in falling furiously upon him, and in making him the sport of the most disastrous combinations, spite of the efforts that he had made to remain constantly free from politics, and to live as a true artist, without occupying himself with what was passing around him.
"Pardieu!" he cried, angrily striking with his hand the arm of his chair, "it must be confessed that I have no chance! In conditions like these, life becomes literally impossible. Better a hundred times would it have been for me to remain in France, where at least I should have been allowed to live quietly, and in my own fashion! A pretty situation is this of mine – placed here, without knowing why, between the gun and the gallows! Why, it is absurd, it is unheard-of! The devil take these Americans and Spaniards! As if they could not quarrel with one another without bringing into the dispute a poor painter, who has nothing to do with it, and who is travelling as an amateur in their country! They have, indeed, a singular manner of rendering hospitality, these pretty fellows! I compliment them sincerely upon it. And I, who was persuaded, on the faith of travellers, that America was, par excellence, the land of hospitality – the country of simple and patriarchal manners. Trust to narratives of travel – those who take such pleasure in leading the public into error, ought to be burnt alive! What is to be done? What is to become of me? I have eight days before me, says that old lynx of a diplomatist, to whom, however, I shall preserve eternal gratitude for his proceedings in my behalf. What a charming compatriot I have met there. How fortunate I have been with him. Well, no matter, I must make up my mind what to do. But what? I see nothing but flight! Hum! flight – that's not easy; I shall be closely watched. Unhappily, I have no choice; come, let me study a plan of escape. Away with the wretched fate which obstinately makes of my life a melodrama, when I employ all my powers to make it a vaudeville!"
Upon this the young man, whose gaiety of disposition gained the victory over the anxiety which agitated him, set himself – half laughing, half seriously – to reflect anew.
He remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring from his butaca, and without making the least movement.
It cannot be denied that at the end of that time he was as far advanced as before; that is to say, that he had hit upon nothing.
"Well, I give it up for the present," he cried, rising suddenly; "my imagination absolutely refuses me its aid! It is always so. Well, I, who wanted sensation, cannot complain; it is to be hoped that for some time past I have had enough of it, and of the most poignant sensation too!"
Then he began to stride about his room, to stretch his legs, mechanically rolled up a cigarette, and felt in his pocket for his mechero to light it.
In the movement which he made in searching for it, he felt in his waistcoat pocket something which he did not remember to have placed there; he looked at it.
"Pardieu!" said he, striking his forehead, "I had completely forgotten my mysterious unknown; but that's accounted for by my vexation! If this lasts only for eight days, I am convinced I shall completely go out of my mind. Let me see what it is that she has so adroitly dropped on my hat."
While he soliloquised, the painter had drawn from his pocket the little roll of paper, and attentively considered it.
"It is extraordinary," continued he, "the influence which women exert, perhaps unknown to ourselves, on the organisation of us men, and how the most trivial thing which comes to us from one of them, who is utterly unknown, immediately interests us."
He remained several moments turning about the paper in his hand, without coming to the resolution to break the silk, which alone prevented him from satisfying his curiosity, all the while continuing in petto his speculations on the probable contents of the packet.
At last, with a sudden resolution, he put an end to his hesitation, and broke with his teeth the delicate silk thread, and then unrolled the paper carefully. This paper, which – as the young man had conjectured – served for an envelope, contained another, folded carefully, and covered on every page with fine close writing.
Spite of himself, the young man felt a nervous trembling as he unfolded this paper, in which a ring was enclosed.
This ring was but a simple gold ring, in which was set a Balas ruby, of great value.
"What does this mean?" murmured the young man, admiring the ring, and trying it mechanically on all his fingers.
But although the artist had a very beautiful hand – thing of which, in parenthesis, he was very proud – this ring was so small, that it was only on the little finger that he could succeed in putting it on, and this with some difficulty.
"This person is evidently deceived," pursued the painter; "I cannot keep this ring; I will return it, come what may. But to do that I must know the individual, and I have no other means of obtaining this information except by reading her letter. I'll read it, then."
The artist was at this moment in the singular position of a man who feels himself gliding down a rapid decline, at the foot of which is a precipice, and who, perceiving that he has not the power successfully to resist the impulse which controls him, endeavours to prove to himself that he does right to abandon himself to it.
But before opening the paper, which he apparently held with such a careless hand, and on which he looked so disdainfully – so much, say what we may, is man (that being said to be made in the image of his Maker) always a comedian, even to himself, when no one can see him, because even then he tries to impose upon his self-love – the artist